This Song Is (Not) for You (3 page)

I’m feeling better than I’ve felt in weeks. I’m not saying I feel great; I just feel better. My car needs Freon, but the evening is cool and it’s nice driving home with the windows down. The glitter on my hood is red, and I remember Ramona hitting her high hat and bouncing in her seat.

Ramona is fun and funny. Sam is a good musician and a nice enough guy. It was good to forget about Sara and everything else for a while. I’m gonna go back for another practice this weekend.

(I realize that I actually do want to be in their band.)

I’d gone to their website and been surprised. They were doing some cool stuff with only two people. Mom’s always bugging me about making friends, so I figured I’d give it a try.

Right now it’s almost dinnertime, and the rich neighborhood in the city is half an hour from my parents’ house in Ferguson. On the highway with the windows down, the car is thunderous. Ominous. It’s a small, chaotic world. I wish there were some way I could record this wind and be able to capture this feeling of small space. I might see if I can make something on the synth that has a similar feel.

(Ramona would do supplementary fills and tempo

changes,

amping up the drama.

I don’t know what Sam would do—something

amazing

that I would never think of

that completes the piece

and makes it

a song.)

I get home before six thirty, so I’m not late. Mom is setting the table though, and Dad is already in the kitchen.

When I come in, Mom gives me this look, like she’s annoyed with me just for making her think that I might be late. I was one of those “I thought it was menopause but actually I was pregnant” babies. I grew up listening to my mother joke about how after raising three boys she thought she was almost done with parenting—and then I came along.

We sit down at the table and my dad calls me “Champ” and asks about my day. He called my older brothers “Champ” when they were kids. They were the kind of boys you would call “Champ.” They liked sports and wanted to learn how to fix cars instead of paint them with glitter.

“It was fine, Pops,” I say.

My parents and I have this nightly dinner ritual where they try to get me to talk. Some nights I don’t have much to say. (Okay, most nights. I just don’t like sharing my feelings. They’re mine.) The whole thing just seems so forced to me. Maybe if they just let me eat in silence one night, then I’d feel like talking the next.

“Your father and I were planning on going to Gran’s lake house this weekend,” Mom says. I barely suppress a groan. Gran left the house to Mom and her sister. It has terrible air-conditioning and no Internet.

“Do we have to?” I ask. “I kinda have plans.”

“Actually, we were thinking that you could stay home this time,” she says. “We think you can handle yourself for a few days.”

“Really?” I look up from my plate at them.

“No parties,” Mom says. “And no public art projects.” (Last year the glitter bombing of a fire hydrant resulted in a visit from the St. Louis County PD. Ever since then I’ve been more discreet. With Glitter in Odd Places, that is. They never connected the fountain to me.)

“And no girls,” Dad adds. He laughs, so I guess that’s supposed to be funny.

“Yeah, okay,” I say. “Thanks, guys.”

“What plans do you have?” Mom asks.

“I met some kids at the Artibus thing,” I say. “We’re gonna get together and jam.” Mom looks thrilled; she thinks I need friends. She asks the questions parents ask, and I recite for her Ramona’s and Sam’s stats. The fact that they attend Saint Joe’s impresses Mom, just like it did with Sara. After I’m done eating, I’m able to escape by pleading the demands of my summer reading list.

Pretty typical night, but like I said before, I’m feeling a little better. Up in my room, I wonder if Ramona would ever want to go glitter bombing with me. Based on her drum kit, I think she might.

It should come as no surprise to you that I have a nemesis. Her name is Emmalyn. Emmalyn Evans, which to me sounds like the name of a character in a children’s book. Emmalyn Evans, go to the store. Emmalyn Evans, shut the damn door.

Anyway, she started it.

First semester freshman year, we had nearly every class together. Two months into my high school career, the plaid uniforms were already driving me crazy. So I cut my hair. And I mean,
I
cut my hair. In the bathroom, with scissors from Dad’s desk. My hair was supposed to be jagged and uneven. I was trying to look like a mess, and I loved it.

When I walked into my first class that morning, Emmalyn gasped out loud and squeaked, “Oh my God, what happened to you?”

So I rolled my eyes and said, “Obviously nothing that I didn’t want to happen. I’m not a sheeple like you.” Everybody laughed, and Tony Smith went, “Baaaa.”

