Confessions of a Teenage Band Geek Page 3

  The following day, Denny and I are back in the parking lot, with the quints on stands in front of us. Looking closely, I think I can see part of my jeans on the parking lot from yesterday. Having learned my lesson, today I have on a very cute pleated black linen skirt, my classic pink Chuck Taylors and a white tank top. Denny gave me a strange look when I showed up in the band room, but I have always believed playing drums is no excuse not to look cute. Besides, if McDaniel shows up, I want to look my best. Oh, crap, I should be paying attention.

  “Did you hear anything I said?”

  I answer honestly, “No.”

  Denny runs a hand through his spiked hair and asks, “Do you really want to learn how to march?”

  “I have to learn to march if I want to be a part of the section, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then, it doesn’t really matter if I want to do anything. It’s something I have to do.”

  Denny looks confused and partially like he’s completely regretting the decision to add me to his section, but proceeds to teach me drill for the better part of two hours. While we run through the steps, I look longingly over at my quints, which I have secretly decided to name Quincy.

  Finally, Denny decides we’ve had enough and we break for water. I have sweat more this afternoon than I have in a long time, but it’s the good kind of perspiration. At the water fountain, a young Westlake male approaches us. He is vaguely attractive in a jock-esque way. This dude actually pushes past Denny like he’s in a big hurry to drink water. Not sure if it’s the heat I’ve been subjected to, or if it’s just the fact no one really knows me, but in defense of my new section mate, I put my hand on my hip and say, “Excuse me?”

  Denny pulls on my arm to walk away, saying quietly, “Don’t worry about it, Julia.”

  The jock, who is at least a foot taller than me and probably double my weight, shouts after us, “Yeah, that’s right, Napoleon. Walk away – you’re good at that.”

  “What is he—”

  I am cut off by the impolite jock, “Who’s this girl, Napoleon? Liberty wouldn’t take you back this time?”

  Denny does something similar to a growl, and literally has to pull me away from the scene. Back outside, I ask, “What the hell was that about?”

  Although I’ve only known him for one day, my section leader doesn’t really strike me as the type who just walks away from scenarios like what just happened. Denny looks down at the ground and back at me, before he replies, “I used to play football.”

  Suddenly, I can see Denny Napoleon as a football player – all cute and perfect in his uniform. Maybe Denny can see that I am seeing this and he flushes.

  “Did you recently quit or something?”

  “When I started at Westlake.”

  There’s something in his voice that tells me, of course, there’s so much more to the story, but also for the time being I should just really not push things. Still wondering who Liberty is, I leave the question for another time. Aspiring to be an exemplary member of the quint section, I change the subject, “More drill?”

  He nods, but says with a small smile, “No, we’re done for today – tomorrow with quints.”

  I go home and waste no time texting Kat. She responds almost instantly.

  >> Howdy y’all!

  I’m glad she’s around. I type back.

  >> Ha ha.

  >> Have things improved any? Did you see McDaniel today?

  >> Yes and no. Things are getting better, but no sign of my future husband today. :’(

  Of course, I’ve already informed her of my deep crush on the Westlake drumline captain. My cell phone beeps.

  >> How did the ‘marching lesson’ go today? (Is that what the kids in the South are calling it these days?)

  >> It *was* a marching lesson, but details surrounding my section leader grow more mysterious – apparently he used to play football.

  >> I always thought band geeks and jocks didn’t mix.

  >> Apparently, they don’t.

  >> So, you have a one-time jock in charge of your section? That could be interesting.

  >> Maybe. I’ve got to find out what went on there.

  >> Well, it sucks you aren’t here. I totally saw Zac Efron today when I was shopping.

  >> Jealous!

  >> He was hot, but it would’ve been more fun if you were there.

  >> I know. Miss u 2. I hate to cut things short, but I am in desperate need of a shower. Talk later?

  >> You know it.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FOUR: Battle of the Bands

  The interaction between Denny and the jock lingers in my mind. I thought I had my dual eye colored section leader pegged: drummer, quiet, more passive than aggressive. But, if he used to play football, then why did he quit? What prompted him to do that? Yargh. This is when I could really use a new best friend.

  Who am I going to meet who could possibly fill this role? I can’t very well hang around Westlake tomorrow and ask every girl who walks by if she knows the dirt on Denny Napoleon. Then it occurs to me, what about Laurel? She’s on the drumline and I bet she knows something about the guys in her section. I quickly jump on facebook and type in ‘Laurel O’Neil.’ Finding her profile (she’s friends with my new mutual friend Denny), I see she’s listed her IM screen name: LilDrummerGirl. In a few clicks, I’ve added her to my buddy list and see she’s online.

  Cracking my fingers, I debate exactly how and what to say as an introduction that will not make me look like a complete stalker. I come up with a few options:

  Setplayher: Uh…so, you know about the guys?

  Setplayher: Hey! It’s Julia, that girl you were glaring at yesterday…

  Setplayher: What’s the deal with Denny?

  Deleting all of these killer opening lines, I decide to go with a simpler approach:

  Setplayher: Hey Laurel, it’s Julia – the new quint player.

