Band Fags! (18 page)

Unless your name happens to be Joey Palladino.

“Nothing,” I totally lie. Suddenly, the goings-on in Salem, USA, seem insignificant. “What's up with you?”

“Just wanted to make sure we're still on for tonight.”

I decided to take Joey up on his offer and started lifting weights with him in his Grandma's garage 3 times per week. I've gotta admit, after the first workout I thought I was totally gonna die. I was sooo sore the next day! But I'm actually starting to enjoy “feeling the burn,” as Joey likes to say. Along with, “No pain, no gain.”

“I can come over right now,” I reply. It's not like I don't have
Days
on tape.

“I'll be out in the garage warming up,” he says. “See you in fifteen.”

“Make it ten.” Normally I wouldn't haul my cookies through the snow for anybody. But like I've said, Joey's my Best Friend. Besides, I can't make excuses for not getting myself in shape, can I?

Once I'm over Joey's, I change out of my argyle sweater, blue jeans, and snow boots into the sweats I've brought along. I've gotta admit, I was a little self-conscious about changing in front of Joey when we first started lifting weights together. Not only does he have a much nicer body than me, but I have a hard time not staring at Joey in French class when he's got his clothes
on.
Imagine how hard it is for me to resist looking at him standing here in nothing but his BVDs.

“Oh, my God…It's freezing in here!”

“Somebody's got T-H-Os,” Joey teases. Only I have no idea what T-H-Os are so I ask him to tell me. “Titty Hard-Ons,” he replies. Then he totally tweaks my left nipple—hard! The dim light of the single bulb hanging down from the rafters casts a shadow over the muscles of Joey's smooth olive-skinned, Polo-scented torso. He totally reminds me of Pete Jannings from
Days of our Lives,
now that I think of it. Complete with the kinda chest that pushes together in the middle like cleavage.

“Bench presses?” Joey suggests, once we're both dressed and ready to go.

I watch as he fires off an easy set of 10 reps at 50 pounds. He doesn't even really need me to spot him. But for safety's sake, I stand at the end of the bench, poised and ready to take it should he want me to. By which I mean the weight bar.

“No fair,” I tell him when he drops it on the rack with a thud. “You've had a lot more practice.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Joey tells me, flashing that shit-eating grin of his. Then I swear he gives me a wink. Again, if I didn't know better…Flirting!

I lie down on the bench, expecting Joey to remove two of the gray 10 pound plastic weights. When he doesn't I say, “What're you doing?”

He looks down at me, his crotch no more than a foot from my face. “Time for you to step it up,” he tells me. By which he means lift more weight. Then he adds, “I got your back.”

I grab hold of the bar, take a deep breath, and give it my all. The last thing I want is to embarrass myself in front of Joey. And believe it or not, I manage to do a set of 6 good reps.

“See?” Joey says proudly. “You're not as big a wuss as everybody says.”

Which makes me wonder what he's heard about me. While I can't expect the stupid things people have been saying about me since 7
^th
grade to just stop because I've gotten to Hillbilly High, I guess I've been hoping they wouldn't get back to Joey.

“Did you like my VD card?” he asks out of the blue. By which he means the Valentine's Day card he presented me with at the end of French this afternoon.

“I did…”

One of the good things about being in French 1 is…it's like being back in elementary school when it comes to the holidays. For Thanksgiving we celebrated
Fête de Grâce.
At Christmas we made
Joyeux Noël
cards. Today it was
Le Jour de la St. Valentin.
Out of red, white, and pink construction paper, Joey made a heart and wrote
Joseph et Jacques
…
Meilleurs Amis Toujours
across the center of it. Which translates to “Joey and Jack…Best Friends Forever,” in case you weren't sure.

“I know it's kinda dumb,” he admits, blushing a little. “But since I didn't have anybody else to give a Valentine's Day card to, I figured I'd make one for my Best Friend.” Then he smiles, radiant sunshine.