From then on, everything I did was subject to Emmalyn Evans’s disdain. And it wasn’t just about my hair. If I answered a teacher’s question wrong, she snickered. If we played dodgeball in gym, she targeted me. The first time I was called to the principal’s office for wearing Sam’s tie, Emmalyn said in a loud whisper, “She’s always trying to get attention, isn’t she?”

Over the past four years, I’ve continued to cut, braid, grow out, and shave different sections of my hair however I’ve pleased.

Every semester I have had at least three classes with Emmalyn. I had this dumb hope that maybe this year I would see a little less of her, but apparently the universe needs us working against each other to keep its balance, because for senior year, Emmalyn Evans is in my homeroom.

On the first day of school, when she walked in the room and saw me, she sighed in this resigned way, as if I followed her there or something. I was tapping a five-four beat on my desk with my index fingers. I knew from previous years that my desk drumming annoys her, or at least she likes to pretend it annoys her. Here’s the thing: she always sits near me. Not right by me, but near me. I guess so that I can overhear all her snide comments and smug giggles.

I wanted Emmalyn to know that if she was gonna pull that move in homeroom, then she was gonna have to deal with me tapping out beats and fills every morning, so I played louder. Emmalyn sat down in the row next to me, two desks ahead, even though there were plenty of empty seats farther away.

It’s like she wanted me to get on her nerves.

I tapped louder on the desk. Em-Uh-Lin EV-ans.

She sighed loudly again. As she flipped her hair over her shoulder, she turned to give me a quick glare. I rolled my eyes.

Emmalyn Evans, she’s such a bore. Emmalyn Evans, she’s always sore.

One more school year and I’m done with this place.

• • •

It was important to Dad that I attended Saint Joe’s. He’s been teaching here for almost thirty years. He’s old. Like, actually old, not regular-parents old. He was fifty when I was born. My mother was forty. They thought that they couldn’t have kids.

Anyway, being a single parent with a teacher’s salary and all, Dad was really proud that I’d at least get the best possible education. Saint Joseph’s Preparatory is a little bit famous, and a lot of the graduates go on to Ivy League universities. So, yeah, I know I’m lucky that I get to go to school tuition free, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a cost.

My classmates think that having certain names on the soles of their shoes is a personal achievement for which they should be admired. As if they have these shoes not because of their parents’ money, but because they earned them by being intrinsically better beings.

Consequently, most of the conversations that I overhear in the girl’s bathroom exasperate me. Someone’s new lake house being in the wrong neighborhood is what passes for juicy gossip around here. A scandal is when a purse turns out to be a knockoff.

Thank God for Sam. He’s so different from all of them that it’s like he’s from another planet. While I find our classmates insufferably annoying, Sam finds them utterly baffling.

Thankfully, Sam and I have the same lunch period and we were able to snag a picnic table in the courtyard to sit at. Well, Sam is sitting at it, and I’m sitting on it, next to his sandwich.

“In bio, I was in a group lab with Kaylie Rushton and Pam Jones, and instead of helping me with the microscope, they recited for each other the outfits they wore to every party all summer. Why?”

“Why what?” I say.

“Why did they do that? Do they actually care what the other girl wore back in July?”

“Nah,” I say. “They just wanted to talk about what they wore back in July.”

“Why?” Sam asks.

I love you so much
, I think.

“It’s only the third day back, Sammy-Oh. Gimme a break,” I say.

“Hey, you spent twenty minutes talking about Emmalyn glaring at you in homeroom.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t demand an explanation for her behavior. You must learn to be at peace with the alien motivations of girls with fluff for brains.”

Sam shrugs and picks up his sandwich.

“I just can’t comprehend that level of superficiality existing.” He takes a big bite, and mustard drips on his chin.

I love you so much
, I think.

Mr. Van Bueran is the guidance counselor at Saint Joe’s. His voice is a deep baritone, and he clears his throat a lot. Ramona once compared him to a living tuba, which I know sounds mean, but if you met him, you’d understand.

He took an interest in me after Dad left sophomore year. He would call me into his office once every few weeks to remind me that he was there for me if I ever needed to talk. But I didn’t need to talk. Dad’s moving out was pretty okay with me. That meant we didn’t have to pretend anymore. I didn’t tell Van Bueran though; I just told him that I thought I was adjusting well.

He still had me come by from time to time just to “catch up,” and I continued to be well adjusted. Then last winter he said, “So you must be getting excited about applying to Artibus next year, huh?”

