Band Fags! (2 page)

One day in late October, I was over Lynn's house…

Like most of my friends, her parents are divorced. So she lives with her Mom over on Orchard, behind the hill in Martin Road Park. Which pretty much serves no purpose other than during the Winter when it's covered with snow and it's an awesome place to go sledding. Lynn's Mom was still at work so we were lying together on her couch, watching MTV. Which was kinda awkward because Lynn is like, 5'7" and I'm only 4'11".

“Now what?” Lynn asked. Men at Work's “Who Can It Be Now?” video had just ended.

“Now what, what?” I replied.

To which she rolled her hazel eyes at me. “We've been going together for two whole days, Jackie…Aren't you ever gonna kiss me?”

So I did…For all of about five seconds.

“That's not a kiss,” she informed me. “Don't you know how to French?”

Of course, I knew
how
…I'd just never done it before.

“Close your eyes,” Lynn instructed. Then she proceeded to stick her tongue halfway down my throat!

After waiting all that time, I honestly didn't see what the big deal was about kissing. It certainly was nothing like I expected. In fact, it was kinda gross and slimy.

“Not bad,” Lynn said. “You'll get better with practice.”

But what I want to know is…How was I supposed to do that? When a couple days later during Ms. Lemieux's 6
^th
hour Enriched English, Lynn passed me the following note…

I tried acting like it didn't matter. Even though it totally did! I mean, how was I gonna get through the rest of the semester when Lynn Kelly and I had every single class together?

When I got home from school that day, my Mom asked if I was ready for dinner…

“I'm not hungry,” I told her, trying to make it clear just how p.o.'d I was without actually saying so.

“Jackie!” she called out from the kitchen where she was stirring a simmering pot of mostaccoli. “What's wrong?”

“Everything,” I replied. Then I stormed into my bedroom. Though I had to cut through my 8-year-old sister's room first on account of mine's an addition on the back of our house. Jodi was playing on the floor, her hair up in pigtails looking so darn cute I could kick her! Instead, I practically stepped on her and her stupid Strawberry Shortcake dolls as I passed.

“Mom…Jackie kicked me!” she hollered.

“You're such a Total Liar!” I shouted back.

“I know you are but what am I?”

I flung open the flimsy accordion-fold door separating our bedrooms to find my 4-year-old brother passed out on the bottom bunk, thumb stuck in his mouth. I thrust the door closed behind me, hating the fact that I had to share a room with Billy even more than I usually did.

I climbed the ladder to my bed, not caring if I woke up my stupid little brother. Who's really not stupid at all. I love him and my sister, both. I was just p.o.'d at that moment. I stared at the white drop-ceiling no more than four feet above me. For the first time, I took note of the textured pattern in each tile. Kinda like a bunch of white rainbows intertwining with one another. All of a sudden, my eyes started to burn. So I rolled over, facing the knotty pine paneled wall.

And I cried…And cried…Like a little baby, I know.

For some reason, I couldn't get Lionel Richie and Diana Ross singing “Endless Love” out of my mind. Which made me cry even more! Ever since I first heard that stupid song, all I wanted to do was find somebody to love. Who would love me back…For real.

Like in the movies and on TV.

Later that same night, I was going through the Sign-In Book I made a couple days before. Even though most guys at school would only sign them—not make them—I didn't care. I knew there had to be somebody I could call. Somebody I could talk to. Somebody who might understand the pain and heartbreak I was going through and actually give a crap.

Then I came to the page titled PHONE NUMBER…

“398-5836” with the number 4 scrawled beneath it was the first one. I figured, what the heck? I'll give Mr. Sergio Valentes a call…Why not?

“Dayton residence.” A woman answered in a slight Southern accent.

“Is Brad there?” I said, polite as could be in case she was his Mom.

“Who's calling, please?”

“This is Jack Paterno…From school.”

“Just a moment…” Then I heard, superloud,
“Br-a-a-dley…Telephone!”
Then to me the woman said, “He'll be right with you.” Much more subdued.

I made myself comfortable on the green shag carpet in the hallway between our living room and kitchen. The extra-long olive green telephone cord wound its way around the doorway as I laid on my back with my feet propped up against the wall.

After a moment I heard, “Hello?”

“Hi, Brad,” I said.

“Who is this?”

“It's Jack.”

“Jack who?”

“Paterno…Varsity Band 1st chair trumpet.”

To which Brad replied, “Oh.” Followed by, “What do
you
want?”

Good question. Why was I calling this guy I barely knew, expecting him to care about my problems? What was I even gonna say?

And then it
poured
out of me…
How Lynn Kelly Broke My Heart into a Million Pieces.
By John R. Paterno.

“Dah-dah, dah-dah,” said Brad, interrupting me halfway through. From his tone, I took it to mean, “Yeah, yeah.” As in, “Get on with it, already.”

So I repeated, “Dah-dah, dah-dah.” Then I quickly finished my sob story.

“I didn't even know you were going with Lynn Kelly,” he informed me. “You know Max thinks she's hot, don't you?” By whom he meant Max Wilson. This guy in our class that Brad's been friends with since like 4
^th
grade.

Actually, Max's Mom and my Dad work together at Farmer Jack's up on 9 Mile and John R. So I kinda already knew Max, myself, before the school year started and we met up again in Mr. Davidson's 1
^st
hour Science.

“So what do you think I should do?” I asked Brad, hoping for some sympathetic advice.

“Get over it.”

Easy for him to say…Brad didn't just spend the last two months of his life totally devoted to somebody, only to get dumped by her—in a note! How would I ever get over this?

Six months later, I was
still
in love with Lynn Kelly…So was Max.

