Band Fags! (38 page)

God, I'm getting old!

I can't even believe I spent the past how many years of my life living in this room…What is it? At least a decade. Let's see…

My parents upgraded me from the front bedroom after my brother was born. March 1978–September 1988. So a little over ten years…How the Hell did I ever get to be 18?! Which is what I ask Brad as he sits here watching me pack.

“Tell me about it,” he sighs. “I'm right behind you.” By which he means this coming Sunday is
his
birthday. Not that I need reminding. How could I ever forget: September 4
^th
?

“Sorry I won't be here to celebrate with you,” I apologize. Then I cross over to my dresser, reaching into the top drawer. “Close your eyes,” I order. “And hold out your hands.”

“What for?” Brad asks, as if he can't possibly guess. Though he does exactly as I tell him.

I can't say it's the best birthday present. But the sentimental value alone I think makes it pretty special. “Okay,” I say, slipping the so-called gift into his palm. “Open 'em.”

Brad opens his eyes, smiling. “‘They wanted to love…in a world that worshipped only pleasure,'” he reads. “Gordon Merrick.
Now Let's Talk About Music
.” About to burst, he squeals. “Where did you get this?!”

Years ago, back in 9
^th
grade, I told Brad I got rid of this piece of trash. Believe it or not, I said I dropped it in the mailbox over by St. Mary's on my way to school one day. Truth be told, I had every intention. I lived in Total Fear that my Mom would by chance come across it, “cleaning my room.” Then I'd be busted for sure! But when the time came to pull back the creaking blue louver door, I couldn't bear to let go. Besides, can you imagine the look on the mailman's face when he found a copy of
The Adventures of Ned & Gerry
in with everybody's bills and letters? So I stashed it in my red metal lock-box for safekeeping all these years.

“I want you to have it,” I offer Brad. “It was yours to begin with.”

“Thanks,” he graciously accepts.

Then I add, “Don't let your Mom find it.”

To which he replies,
“Oh, I won't!”

You know how it is when you first meet somebody? You can't keep quiet. You have all this
stuff
you want to tell them. You have to get it out. But once you've known each other for a while, you don't have to talk so much anymore. You can just share the same space, breathe the same air, no words required. That's what Brad and I do now. We stand in silence, taking in the room, not saying anything…

Oh, the things these four walls have witnessed!

Finally he heaves a heavy sigh. “I still can't believe you're leaving for school tomorrow,” he says, surveying the egg boxes upon egg boxes of crap I've collected and can't live without. “Are you excited?”

“I'm not excited about the school part,” I admit. Four more years of studying and exams and pressure. “But I'm excited about getting away from here for a while.”

Good old Hazeltucky! I'd be lying if I said I was going to miss you…Though I
will
miss the people—at least some of them.

I take down the last of my Kristian Alfonso
Soap Opera Digest
pictures. The knotty pine wall above what used to be my bed stares back at me, naked. Truth be told,
Days of our Lives
hasn't been the same since Bo & Hope sailed off in to the sunset. If the Producers were smart, they'd find a way to bring the Super Couple back to Salem…Maybe someday.

“I'm so jealous,” Brad confesses. “You know how much I always wanted to go away to college.”

“You will,” I tell him.

It totally sucks that Brad didn't get into Juilliard. He really wanted it bad. And I can't blame him. Here I am, about to head off to the Home of the Spartans, where I'll finally be on my own. A Real Adult.

“I don't know, Jack…Sometimes I feel like I'll be stuck here forever.”

“Two years isn't forever,” I inform him. “And you don't have to stay at OCC if you hate it.” By which I mean Oakland Community College in Royal Oak. “You can always reapply to Juilliard for next year.”

“Why bother?” he replies, totally defeated. “I didn't get in this time, why would they want me next year?”

To which I say, “That's the Old Hazeltucky Spirit!”

Brad helps me pack up the things from my closet next. “Where should I put these?” he asks, holding an overstuffed black Hefty bag, a bunch of my long-sleeved shirts wrapped inside.

“Just throw them on the pile,” I suggest, hoping my dorm room in Shaw Hall isn't too much of a shoebox.

Guess I should've known better than to tell Brad something like that. Because he
literally
throws the bag halfway across the room onto the growing heap in the middle of my floor. “I'm sorry,” he apologizes.

“Forget it,” I reply. “They're just clothes.”

Brad scoffs. “Not about them…I'm sorry we didn't spend much time together this Summer.”

I agree, “So am I.” Though it's not like it's all
Brad's
fault. “It seems like all I've done since Graduation is work and work and work.” In the two years I've been employed at Farmer Jack's, I don't think I put in as many hours as I did these past two months.

Did I mention, this past June 27
^th
once I turned 18, I got a promotion to Cashier? You better believe it's sooo much better than being a Bagger. No more manning the Bottle Return or cleaning the Break Room or Fetching Buggies from the parking lot. Plus I got a raise to $5.25 per hour. Which is part of the whole reason I busted my butt working so many hours on account of I needed to save more money for college. Even though I got a Michigan Competitive Scholarship, it won't cover the entire cost of MSU. And my Dad said he'd only pay for my first year, so the rest is up to me.

“I still can't believe we graduated,” Brad says now. “It doesn't seem real to me.”

I know what he means. Even though I stood up there on the Hillbilly High football field at the podium in front of all my Class of '88 classmates, I can barely recall what I said in my Valedictorian Speech…

The End of Today is the Beginning of Tomorrow.

