“Steve. Steve-o. Your chin,” says Jason. He points to his own chin. Steve rubs the sandwich guck off with the back of his hand.
“Can’t take these guys anywhere,” says Jason.
I bite into my Pizza Pop. Then something embarrassing happens. Something really terrible. The Pizza Pop explodes, just like in the
TV
commercial. A bunch of the red stuff inside, like tomato paste, squirts out about three feet onto the floor beside me. A couple of girls at the next table look over and giggle.
I can feel my face getting red and hot.
“Hey, Dunc! Like a zit,” says Steve.
“Yeah. Pop that zit,” Donnie says, laughing like a maniac.
“Shut up, you dildos,” I say. “Grow up.”
I look around, but by now no one at the other tables is looking. It’s always busy in the cafeteria at lunch. Lots of talking, echoing noise. Bright fluorescent lights. I don’t like it here much, if you want to know the truth.
Jason looks around, then looks at me for a second. Then he says, “Hey, how did you do on McGregor’s test?”
Mr. McGregor is our social studies teacher. This morning we got our midterm tests back. The test was mostly on Europe, like what are the capitals of Europe and the special features of each city. You know, like how the Eiffel Tower is a special feature of Paris. Also some history stuff.
Socials used to be one of my best subjects. But this term, I’ve got to admit, I haven’t actually done much work. I barely studied for the test. So, as a result, my test mark is quite lame.
“D,” I say.
“What?”
“D. Well…D plus.”
“Jesus.” Jason looks at me again. “Jesus, Duncan. That’s pretty bad.”
“Yeah, I know. I don’t need you to tell me that.”
“Your dad’s gonna kill you.”
I hadn’t thought about that. Dad’s going to be mad, that’s for sure. He always puts a lot of stock in school grades. Mom did too. But for some reason, this year I don’t feel like studying so much. I used to be a really good student. Mostly Bs. Sometimes an A, like in band or art.
Jason doesn’t say anything about his own test mark. I bet you he aced it though. Jason is a very smart guy. He gets mostly As. But he doesn’t brag. He hardly ever talks about how well he does in school. And if you ever need help on a math problem or whatever, he’ll always help you. Jason is a pretty good guy, all right.
“Hey,” he says, “have you talked to that girl yet?”
“What girl?” I say. But I know exactly who he’s talking about. Exactly.
There’s this girl in band that I like. Jennifer. She plays clarinet. She’s pretty, with long brown hair. Everyone likes Jennifer. But she’s not one of those stuck-up good-looking girls. She’s nice. At least, I think she is. I haven’t exactly worked up the courage to talk to her yet. Any conversation we’ve had has been in my imagination. Or, as Dad would say, my overactive imagination. But I’ve looked at her quite a few times, whenever I get the chance.
Mostly I just see the back of her head though. That’s because the bass guitar player—that is, me—always gets stuck way at the back of the band, beside the drums. I sit beside the guy who plays the big bass drum. He’s a good guy, but he’s also sort of a dumbass. I guess you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to play the bass drum. And—I hate to say it—he farts all the time. Which is not cool at all in my book.
“What girl? I’m talking about Jennifer. From band,” says Jason.
“Nope,” I say, biting into my second Pizza Pop, but carefully this time, just in case. “No talkee. Not so far.”
“Well, you should.”
“I know that. Tell me something I don’t know.”
Jason keeps quiet for a second. I can see he’s working himself up to something. Something different. That’s because I’ve known him since we were in grade two. When he has something important to say, his face goes all blank, then he sort of squints his left eye. It’s a total giveaway.
“Hey, Dunc. I did something. I did something for you. On your behalf. But don’t get pissed off now,” he says. “Okay?”
I hesitate for a second, then say, “What?”
Jason’s quiet. Then he says, “I answered that ad. In the school newspaper. You know the one. That ad.”
He meant an ad we had noticed in the school paper for a bass player. Jason kept encouraging me to answer it. But I wasn’t so sure. It said
Wanted: Bass
player for totally kick-ass rock band. No
newbies or dweebs need apply
.
Jason says, “I knew you wanted to do it. You know, play in a band and everything. So I emailed the guy. It’s Grant Newson. See over there?” He points a couple of tables away.
Grant Newson. He’s like Mr. Rock and Roll at our school. He always wears a leather jacket—one that’s all beat-up and rugged-looking. He used to be a total jock, on the basketball team and the football team. But now he just plays guitar and sings in rock bands. The girls are all crazy about him.