Don't get me wrong, he's not a bad-looking guy. Tall and thin with blue eyes and brownish-blond hair. But he's got so much of it. I'm telling you, Max Wilson has just about the smallest forehead I've ever seen! Plus he's got a Tin Grin. And his complexion isn't exactly the clearest. So why in the world would Lynn Kelly ever be interested in him? Not that he's not a cool guy or anything, 'cause he totally is.

In April, when my parents took their yearly vacation to Las Vega$ with my Aunt Mary and Uncle Jim, I got to stay over Max's house. Which was totally awesome! I never spent the night anywhere on a School Night, let alone an entire
week.

After school on Friday, Max met me and Brad in the Band Room. The minute Lynn Kelly materialized with her saxophone in tow, he started whining like a Total Baby. “Come on, you guys…Let's get the fuck outta here!”

“Buh-bye, Lynn!” Brad called out, making sure to draw her attention towards Max as he slipped out the side parking lot door ahead of us.

“See you on Monday!” I chimed in, giving a wave. Even though she broke my heart into a bijillion pieces, I've managed to stay friends with Lynn. Besides, Brad and I could never resist watching Max squirm.

The three of us walked over to some Party Store on Hilton where we waited for Max's Dad to pick us up when he got off work. In case I didn't mention it…Max's parents are divorced. This happened to be the weekend Max had to go to his Dad's house. Which meant I was going, too. And for some reason, Max invited Brad to tag along, don't ask me why!

Even though we'd been in school together for the past eight months, I still wasn't sure how I felt about Brad Dayton. Sometimes I thought he was kinda weird. Not weird-weird, but…How do I explain it? The way he acts. Like, he's always hanging around with the girls. Giggling and laughing. And there's something about his voice. The way he talks. He kinda sounds like that guy from
Too Close for Comfort.
Not Ted Knight. The neighbor, Monroe.

Okay, I'll let you in on a little secret…There's this rumor going around school that Brad Dayton's a Total Fag. I don't know how it got started. All I know is…it did. Of course, there are always kids who pick on other kids just for the fun of it. They like to say mean things, whether they're true or not. Back at Longfellow, there was this girl named Tuesday Gunderson. People used to pick on her all the time. The minute our teacher walked out of the room they'd be all like, “Whoever talks loves Tuesday Gunderson!” Just because Poor Tuesday had a funny name and wasn't the prettiest girl in the world.

But I never did.

I mean, I'm not stupid enough to believe
everything
I hear. Why should I think Brad Dayton's a Total Fag? Just because he's always hanging around with the girls? Giggling and laughing. And because of the way his voice sounds? Like the faggy next-door neighbor from
Too Close for Comfort.

Besides, I hang around with girls. And I'm not a Total Fag…Am I?

I spent the next hour kicking Max's butt in Ms. Pac-Man. Even though I'm
much
better at regular Pac-Man—my high score back in 6
^th
grade was 188,910—I'm almost just as good at Ms.

“Would you hurry up and die, already?” Max groaned. “My Dad's gonna be here any minute…I want a turn!” He furiously chomped a piece of watermelon Bubblicious. Something I had a feeling his orthodontist would
not
approve of.

I've gotta admit, Max is pretty good at video games. But Brad has no hand-eye coordination whatsoever. After like five seconds, he always gets killed. Then he starts pouting like a Total Baby.

“Today!”
Brad loomed over the tabletop, totally obstructing my view of Pac-land.

“Thanks a lot!” I cringed as Poor Ms. Pac met her demise after bumping into brown goblin Sue. Not to be confused with Clyde, her husband's look-alike nemesis.

“You're welcome,” Brad sarcastically smirked. “Can we go now?”

Around 4:45 PM, Max's Dad showed up to drive us over to his house in Roseville. Near 11 Mile and Gratiot. Which is pronounced “Gra-shit,” in case you had no idea—because why would you unless you happen to hail from Motown?

After all of half an hour, we became
totally
bored out of our minds…

“This is lame!” Brad sighed. “Let's do something.”

“Like what?” Max wanted to know.

“Yeah,” I said. “Like what?”

“I don't know…
Something
.”

I turned to Max. “What else is there to do?” After all, we were at
his
Dad's house.

“Travis has got porn!” he announced, his acne-prone face lighting up. Poor Max…His complexion looked especially bad that day. Like a proverbial pizza. Lucky for me, I don't have that problem. I get a couple pimples a year tops, thank God!

We headed down the hall past the front room. Though it always sounds more like “French Room” whenever Max says it. We spied his Dad sitting on the beat-up faded green couch in his blue mechanic's coveralls, his name—Travis—stitched in red across the left side of his chest. Beer in hand, he was watching
The Dukes of Hazzard.
Which used to totally be my favorite show back in like 5
^th
grade. But ever since they brought on those two new guys to replace Bo and Luke, I can't stand it.

“Your Dad must like beer,” Brad whispered, counting the seven or eight empty Goebel cans cluttering up the coffee table.

“Duh!” Max replied. Then we sneaked into Travis' bedroom.

As my Mom would say, “It looked like a cyclone hit it.” Talk about a Total Pigsty! Dirty laundry everywhere. On the floor, on top of the dresser, covering the unmade bed. Which Brad immediately plopped down on. The gurgle of water sloshed around inside the mattress beneath him.

“Careful!” Max warned. “That's a waterbed.”

“Dah-dah, dah-dah,” said Brad kicking back, hands behind his head against the zebra-striped pillow.

“So where's the porn?” I asked. Though I wondered,
Do I really wanna see it?
My Uncle Roy's got a ton of porno mags at his house. One time, I saw a copy of
Penthouse
sitting on the back of his toilet. Of course, I
had
to take a peek. Being that I'd never seen one before.