I'm sure I worked our official Class Motto in there somewhere. Betsy Sheffield came up with that one. Though I will take credit for suggesting our class song, “This is the Time,” by Billy Joel. Just between you and me, it was
supposed
to be “Never Say Good-bye” by Bon Jovi. At least that's the song that got the most votes when the committee tallied the scores. But we all agreed that we couldn't imagine Chorale singing
“You lost more than that in my backseat, baby”
at Graduation. So the Piano Man it was!

“'member back in 7
^th
grade when we first met?” Brad asks, as if I could possibly forget. “You were sitting in the cafeteria with those girls…”

“Ava Reese, Carrie Johnson, and Katy Griffin.” For a split second I wonder why Katy and I ever stopped being friends. Remember, she was the Tomboy trombone player I totally thought was a guy on account of her feathered-back hair and football throwing skills? I can't say I even saw Katy around much after we got to HPHS and she dropped out of Band. I did run into her at Jamie Good's Graduation party back in June. Believe it or not, she was there with Diane Thompson, of all people. What's up with that?!

You know, I always thought Katy might be
like that.
First Diane and Lou…Now Katy Griffin? I also heard she broke up with Joey Palladino. I don't know why. All I know is…I don't
want
to know.

“'member, Ava had that Sign-In Book?” Brad recalls, growing giddy. “You guys were talking about which jeans you liked best: Calvin's or Jordache?” Already knowing right where the story is going, he begins giggling. Like a Total Girl.

“And you were like, ‘Fuck those!'” I remind him, as if he could possibly forget. “‘I like
Sergio Valente
's better 'cause they make your ass look hot!'”

“And you were like, ‘Oh, my God…I can't believe you just said that!'”

“I was not,” I insist. Even though I totally was.

“You were all freaked out just because I said ‘fuck' and ‘ass,'” he remembers.

To which I tell him, “Shut up!” Then I pick up the pillow off what used to be my bed and whack him with it.

Brad collapses onto the bare box springs, his face beet red in hysterics. “You know, I only said it to get a rise out of you, Jack…You were the most Persnickety-Persnick I ever met!”

I think about hitting him again. Instead, I sit down beside him. “I was not.”

“Oh, my God…You
totally
were!”

“Well, what did you expect?” I plead in my defense. “We were 12 years old…You know what a Total Goody-Two-Shoes I was back then.”

Brad gives me a look, nostrils flared. “Back then?” Then he laughs.

Another tranquil moment passes. I have no idea what else to say…So I say nothing.

“I should probably take off,” Brad decides, hoisting himself up. “You should finish packing.”

He's right. As much as I hate to see him go, I've still got a bijillion things to take care of. My Aunt Sonia's coming by tomorrow—Bright and Early—to load all my shit into the back of her truck. The exact same one she taught Brad and I how to drive that Summer when he came Up North to my Grandpa Freeman's cottage in Gaylord. Remember, he wanted to climb inside the gigantic black rubber inner tube we found and roll down the steps into Otsego Lake—just like in the Mountain Dew commercial? I won't even mention him taking all those Correctol!

Brad says, “Walk me to the door, Jack?” So I do. The exact same accordion-fold one that's served as Keeper of so many Secrets these past six years. “Well…This is it.”

Because I've never been one for Tearful Good-byes, I say,

“I'll see you soon.” Besides, this isn't
The End of Jack & Brad.
I know for sure I'll be back mid-October for my Uncle Mark's 40
^th
birthday party…Talk about somebody who's getting old! And I'm sure Max and Brad will drive up to MSU at some point for a football game or a Frat Party.

“Take care of yourself,” he tells me.

“Stay out of trouble,” I advise.

Brad smiles his old familiar smirk. “I'll try.” Then he says, “You know my number, right?” How could I ever forget: 398-5836? “Call me anytime…If you get lonely and you need somebody to talk to.”

“I will.” With that, I unfold the accordion, setting him free.

But Brad doesn't budge. “And good luck with your writing,” he stalls.

“Thanks.”

Then he adds, “Maybe you'll write a story about us one day?”

To which I think,
I don't know if anybody would believe it.
Still I say, “Maybe…”

“But make sure you change the names to protect The Guilty,” Brad orders.

To which I concur,
“Oh, I will!”

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Good…'cause I don't want everybody knowing all my Deep Dark Secrets…You know what I mean?”

I couldn't agree more. “Yours and mine, both!”

He laughs.

I laugh.

Then Brad gets all serious. “I love you, Jack.”

Even though I never liked him—not in that way—I say, “I love you, too.” Because I do. We embrace, wet each other's shoulders, clinging to The Past yet knowing full well we can't stop The Future…
Why does growing up suck so bad?!

Finally pulling away, Brad says, “If you ever do write that story…” He dries his eyes, a twinkle shining bright, a hint of Blair Warner in his voice.

“Uh-huh,” I say, waiting to hear his latest Brilliant Idea.

“Maybe you can call it
If You Were a Girl, Would You Think That Guy's Cute?
” Obviously, he thinks this is the Greatest Idea Ever, he's beaming with pride.

Not wanting to disappoint him, I take it into consideration. “I'll think about it.”

“Please do,” he begs. “I bet it'll be a Best Seller.” Then he adds all serious, “But no matter what happens…No matter how successful you get, I'll always be your Best Friend, won't I?”

“You know you will,” I guarantee him. I've never been more certain of anything in my life.

At which point, Brad sticks out his pinky. “You promise?”

Here we go again!