Struts & Frets (7 page)

“Ah, Ms. Jansen,” said Joe, stretching his arms out wide. “I was just trying to peel young Samuel's eyeballs off of this Battle of the Bands poster.” He started walking over to her in a casual swagger. “He seems to think that rock and roll is more important than literature. Can you believe it? The next thing you know, he'll be sacrificing goats to Lord Satan!”

“That's not funny, Joseph,” said Ms. Jansen.

“My humble apologies,” said Joe with a wicked grin. He had told us many times that he had a way with older women, but I could never tell if teachers like Ms. Jansen were really charmed by his little act or if they only tolerated it because, deep down, they were just as scared of him as we were.

“Just get in here,” was all she said.

At lunch, I didn't go to our usual table. Even though Joe sounded completely confident that we would win the Battle of the Bands, I still wasn't sure about it. So I found a little cubby under a staircase and quietly chewed my sandwich and worried.

“Hiding?”

I looked up and saw Jen5 peeking into my cubby.

“Nah,” I said. “Meditating.”

“Great,” she said. “Mind if I sit with you?”

“Well, it'll delay my quest for enlightenment, but I guess that's one of the trials I must face if I am to become the next Dalai Lama.”

“Oh, good,” she said and plunked down next to me. “'Cause I need help with English.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said.

“Yeah.
Macbeth
. Help me.”

“With what?”

“What's it about?”

“Didn't you read it?”

“Of course I did. But they're always going off on these tangents about gods and stuff. I keep losing track of the story.”

“Well, you know we were only supposed to read the first act for today, but it's actually a pretty intense story, so I just did the whole thing,” I said. “I'm kind of amazed that Ms. Jansen was allowed to assign it to us, because it's crazy violent.”

“Really?” said Jen5 as she pulled out her salami sandwich. “What did I miss?”

“Okay, well, Macbeth is this thane, right? This knight-warrior dude. And he's won all kinds of battles for his king. But then he runs into these creepy witches who can see the future, and they tell him he'll be king someday. And that totally obsesses him. He wants all that power, right? So he tells his wife about it and she's like, ‘Let's not wait around for this to happen. Let's
make
it happen. Like, tonight.' So they kill the king and Macbeth takes over and then he just turns into this total power-hungry psycho. Just goes around killing people, even friends and little kids and stuff.”

“He kills kids?” she asked, the sandwich halfway to her mouth.

“Totally. Lots of them. And the witches give him all these
weird riddles, like ‘Nobody can kill you except someone who wasn't born from a woman.' And he's like, ‘Awesome. Everybody's born from a woman, so I'm totally safe.' But then this dude named Macduff shows up who technically wasn't
born
from a woman. He was ripped out of her womb.”

“Gross!” said Jen5.

“Yeah, then Macduff kills Macbeth, chops his head off, and sticks it on the wall of the castle.”

“And that's the end of the story?”

“That's it.”

“Wow,” said Jen5. Then she finally took a bite of her salami sandwich. She frowned at it and shoved it back into her bag. “You know, I think I might become a vegetarian.”

“Why's that?” I asked. “Feel bad about killing animals, or just want to be trendy?”

“I'm serious. Some days, meat just seems gross to me. Like I can't believe we put stuff like that into our bodies. Especially right after hearing you talk about babies being ripped from their mothers' wombs.”

I shrugged and took a big bite of my roast beef.

“I wouldn't want to be a vegan, though,” she said. “I like cheese too much.”

“And leather boots,” I said, nudging the cowboy boots she was wearing with her plaid pants—a look that somehow made
sense on her. “Vegans don't wear leather, I think. No animal products of any kind.”

“Yeah, screw that,” she said.

We both stared at her boots for a minute. Then she said, “So why are you hiding down here?”

“I'm not hiding,” I said.

“You know what I mean.”

“There's some Battle of the Bands that KLMN is hosting,” I said, “and Joe wants us to enter.”

“So?”

“So, I don't know if we should do it.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I mean, come on. A Battle of the Bands? That's totally lame.”

“Why?”

“They're just so . . . commercial, you know?”

“So? Do you get anything if you win?”

“Free studio time and radio play.”

“Well, that's pretty sweet.”

“Yeah, I know . . .”

“Listen, you don't have to sell your soul or anything, right? They aren't making you change your songs or anything.”

“Yeah, but—”

“So, you use the system. You make it happen
your
way.”

“I guess, but—”

“What?”

“Well, I don't know if we're ready,” I admitted.

“Don't you have enough songs written?”

“We have enough songs.”

“So what's the problem?” she asked, starting to get a little annoyed.

“I just . . . don't think we sound very good. Yet.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I mean, I know we'll be amazing once we get it all together. But right now, Rick is always mixing up bass lines. Playing the wrong one. And it doesn't seem like he notices.”