I said, “Yeah, kinda.”

And his face brightened.

“Why only ‘kind of’ excited?” he asked.

He’d somehow found the only thing I needed to talk to somebody about.

I was having doubts about Artibus.

So it wasn’t a surprise when I was called to his office on the second day of school.

“Hey, Sam,” he said to me. “How was your summer?”

“Good,” I said. I sat down in the chair across from his desk.

“Artibus had their evaluations recently, didn’t they?” Mr. Van Bueran said. He leaned back in his chair and regarded me.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think I did well.”

“That’s great,” Van Bueran said. He was using this slow cautious voice, like he was worried that I’d bolt if he pressed too hard. “Are you still wondering if a chemistry major would be a better fit for you? Are you still feeling passionate about sustainable products?”

“Yeah,” I said. When I heard my own voice, I got why he was worried I’d bolt.

It’s hard for me to admit that maybe I don’t want music to be my whole life.

Music is Ramona’s life.

Music is what brought Ramona into my life.

“Saint Louis University has a great chemistry program,” Van Bueran said. “Have you checked it out?”

I shook my head.

He smiled and reached into his desk drawer. He handed me SLU’s pamphlet. Everyone on the cover looked like they had made all the right decisions.

“SLU would set you up to get into a top-tier grad program,” he said.

I shrugged.

“You should think about it,” he said.

I nodded.

• • •

I don’t talk much, but when I do, Ramona takes the time to listen. Every once in a while, I get mad at Dad for taking off the way he did and continuing to be only marginally interested in me. There isn’t anybody I ever wanted to talk about that stuff with but Ramona.

And one day in the garage she said to me, “Look, Sammy-Oh, maybe this is all your dad is giving you because this is all that he
can
give. Maybe your dad just isn’t capable of emotionally supportive relationships. It’s sad, but there are people out there like that. It’s shit luck that one of those people is your dad, but I bet it’s a lot worse to actually
be
him.”

I thought about it, and I realized that it was true.

The man has no friends. He left his wife because she hated him for never opening up to her. He doesn’t know what to do with his son, so he spends money and retreats.

As I thought about it, I realized that it was less harmful to feel sorry for someone than to be angry with him. I realized that I can’t change who my dad is.

And I never would have realized these things without Ramona.

How can I disappoint her after all the plans she’s made?

When I was a freshman, the seniors looked so old. Now the freshmen look so young. But really, that’s the only thing that’s different. Everything else in this place is exactly the same.

The populars congregate in the courtyard before classes. Outcasts are restricted to the cafeteria year-round. Sports teams hang out by the gym doors as if they can’t wait to get inside. I’m still sitting with my back against the south wall near all the kids that want to be seen as “different.”

I’m friendly with lots of people here, but I don’t have a group. People invite me to parties and sometimes I go, but I’m not really a part of their planet. I’m like a satellite friend.

I like to sit near (but not with) the theater nerds, because they tend to have the best conversations. Today is the first day of school though, so Ally is holding a semiofficial meeting about play selections for the year.

I went out with Ally Tabor for a few weeks sophomore year—because she asked me to, and I figured I was supposed to say yes. I didn’t mind when she broke it off, and we’re decently good friends, I guess. Ally’s real name is Alejandra. She’s the kind of girl who is always inventing new ways to do her heavy eyeliner. She bites her nails, but when she paints them, they’re always black. (She may have been using the same bottle of nail polish since middle school.) Ally takes her drama club presidency very seriously, and I like that about her.

Right now she is sitting cross-legged with the rest of the theater nerds circled around her.

“If we time a performance of
Death of a Salesman
right, we’ll have at least half of the sophomore class attending to get out of reading it for American lit,” she’s saying. “And this year’s lazy sophomore may become next year’s junior theater fan.”

The others all nod at her wisdom. In the last couple of minutes, a few freshmen in all black have come up to the edge of the group. They nod too, looking at the others as if asking for permission to participate.

Three yards to the right of me, the kids that think they’re vampires or something are arguing over who owes who a cigarette. I also have a view of the guys who play boring generic rock and think they’re edgy musicians. I try not to overhear their conversations; whenever I do, it makes me cringe.

I turn my music back on and lean against the wall. Nothing has changed. No one out here is hoping I’ll say hey to them. No one out here is doing anything I want to participate in. Here’s how to survive high school: find a safe place and then just keep your head down and wait it out.