We stand there in the middle of Joey's Grandma's freezing cold garage, staring at each other, saying nothing…Till Joey licks his cherry lips.

“What would you do if I kissed you right now?” I say, looking into his chocolate brown eyes, scared to death.

“I don't know…Probably kiss you back.”

And then it happens…Or should I say, nothing happens? I totally let the Moment of Opportunity slip by as Joey steps towards me and I break away.

“You wanna do some curls?” I ask out of nervousness.

To which he replies, “Do you?”

And I'm like, “Sure.”

And he's like, “Okay.” Then we continue lifting weights for another half an hour or so without saying a single word.

Why am I such a fool? What am I so afraid of? Isn't this what I've been wanting since the day Joey Palladino came back into my life? Here he is practically giving me
permission
…And what do I do?

Fuck!

The only thing
worse
than being a Band Fag is…being a Drama Queer.

Don't ask me why, I don't make the rules. But everybody knows this. Which is why I can't even believe it when Brad tells me he's auditioning for the Spring Musical,
Oklahoma!
Or should I say,
Okla-homo!,
as it's becoming known around the hallowed halls of Hillbilly High?

Ever since Mrs. Malloy made us write a paper on “What I Want to Be When I Grow Up” during 1st hour English, Brad's got it in his head he's gonna be a Famous Actor someday. Or at least appear on
Days of our Lives.
The only thing is…Brad's never acted a day in his life.

“How hard can it be?” I remember him telling me the first time I questioned his career choice. “All you gotta do is memorize a bunch of lines…Then you just get up there and say them.”

Personally, I've decided I'm gonna be a Professional Journalist. Or should I say, “Going to?” If I wanna—I mean, “want to” have any success as a writer, I should probably start using Proper Grammar, don't you think? Ever since I was a kid, I've always enjoyed writing. I think I'm pretty good at it, too. One time back at Longfellow, my 4
^th
grade teacher, Mrs. Landers, assigned us a three-page Creative Writing assignment. I wrote like ten.

Okay, I'll let you in on a little secret…I spent most of last Summer writing a novel, believe it or not. Like a Total Nerd, I sat in my bedroom—day after day after day—slaving away over the electric typewriter I borrowed from my Aunt Sonia. I titled my work of genius
Portland Disaster,
after the fact that it's all about this group of people from the fictitious town of Portland, USA, whose plane crashes on a deserted island en route to a fashion show somewhere in the South Pacific.

I've got to admit, I pretty much stole the plot from the
Days of our Lives
Anna DiMera Designs plane crash storyline from the Fall of 1984. Though unlike Hope Williams-Brady, my heroine—Faith Winston-Bradford—is a blond. I mean, I'm not totally stupid. I don't want to get sued by NBC should I ever get it published!

Today after 2
^nd
hour Sophomore Symphony, Brad sidles up to me…

“I need you to do me a favor,” he says. We've been busting our butts getting ready for the big Spring Concert coming up. We're billing it as a Tribute to the Space Shuttle Challenger. I'm sure I don't need to explain why—unless you've been totally living on another planet since January 28
^th
. “Tomorrow's my
Okla-homo!
audition…”

“You're really going through with that?” I ask, hoping he would've changed his mind by now.

Brad stops mid-step, halfway down the hallway between the Band Room and the Choir Room. “I bet you don't realize how good it makes me to feel to have my Best Friend since 7
^th
grade totally doubt my creative abilities.”

“I'm sorry,” I apologize. Even though I'm afraid Brad's going to make a fool of himself in front of all the Drama Queers, I realize I should probably start showing my support. So I say, “What do you need me to do?”

“Can I come over after school and show you my monologue?”

“Um…”

The thing is…Joey and I already made plans to go bike riding after school today. It's the first warm Spring day we've had and I want to take him on the route my Aunt Sonia and Uncle Mark used to take me on whenever we'd go bike riding back when I was a kid. Over by 10 Mile and Woodward near the Detroit Zoo. Which is technically located in Huntington Woods, don't ask me why!