“Or cares,” muttered Jen5.

“And then, Joe—”

“Can't sing a note.”

“That doesn't really matter,” I said. “But the problem is we've been playing for months now and he doesn't know the words to any of the songs yet. Both times we've played in front of an audience, he had to have little typed pieces of paper. And you can't do something like that at a big, radio-sponsored event.”

“Hmm,” said Jen5. “And when's this thing happening?”

“Two weeks.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah. We just better start practicing a little more often, is all. Like daily. Starting today.”

Fortunately, Rick, TJ, and I had computer lab that afternoon. C Lab was one of those pathetic no-brainer classes where as long as you showed up, you got an A, probably because most of the students already knew more about computers than the teacher. It was only the stubborn pride of the educators who, unwilling to admit that they could take some pointers from us, set up a curriculum that only required us to be able to edit a Word doc and send an e-mail in order to pass. And the best part was that while they had blocked instant messaging and a lot of specific “bad” sites, like MySpace, they hadn't even considered message boards. So Rick, TJ, and I would find some dead or near-dead board and post back and forth for the entire class.

After knocking back a few beers and murdering each other a dozen times, we decided that the latest Perfect Dark, though good, was still no Halo, so we switched over. There was a whole lot of trash talk floating through the air, mainly from Rick and Alexander because, as usual, TJ and I were getting our asses kicked.

Rick tossed his controller aside, yelled, “More beer for the victor!” and stalked into the kitchen area. Rick's house was completely open downstairs, so there weren't really any separate rooms. His mom was an interior decorator and their house always felt a little like a showroom.

“So where's Five?” asked TJ.

“She said she'd stop by at some point,” I said.

“But you never know with her,” said Rick from the kitchen. “Best thing to do is assume she isn't coming. Then you might be pleasantly surprised.”

“Don't you like her?” said TJ.

“Fiver?” asked Rick as he came back and handed beers around. “She's awesome. She's just weird.”

“How so?” asked TJ.

“Boy,” said Rick, nudging Alexander, “you get a few into TJ and he can't stop talking about Fiver.”

Alexander had started up a solo game of Halo, and he looked completely zoned into it, but he spoke in a way that sounded almost rehearsed. “I noticed that too, Richard. What do you think it means?”

“Well, young Alexander, some guys get stuck on a girl, you know?”

“Hey, wait a minute . . . ,” said TJ.

“Hmmm . . . ,” said Alexander. “Richard, I'm not sure I know what you mean. Perhaps you could explain further.”

“It's simple, Alexander,” said Rick. “Sometimes, when a man sees a woman who is eighty percent like his ideal mate, his judgment becomes cloudy and his heart begins to pound.”

“Wait,” I said. “You don't mean . . .”

Rick gave me a wicked grin. “Oh, yeah. TJ's got a big old crush on the Fiver!”

Rick and Alexander thought this was hilarious for some reason. I guess I was supposed to think so too, because Rick kept looking over at me with this weird grin.

TJ was blushing bright red now as he glared at Rick and Alexander. “Why are you guys laughing? I mean, what's wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” said Rick, and then laughed again.

“I mean,” said TJ, “she's cool, right? And pretty hot?”

“Yeah, sure.” Rick shrugged. “She's not my type or anything, but in her own funky way, she's smokin'.”

TJ's face was still red, but I realized it was probably just as much anger as embarrassment. “You're always saying that so-and-so isn't your type. Well, what
is
your type, then?”

Rick stopped laughing and looked suddenly serious in a way he rarely did. “Well,” he said carefully, “first of all, my type is male.”

I don't think there was anything in the world that would have shocked TJ more. His jaw dropped. His eyes popped and he just stared like Rick had slapped him across the face with a dead fish. I guess I could relate. When Rick had told me the year before, I'd been surprised. After all, Rick wasn't anything like those goofy stereotypes in the
movies and sitcoms. At first, I admit, it totally weirded me out. I kept wondering if I was supposed to treat him differently, or if I was offending him somehow. But that got old pretty quick. He was still just Rick. My best friend who just happened to think that men were better-looking than chicks.

I knew, and Alexander knew, but poor TJ had been totally in the dark.

“Wha—” he tried. “Why?”

“Why am I gay?” asked Rick, grinning at TJ's discomfort. “Well, we don't really know. Some say it's genetic. Some say it's upbringing.”

“No,” said TJ, clearly struggling to keep his cool. “I mean, why didn't you tell me before?”

Rick got serious again. “Honestly? It's because before you started mooning over Jen5, I wasn't sure which team you were playing for.”

“What?” TJ's eyes bugged. “You thought I was gay?”