“Jason. Jay. J-man. You shouldn’t have done that.” I’m a little pissed.
“I know. But it’s all good. I emailed him. I pretended I was you. He said he wants to meet you.”
I look over at Grant. He’s got one of his rocker friends in a headlock a few tables down. Grant’s laughing like crazy. The girls at the next table are laughing too. Not at him. But laughing like they think Grant’s cool and all.
“Jesus,” I say.
For the next five minutes, Jason lists all the reasons why I should walk over and introduce myself. Mostly, it’s all about how I like music and would love to be in a band. It’s true. I’d really, really like to be in a rock band. Plus, you can only play bass guitar in the dorky school orchestra for so long.
But I feel nervous and just plain scared about walking over to Grant— Mr. Popularity, Mr. Rock and Roll. I hate to say it, but I’m not that popular. I’m pretty shy. I don’t feel cool enough to just walk over.
It’s a funny thing, but sometimes I feel okay about myself. And sometimes I wonder if I’m some kind of freak. I mean, if you’re a weirdo, you probably don’t realize it, right? Otherwise, why would you act like that? Nobody says to himself, “Hey…I want to be really weird in my day-to-day life.” For weird people, weirdness is normal.
So what if I’m weird and everyone knows it except me? And it’s the kind of thing no one will explain to you. Like, no one’s going to say, “Hey, Duncan, I don’t know if you realize it, but you are a weirdo and, in fact, some kind of total freak.” You ever feel like that? Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I
am
a freak.
Plus, my clothing choice today isn’t so good. In fact, it’s pretty bad. I’m wearing these old jeans that are way too small for me. They’re like flood pants, about two inches too short. And I’m wearing an Oak Bay High T-shirt that seemed like a good idea when I bought it, but turned out to be way too tight after my dad washed it. So basically I look like a dorky little kid in these retarded, miniature clothes.
“Just walk over,” says Jason. “Come on. Go.”
I actually want to. I really do. So I make myself get up and walk toward Grant’s table. That’s not like me. It feels like I’m in a dream or something. Like it’s not really me. Like I’m floating.
About halfway over, I trip, hitting my knees and hands hard. I get up, my face is burning. I can hear people laughing, lots of people. Everything’s in slow motion. All my senses are on red alert. I can smell tuna sandwich and greasy French fries. Someone must have tripped me. I look over, and sure enough there’s this fat dude in a rugby shirt with a big fat face, laughing at me. His leg’s still sticking out. He’s pointing to it, laughing like a hyena.
I don’t know why—I’ve never done this before—but I swing at the guy. Crazy. I connect too, hitting the side of his jumbo pumpkin noggin. Things are happening fast now. He punches me right in the mouth, then lands another on my forehead. I try to slug the guy again, but just then someone pins my arms behind me. Mr. McGregor. Ow.
“Break it up, McCann,” he says.
“But he tripped me!”
“Break it up. Both of you. I mean it. Or I’ll send you to the principal’s office. Now.”
The guy in the rugby shirt stops short for a second. Then he shakes his head, laughs and goes back to talking to his buddies. Just like nothing happened.
For some reason, maybe because I’m already halfway there, I walk the rest of the way to the Grant’s table. Even though I’m embarrassed and feeling weird and beat-up and like a total freak. Everyone at the table is looking at me like something funny’s going on. Which I guess it is.
“Hey,” I say.
Nobody says anything.
“Hey,” I say again, but louder. I feel like I’m on stage.
Grant looks at me. His face is blank.
“Hey there, fighter dude. Nice bruise on your forehead. Who’re you?” he says.
“Um. I’m Duncan. Duncan McCann.”
Grant says nothing. It’s uncomfortable. One of his buddies snorts, then makes this farting noise.
“I’m the bass player…who answered the ad.” My voice sounds small and all wimpy. This happens sometimes when I get nervous.
“Oh yeah?” says Grant.
“Not McCann. He’s a goof,” says Grant’s buddy. With his crew cut and thick neck, he looks like a weight lifter. He looks like an extra-large bulldog. Kind of like the guy who tripped me, actually.
“Shut up,” says Grant to the bulldog. Then he turns back to me. “Can you play?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“McCann doesn’t know how to play bass,” says Bulldog.