Though I don't tell Brad any of this. Instead I say, “Since when do I know anything about Drama?”

“You watch TV all the time, don't you?” he points out. “All you gotta do is listen and tell me what you think.”

“Bra-yad!”

From across the commons in front of the Auditorium comes the totally loud and totally obnoxious bellow of Luanne Kowalski. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her argyle print sweater fast approaching. But I don't dare turn around for fear of actually having to deal with her. Though Lou's been in a better mood ever since Alyssa and I broke up, I still don't trust her.

“Will you help me or not, Jack?” asks Brad again, also ignoring the call.

“Bra-yad!”
Lou repeats, this time a little louder.

At which point, I cave. Even though I'd much rather spend my time riding bikes on a nice Spring day with Joey Palladino, I've got to get away. “Meet me in the Band Room at 3 o'clock,” I tell Brad. Then I'm gone!

Six hours later, here I am sitting on my bedroom floor…

Brad stands at the opposite end, preparing to perform his audition monologue. It's going to take all my effort not to laugh my head off the minute he opens his mouth, I just know it! Especially now that he's started rolling his head from side to side, around and around, faster and faster.

“What are you doing that for?” I ask, giving Brad a look.

“Dell says a good actor always warms up,” he informs me. He's talking about the Hillbilly High Drama teacher, Mr. Dell'Olio. He also serves as Faculty Advisor for the school paper,
The Hazel Parker,
which I'm hoping to start writing for next year in preparation for my career as a Professional Journalist.

I listen as Brad begins running through a series of tongue twisters and nursery rhyme-type vocal exercises. “Red-leather-yellow-leather.” “Rubber-baby-buggy-bumpers.” “Peter-Piper-picked-a-peck-of…”

My eyelids grow heavy and my head begins bobbing on my neck. I'm thinking,
What have I gotten myself into?
For this I've given up spending the afternoon with Joey Palladino?

Brad says, “Okay…I'm ready.”

“It's about time…” I open my eyes, wiping a bit of drool from the corner of my mouth. (Gross!)

“You were falling asleep!” Brad accuses.

“You're damn right I was,” I reply. “Dah-dah, dah-dah.”

“You're the one who said you'd help me.”

“And you're the one who gave me no other choice,” I remind him. “Now would you act, already?”

Brad takes a deep breath. He looks down at the floor for a good three seconds. Then slowly he raises his head, a slight smile upon his face. “‘The man of my dreams has almost faded now…'”

For the next minute and a half I listen in awe as Brad runs the gamut from elation to despair. I've got to admit, he's actually pretty good. Even the British accent he's adopted for the occasion sounds somewhat authentic. But what I'm wondering is…Why the Hell Brad's chosen this particular piece for his
Okla-homo!
audition monologue. Especially since it's one that I, myself, almost know by heart.

“So…What'd you think?” he asks, once he's finally finished and taken a bow.

Having no idea how to respond, I start with, “That's from
Somewhere in Time,
isn't it?” Just to make sure I'm not totally imagining things.

“Uh-huh…With Jane Seymour and Christopher Reeves,” Brad replies.

To which I interject, “You mean,
Reeve
…No ‘s.'”

“That's what I said,” he says. Even though he didn't. “It's my fav-rid movie.” Which is how Brad likes to say “favorite” sometimes, don't ask me why!

I can't even believe we've never talked about this. I always thought I was The Only One. And here it is, the favorite movie of both of us…How could we not know this after all these years?

“I don't know, Jack…I guess maybe we don't know
everything
about each other,” Brad surmises once I tell him this. Then he says, “Wanna know what part in
Somewhere in Time
I like best? When Jane Seymour first meets Christopher Reeves—”

“
Reeve.
”

“That's what I said,” he insists.

