Confessions of a Teenage Band Geek Read online

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  Confessions of a Teenage Band Geek

  A Novel

  By Courtney Brandt

  Copyright 2011 Courtney Brandt

  Published on Smashwords

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  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE: We’re Moving?!

  CHAPTER ONE: For Whom the Bell Tolls

  CHAPTER TWO: Crabstepping 101

  CHAPTER THREE: Atypical Situations

  CHAPTER FOUR: Battle of the Bands

  CHAPTER FIVE: Blondie Saves the Day

  CHAPTER SIX: Stuck in the Middle

  CHAPTER SEVEN: Summer Montage

  CHAPTER EIGHT: Date Auction

  CHAPTER NINE: Talent Night

  CHAPTER TEN: Another Kind of Punishment

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: Changing Partners

  CHAPTER TWELVE: All Good Things Come to an End

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Transitions

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: The Best Defense is…

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Pep Rally Improv

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Firsts

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: What Wade Needs

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Game Time?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: It’s a Snap!

  CHAPTER TWENTY: Second Half

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Arrangements

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: A Productive Junior Skip Day

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Beautiful Disaster

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Everybody’s Gotta Learn Sometime

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Let’s Get These Teen Hearts Beating Faster

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Didn’t See That One Coming

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Liberty Strike Force

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Where There’s a Will…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: …There’s a Way, (Straight into a Judge)

  CHAPTER THIRTY: Adjudication

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Back to School

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: School House Rocks

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: A Pair of Queens

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  PROLOGUE: We’re Moving?!

  I can’t believe it. I sit in shock.

  In front of me, the two people who brought me into this world, who are supposed to love and comfort me, stare back. In an instant, my whole life up until this point – 15 years and 9 months – changes forever.

  “Julia, you can’t sit there and not say anything.”

  “Can’t I? Because apparently you can do anything you want without consulting my opinion.”

  My dad’s jaw tenses and he responds, “As convincing as your argument is, the decision is not open for discussion. You can finish the school year and then we’re moving.”

  As much as I want to cry and throw things at the wall, I know these techniques won’t change my parents’ mind. Furthermore, I’m not stupid. I know the world is a different place and if there’s a good job out there or an opportunity for my parents, we will just have to move to where it is. I may be an only child, but I’m not a complete brat. Knowing my parents (which, up until five minutes ago, I thought I did) they had already sold our house and were just waiting for me, their precious daughter to finish the semester so they could move on. No amount of acting like a five-year old was going to help the situation.

  Excusing myself, I get up and say politely, “Obviously, I have some calls to make.”

  I’m sure some other better adjusted teenagers would be all, “when life gives you lemons…” but I wasn’t in a very lemonade kind of place. Leaving the room, I dash outside with my cell phone and begin calling the four most important people in my life: Roman, Petey, Dominic, and Kat. In other words, my band. I convince them all to meet at our closest Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in half an hour. Being all of sweet fifteen, I don’t have the legal ability to drive yet, so Roman, my kind of boyfriend, offers to pick me up.

  Approximately one hour later (this is Southern California, after all, where it is almost impossible to get anywhere in a half hour), we sit around the table. Kat the mysterious. Dominic the dense. Petey the goof. Roman, the semi-charming. We are Jared in Shorts, your average unsigned punky-emo SoCal band. I’m not really into labels, so I would say we have a lot of influences and leave it at that. My iPod is an eclectic mash of genres ranging from Ke$ha to Garth Brooks.

  Kat is the first to recover from my news and asks dramatically, “You’re doing what?”

  “Personally, I’m not doing per se, it’s my parents that are.”

  Dominic asks, “And you’re sure you have to go?”

  Roman sits next to me with a smoldering look. He and I have only started a relationship, and now things are about to be prematurely terminated. Someone with a high cuteness factor like Roman isn’t going to remain unattached for some girl living thousands of miles away, nor do I expect him to. Furthermore, I am far less interested in finding a new boyfriend than the devastation that is finding another band.

  Petey, as bummed as I’ve ever heard him, replies, “Where are we going to find another drummer?”

  Who cares about another drummer? Where was I going to find another band?

  With the end of the school year and my social life as I know it a month away, I throw myself into soaking up as much of my current lifestyle as possible. I go to the beach. I consume my weight in In and Out burgers. I help Jared in Shorts try and find another drummer and am secretly pleased when they can’t find someone suitable.

  We play one last gig – a graduation party. For a high school band, we’re pretty good. Although we’ve talked a lot about going to a studio and actually recording ourselves with professional equipment (instead of just messing around with Garage Band) without funds, our home mixed seven track CD entitled, “That Old World Flair” is all I have to take with me.