  Reminding myself I have nothing to lose, I hold my breath and press ‘enter’ and wait for Miss O’Neil to respond. I enter into a fierce mental debate whether or not I should’ve used an emoticon and which one would be appropriate, when she comes back with this zinger:

  LilDrummerGirl: Hi.

  Ignoring her stunning conversation skills, I deny my sarcastic self and forge ahead. I decide killing her with kindness might be my best option, and hope to come across as breezy and friendly.

  Setplayher: So, since we’re going to be section mates and all, I was wondering if we could maybe get together sometime?

  LilDrummerGirl: Why?

  …and she immediately sees through my ruse. Well, at least she’s got some brains to go with her matched grip. Of course, I can at least act offended.

  Setplayher: What do you mean, ‘why?’ I’m new to town and we’re going to be marching together and all I get is ‘why?’ Thanks a lot.

  There are a few moments before she begins typing. I recognize these are not the best terms to begin a friendship, but I need answers.

  LilDrummerGirl: Fine.

  I drum my Dior Black Sequins painted fingernails on the desk for a moment before typing.

  Setplayher: I was wondering if you were planning on going to the Battle of the Bands on Saturday?

  LilDrummerGirl: Maybe.

  I idly wonder if drumming has somehow rendered Laurel incapable of typing anything longer than one word sentences. Determined to turn her ‘maybe’ into a ‘yes,’ I type the following:

  Setplayher: Great! We can go together. I’ll meet you in front of the school around 1PM?

  LilDrummerGirl: Uhh…ok.

  Setplayher: See you then!

  It doesn’t exactly help me figure out the mystery of Denny any sooner, but it does give me someone to go to the event with.

  On Saturday, I tuck my drumsticks into my bag walk over to the school, wondering if Laurel is actually going to show. Since I’ve only actually seen her once, I’m kind of hoping I haven’t forgotten what she looks like.

  And there she
is.

  Laurel O’Neil stands out, but not in the way any girl really wants to stand out. She is wearing, what I can only assume is her marching band t-shirt, and a pair of khaki shorts. They are neither fun, cute, or preppy. They are an awkward length and have (shudder) pleats. She looks incredibly uncomfortable. I am unable to hide my grimace as she looks in my direction. Of course, come to think of it, she kind of has a similar expression on her face.

  Wait a minute, she does not think something is wrong with what I’m wearing. I’ve carefully selected my favorite camouflage capris with my newly acquired white tank top studded in rhinestones reading “Princess” on the front. The whole ensemble is capped off with earthy espadrilles. Swallowing my pride, I start gushing nervously, “Hey Laurel! So good to see you! I was afraid we weren’t going to be able to find each other.”

  “Is that why you dressed so loudly?”

  So that’s how it’s going to be, huh? I immediately quip, “Did you not want me to find you? Is that why you dressed so vanilla?”

  Laurel looks for a moment as if she’s going to cry, then starts walking away from me. We are off to a beautiful friendship. I sigh, then run after her and say, “I was just kidding. Seriously, Laurel, don’t stress.”

  “Fine.”

  “Is there any band you particularly want to see?” I pull her in the direction back towards the stage.

  “I’m not sure, really.”

  “There is no way you do not know a band you want to see. You’re a drummer! You’ve got to know someone in one of the bands. Who should we cheer for?”

  “Uhh…”

  Maybe I’ve come on a bit too strong. After all, we’ve only known each other for like, five minutes. Maybe I should hold back the extreme optimism for at least another five. I ask innocently, “If you had to pick one whose would it be?”

  “Denny’s!” she blurts out, then claps a hand over her mouth, blushing furiously. She immediately tries to backtrack and mumbles, “I mean, we should be there to support him, that’s all.”

  Yeah right, ‘that’s all.’ Jackpot! Laurel’s going to know everything about him because she has a giant crush on my section leader. I pretend as if I don’t know she has a major case of like for Mr. Napoleon and say diplomatically, “Let’s go check when his band plays.”

  We wander over to the check in area and Laurel starts filling me in on some of the bands. For the uninitiated, going to a high school Battle of the Bands might as well be billed as “cute Indie Boy Fest.” Laurel and I get a spot near the stage and wait while one band clears and another gets ready. After awkward silence stretches out for at least two minutes, I ask playfully, “So?”

  “So what?” Laurel answers defensively.

  “What about Denny?”

  She crosses her arms and huffs, “Why would I know about Denny?”

  This girl had a serious case of denial. Rather than alienate her further, I keep things casual, but continue to talk about Denny, “So, we were practicing the other day and out of nowhere this jock guy is all ‘back off.’ Any idea what that was about?”

  Laurel looks skeptical to discuss the topic.

  I nudge her, “Come on. I mean, I’m going to learn the truth sooner or later, so why don’t I at least get the real story from you?”

  She seems momentarily flattered and answers, “Alright, here’s the basic story. Around eighth grade, it was like there was this day where suddenly kids in band became geeks and the jocks became cool. Denny was stuck in the middle. We didn’t have a specific football team for middle school, just the county sports team. Anyway, Denny was the star quarterback.”