“No, you didn't…You said ‘Reeves' again.” I hate to be all whatever. But I can't stand it when people don't get Christopher Reeve's name right!

“When she first meets Christopher
Reeve,
” Brad says, hitting the “v,” smiling, “down by those trees near the lake and she says, ‘Is it you?'” Which he
has
to say in his best Jane Seymour accent. Which I
have
to totally join him in perfect unison as he does.

“That's my favorite part, too!” I squeal. Like a Total Girl, I know.

“The monologue I'm doing,” Brad continues, “is from the part when Jane Seymour's performing in that play at the hotel theater—”

“
Wisdom of the Heart
,” I interject, unable to resist showing off my
Somewhere in Time
knowledge. “And she starts making up her lines as she goes along, instead of following the script.”

“And Christopher Reeve—no ‘s'—is sitting in the audience,” Brad adds. “And she's looking directly at him, saying the words.”

“And the woman playing the maid starts freaking out,” I throw in, “'cause she doesn't know what the Hell Jane Seymour is doing.”

“And of course, Jane Seymour is
brilliant,
” Brad concludes. “And everybody thinks it's all part of the play and not just ablibbing.”

Okay…Even I know the word is “ad-libbing.” Which is what I tell Brad.

To which he responds, “That's what I said.” Even though he didn't. “Isn't it a great monologue?”

I hesitate a moment, not sure how to reply. I mean, yes, it's a totally great monologue. And I really think Brad's doing an excellent job with it. But it's all about “the
man
of my dreams.” What's everybody going to think when Brad walks into the Auditorium tomorrow for his Drama audition and he starts performing it?

“Fuck them!” he exclaims when I express my concern. “Why should I care what other people think? We're supposed to pick something we like and this is from my favorite movie.” Then to top it all off, he says, “What are you worrying about, Jack? It's not
your
problem.”

Now I feel bad. I wasn't questioning Brad's choice of material just to be a jerk. But he's been my Best Friend since 7
^th
grade and I know what Assholes the kids at Hillbilly High can be. Which is why I sincerely tell him, “I don't want people thinking things about you…That's all.”

“You know I don't give a shit what people think,” Brad replies. Which is true. In all the years I've known him, he's never cared if people like him or say mean things about him or not.

“I'm just saying—” I start to say. Till he cuts me off.

“What are people gonna think if I do the Jane Seymour monologue from
Somewhere in Time
for my audition?” Brad snaps. “That I'm a Total Fag or something?”

“That's not what I meant,” I apologize. But it does me no good.

“Is that what
you
think?” Brad looks at me, all accusatory. He's totally got himself worked up. “Do you think I'm a Total Fag?”

“No…”

“Are you sure?” he asks, hands on hips.

“You're my Best Friend,” I remind him. “I'd never think that about you.”

At which point, he blurts out, “Maybe you should!”

Okay…I did
not
just hear Brad say what I thought he said, did I? Is he actually suggesting what I think he's suggesting?

“I'm sorry,” he quickly apologizes. “I didn't mean to get so upset…I've got a lot on my mind, I guess.” He crosses to my desk and begins futzing with my stapler.

I cringe as a bijillion tiny metal snowflakes fall to the floor with each click of the Swingline. My Mom will have a fit if she sees the mess! But I don't complain about it to Brad. Instead I say, “It's just a stupid audition…I wouldn't worry about it.”

“It's not the audition I'm worried about,” he admits.

“Then what is it?”

Brad puts the stapler down. “I've been thinking…” He turns back to me. “There's something I should probably tell you, Jack.”

I reply, “Okay…” Even though I've got a feeling where this conversation is headed.

“'member on New Year's Eve when we were at Luanne's house and you and Alyssa were off making out in the bedroom?”

I'm like, “Yeah…” Though for some reason I can't bring myself to look at him.

“So Lou and I were sitting in her kitchen, drinking that really cheap wine…And during the course of our conversation, a few things came up.”