“Hey, didn’t I tell you to shut up?” says Grant. He’s still looking at me, like he’s sizing me up or something.
“Can you come to our jam tomorrow after school?” he says.
“Uh, yeah. No problem.”
“Okay.” Grant writes his address out on a piece of paper. He tells me to be there at 4:00. Then he turns back to his buddies again. I walk back to our table. My face is on fire, like a bad sunburn.
“So,” says Jason. “I can’t believe that guy who tripped you.”
“Yeah.”
“What happened? With Newson, I mean.”
“I’m gonna try out,” I say. “You know, like an audition.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah,” I say. I feel all nervous and jumbled up inside. But happy too. In fact, I’m excited like I haven’t been for a long time. Ever since before Mom died, anyway.
I wake up thinking,
Oh man. Not
another day of school.
Then I remember the rock band audition with Grant Newson. The bottom of my stomach gets all tingly.
Of course, I’ve got to make sure I don’t forget to bring my bass to school. That would be a disaster. Besides, I need it for my band class. That’s the first class of the day, in fact.
I’m almost late for school because I have to lug my amp as well as my guitar. Plus I’ve got my usual jumbo backpack of books along for the ride. Band class goes okay, although the dude who plays bass drum is farting like crazy, of course. What does this guy eat for breakfast? Because it’s not working out for him.
After we play a medley of Disney movie tunes for forty-five minutes—why Disney, for the love of god?—class is over. I see Jennifer, the girl I kind of like. She looks over at me and actually smiles. Wow. So I make myself walk over. Heck, if I can do it with Grant Newson, I can do it with her, right?
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi there. You’re Duncan, right?”
“Yeah…Hey, I like the way you play clarinet.”
“You can really hear me?” she says. “From all the way at the back?” She smiles. This Jennifer is a really cool girl.
“Well, not really. But you, uh…look like you’re having fun playing your horn and all.”
Jennifer smiles again, almost laughing. Then she closes her clarinet case.
“Well…,” she says, “see you next band class, I guess.”
Crap. Having fun playing your horn? Why did I say something so stupid? Is a clarinet even a horn? I don’t know. What an idiot.
The rest of the day is a drag. Even more than usual. That’s because I’m waiting for 4:00 to roll around. The teachers just drone on and on. History. English. Math. The day takes forever.
Finally the bell rings. I’ve got to phone a cab to get to Grant’s house, which makes me sort of uptight. Plus I have to drag my bass amp along. But Dad gave me the money for a taxi, so it’s cool. I kill time until 3:30 pm, just sitting on the front lawn of the school, then phone for the cab.
“Here’s the place,” says the cab driver, pulling up. Man. It’s kind of a dump. I’m not a snob or anything. I mean, our house isn’t exactly a mansion. But this place looks like it needed a new coat of paint in 1971.
A note on the front door says
McCann: Go around to the side of the
house. Basement door
. Well, at least Grant remembered my name. That’s a good sign.
Now I can hear the guys playing… it’s really loud. I knock and knock and knock. There’s quiet. Birds are chirping. Then Grant opens the door.
“Hey, man,” he says.
“Uh…hey,” I say.
I’m trying to act cool, but I am really nervous. The other guys in the band don’t even say hi or anything. They all have long hair to their shoulders. Some are wearing jean jackets with the names of heavy-metal bands written in ink.
“That your amp?” says Grant, pointing.
“Yeah.”
“That’s not gonna work here. Too small. You better plug into that one.”
The other guys laugh at my tiny amp. So I plug into this huge black monster. It’s all battered, like it’s been on the road with Metallica for twenty years. I’m sort of freaking out, to tell the truth.
“Okay. You know ‘Death to the Enemy’?” says Grant.
“Um. No.”
“Well, just try to follow along.”
The drummer counts it off, and then the band starts playing this really fast song. Loud? It’s like being at an airport when a jet takes off. Grant is singing— actually, it’s more like screaming—and playing guitar.
For the first verse I don’t know what I’m doing. Just faking it. For starters, it’s so loud it kind of throws me off. It’s like someone’s hitting my head with a baseball bat. Then after a while I start to figure it out, just like I work out the Beatles songs on Mom’s old record player. There’s a pattern to follow that keeps coming around.
The drummer does a big, flashy ending, hitting practically every drum and cymbal on his kit. And it’s a honking big kit.