  Oddly, it didn’t take much for me to picture him in that role. From what I could tell, Denny was a natural leader. I prompted her, “So, what happened?”

  “Basically, the way I’ve heard, there was some big misunderstanding between Denny and Coach Lewis. Denny wanted to do both, but I heard the Coach was pressuring him to choose one or the other. When push came to shove, Denny decided he would rather be on the drumline.”

  “So what? I’m sure there’s plenty of football talent at a school this size.”

  “That’s just the thing, there’s not really a good quarterback.”

  I fill in the blanks pretty quickly and ask, “So the football team doesn’t have a good record and they blame Denny?”

  “Basically, that’s been his life for the past two years.”

  “Poor guy.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you think he regrets his decision?”

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t like talking about it.”

  Wow, it’s like this whole soap opera and I landed right in the middle of it. Laurel’s explanation makes the weird conversation with the jock from earlier make sense. Our discussion is interrupted when the next band starts. Throughout the afternoon, different bands play and I have to admit, some of them are half way decent. During a break, I stretch and ask, “I’m going to go get some water. Do you want anything?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “Hope to see you when I get back,” I say, half joking. For all I know, Laurel could decide she’d had enough of my questions and be gone by the time I get back. As I make my way to the concession stand, I notice a group of guys arguing loudly with each other.

  “He said he’d be here!”

  “Dude, I know, but he’s not here and we go on in like five minutes.”

  “Call him again!”

  Just the occasion I was secretly hoping for. Hands in my back pockets, I saunter over, keeping my fingers crossed the missing ‘dude’ is a drummer and ask, “What seems to be the trouble here, boys?”

  They look appreciatively over me for about four seconds, and then ignore my question completely. I look over the cases in front of me. While the Battle sponsors have supplied a drum set, most drummers have brought their own set of cymbals. I see a bass guitar case, but nothing resembling a cymbal bag is present.

  “You guys missing a drummer?”

  The three boys in front of me stop their argument and stare. One of them has the decency to nod.

  “This is your lucky day – it just so happens I am a set player.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIVE: Blondie Saves the Day

  “So?” asks the shortest guy, wearing a Justin Timberlake inspired fedora. Not knowing anything about what this band will sound like, given his funky headwear, I at least think they have a chance at being okay.

  “So you need me.” I point out the obvious.

  “We do not,” Fedora Boy challenges.

  Just then a man with a clipboard approaches us and asks very seriously, “Beans and Cornbread?”

  They all nod. I look confused. Beans and Cornbread? Of all the bands, I have somehow managed to pick the one with the most random name.

  “Are you going to be playing today or not?” He impatiently taps his pen.

  They all look at each other and then at me. Fedora Boy says, “Can we keep the cymbals on the set? Our drummer forgot hers.”

  The event organizer looks at us for a moment before saying, “Sure thing.”

  We all watch the organizer walk away and the second the guy is out of sight, Fedora Boy tells me, “You’d better be able to back up that statement, blondie.”

  “Who are you calling blondie, bubby?” Without me, Beans and Cornbread will be…well, they won’t be able to play, that’s for damn sure.

  Until now, the other band members have apparently been content to let me and Fedora Boy talk things out, but now Tall Guy raises his hands and says, “This is no time to be yelling at each other. Blondie, or whatever your name is, do you want to play?”

  Even though these are not the ideal conditions under which I would join a band, my palms are itching to get behind a set and in front of an audience. I respond, “My name is Julia McCoy, and yeah, I’ll play.”

  The third guy in the band, Wannabe Mohawk Kid, briefly fills me in on “their sound” (allegedly a cross between Panic At The Disco
and Keaton Simon with some rockabilly thrown in for good measure). Then, it’s time and we’re on stage and being announced. Basically, each group has a chance to play three songs. After we find our groove halfway through the first song, I resist the urge to wave at Laurel, who’s looking decidedly pissed off I haven’t returned yet. Oops. After a bit of a struggle with the tempo during the second song, we finish the third song and have somehow managed to look like we’ve been practicing together for months. The crowd cheers appreciatively. We’re not Jared in Shorts, but we’re not bad for a band that just formed a few minutes ago.

  Off stage, while the guys congratulate each other like they’ve just finished a set at Coachella, I grab a bottle of water and look around. I notice Beans and Cornbread have started chatting to the next band and catch the side profile of someone very cute. Then Fedora Boy moves and I realize I’ve been scoping out Denny! It’s kind of weird to see him outside of our teacher/student relationship. And strangely enough, we’re wearing practically matching outfits – camouflage cargo shorts and white tops.

  Suddenly they turn and look in my direction. I guess this is my cue, so I ask, “What’s up?”

  Tall Guy says, “So, Denny says you’re on the Line.”

  “Yes.” How does everyone at this school know Denny? Is he some sort of celebrity or something?

  I guess this fact adds something to my ability as a percussionist, because Wannabe Mohawk Guy says, “Why didn’t you just tell us earlier?”