  Keeping insanely busy and denial seem to be my default coping mechanisms to prepare for the move to the Southeast. I realize I should probably take more interest in where we’re going, but rather than accept the reality of my situation, I don’t ask my parents any questions. All I know is that we are relocating from Southern California to some suburb in Atlanta. Like, y’all, I’m a West Coast girl. Born and bred. I don’t do cold weather. I don’t do rain. I certainly don’t do humidity. I don’t even own that many pairs of closed toed shoes. Furthermore, in addition to nearly year round sunshine, I’ve seen enough celebrities to last a lifetime. Who am I going to see in Atlanta? Scarlet O’Hara? Ludacris? Paula Deen?

  As we step on the tarmac at Bob Hope Burbank-Glendale-Pasadena Regional Airport (which is neither in Glendale nor Pasadena, but I digress), my highly observant mother pats my shoulder and says, “I’m sure they’ll have other bands in Georgia, Jules. You’ll see.”

  Crossing my arms and adjusting my Dickies backpack, I answer, “Mom, you don’t just trip over people like Dom, Kat, Petey and Roman.”

  We shuffle forward and she answers, “From what I’ve heard, you could always join the marching band. They have drum
s.”

  Drums on the field are definitely not like a drum set. As great as my mom is trying to make things sound, I just never understood marching band. I am not going to judge who is socially gifted and who is not, but the whole regimented, lame music thing never really appealed to me.

  “If it’s my only chance to keep drumming, then I’ll give it a try.”

  Famous last words, Julia McCoy.

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  CHAPTER ONE: For Whom the Bell Tolls

  I look around my new room at the boxes and cartons and try to find the motivation to finish unpacking. So far, I have unsuccessfully accomplished anything remotely approaching organization in my room, but have completely set up my drum set (custom Pearl pink glitter with Paiste cymbals and a sweet double bass pedal) in the basement.

  Trying not to text Kat for the zillionth time in the twenty-four hours since we’ve left, I swallow my homesick feelings. Rather than wallow in desperation, the only thing guaranteed to make me feel better is a good session on my set. Digging out my noise-canceling headphones, I head downstairs, plop myself down, and jam out, working up a sweat and generally zoning out. However, even after I finish, I immediately find myself back in the dumps. My funk is semi-broken when my mom comes down the stairs, a cold Diet Dr. Pepper (my favorite!) in hand, and asks, “Do you want to go by your new school tomorrow? We can get some of the paperwork out of the way.”

  Interacting with people my own age actually sounds like a lot of fun, so I reply, “Sure, why not?”

  The following day, we drive over to Westlake High School and I keep sweaty palms on my knees, trying not to fiddle with the radio stations and already missing KROQ. Was I wearing the right thing? What if East Coast meant something totally different than my beloved Left Coast? My ensemble today consists of my favorite pink rhinestone-studded tank top, a pair of dark skinny jeans and a black studded belt. Also, as I never wear closed toe shoes — my piggies have to breathe! — black platform wedges complete the outfit. I am not sure if I will interact with anyone, but want to be prepared.

  It is nearing lunchtime when we finally get through all the transfer paperwork and I convince my Mom I am not only perfectly capable of walking home, but also communicating with the school counselor, Mrs. Hernandez, on my own. So far, Westlake – home of the Warriors, y’all – seems typical. The students here look mostly the same, except they are not related to someone in the entertainment industry. Here, they are descendents of insurance agents and progeny of dental hygienists.

  Oh, crap, the nice counselor lady is talking to me.

  “Miss McCoy, judging from your transcript, I think you’ll fit right in at Westlake.”

  She looks to me for a response, but all I can think to do is nod with a generic smile on my face. Satisfied with this response, Mrs. Hernandez continues, “Are there any extracurricular activities you’re involved with? You know, college applications are right around the corner.”

  The only thing I want to do is play in a band, my band, Jared in Shorts, but I don’t see that subject anywhere in the extra-curricular course offerings. Instead, I answer sweetly, “I’m sure I’ll find something.”

  “Come on now,” she presses gently. “Certainly there’s nothing we can introduce you to? No clubs you were a part of at home?”

  There is a tone in her voice that leads me to believe she actually wants to help me. Maybe this is the famous ‘Southern hospitality’ people are always talking about.

  “Music,” I mumble, looking at my nails.

  She instantly pounces, “That’s nice. Do you play an instrument?”

  “Umm…drums,” I respond, hoping she will take the hint and be done with the twenty questions already. Usually when you’re a girl and you play drums, people look at you strangely and walk away slowly.

  “Really?”

  Did she hear my answer correctly? Did she somehow hear me say something else entirely? I am obviously giving her a strange look, because Mrs. Hernandez clarifies her question, “So, you really play the drums?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you’re in luck!”

  How can it be lucky I play the drums? If you play the drums do they give you a scholarship or something? Because I would be all over that situation. My curiosity piqued, I ask, “Why am I in luck?”

  “It just so happens we have an excellent drumline.”

  I guess a drumline has to be pretty good if even the school counselor has heard of them. Then again, maybe that’s just how they do things here. I always thought this region of the world was stereotypically Varsity Blues and Friday Night Lights and everyone cared only about football, but maybe here drummers are the coolest people in the school.

  “Really?” I ask skeptically.

  Minutes later I’m standing in the band room, which smells vaguely of spit and sweat (double yech) and apparently waiting to speak with the band director. An older, kind of balding man in his late 40s comes out of an adjoining office and introduces himself, “Hi, I’m Mr. Mickelson.”

  We shake hands. So far, so good.

  “I hear you’re a drummer.”

  “Drum set player,” I gently remind him.

  “And you’re going to be a junior?”

  “Yes.”

  After a moment, Mr. Mickelson asks, “Do you want to audition?”

  Is it just me or do I detect a slight challenge in his voice? My brain screeches to a halt. One second I’m all transcripts and schedules, and the next I’m auditioning for something? My confused face must say it all.

  “Okay. Never mind, I thought you might be—”

  “What do I need to do?” The words were out of my mouth before I even realize I’m saying them. I guess Mr. M must’ve struck a chord with my inner percussionist.

  “We had auditions for the percussion section a few weeks ago, but why don’t you just play some on the set and we’ll see where you’re at?”

  If there’s one thing I will always take the opportunity to do, it is play a drum set. Any time, any place, especially if that location is a high school. As I kick off my two-inch heels, get my Pro-Mark drum sticks (wrapped in matching pink and black) from my bag and settle behind the school’s kind of decent drum set, I realize since the first time I moved here – I am really and truly smiling.

  The band director crosses his arms and says, “Just play whatever you’d like.”

  I start and bust out this completely cool solo I’ve been kicking around. I am playing so loud I don’t realize a) the bell rings b) I’ve collected an audience c) they are predominantly male with the exception of d) a lone female who is e) glaring at me.

  Mr. M has this small smile on his face, like he somehow expected this scenario to happen. I choke the ringing cymbal and look up, not backing down from the stares of the group. Mr. M nods to the collected group and says, “Julia McCoy, this is part of the Westlake drumline, including next year’s captain, Myron McDaniel.”

  Myron? My brain screeches to a halt. I’ve transferred to a school where they name kids Myron?!

  Myron, all six feet of super cuteness, comes forward. He smiles and I almost die, because he has one adorable dimple. Instead of getting embarrassed about his first name, he offers his hand and says, “Call me McDaniel.”

  Oh, I’ll call you anything you want.

  I flirtatiously answer, “Enchanted. I’m Julia McCoy.”

  Mr. M explains, “Miss McCoy recently transferred to our school district and will be starting here in the fall. Do you think there might be a spot for her on the Line?”

  I hear ‘Line’ is definitely capitalized. Odd.

  Handsome McDaniel is obviously the guy in charge. After a long moment looking me over, he states, “We could add another tenor.”

  I squint my eyes and try to picture my old marching band. Then, I think about my own tenor drums and how silly they would look on the field. Obviously, everyone else, including the Glaring Gal, thinks it’s funny as well, because they are all giving McDaniel skeptical looks.

&
nbsp; Trying to be agreeable and non-committal, I answer, “That sounds good.”

  “For a trial basis,” McDaniel adds. “I’ll see you after school today. I have to talk it over with Denny.”

  Of course, Denny. Basically, anything McDaniel says at this point, I would agree to.

  “Sure thing.”

  “Just meet me here after the last bell.”

  After texting my mom I’ll be at Westlake a bit longer, I go to the school library and start looking through the yearbooks. After finding the current one, I scan through in search of one Myron McDaniel and see he is a junior this year and photographs very well. In the glossary next to his name, there is a bunch of page numbers.

  Figuring I should probably start learning about my future husband, I flip to the pages where McDaniel can be found. I quickly find what appears to be a photo of the entire marching band. As uniforms go, they didn’t look too bad – black pants and some sort of light blue jacket with a sharp looking design on top that actually does all sorts of slimming things for everyone in it. I mean, there are no fringed sleeves or super ugly hats or anything. Well, they do have these big glove things going on, but I am fairly certain percussionists don’t have to wear them.

  Wait a minute. Was I actually considering joining the marching band? Did I drink something weird on the plane ride over here? What was going on with me? Shaking my head, I turn the page to find an entire spread on the Westlake drumline. At first glance, they are a rather unfriendly, intimidating group. As I scrutinize each picture individually, I finally find a bunch of images from the stands where everyone is smiling.