Whip It (10 page)

I enter the practice, high from my first real kiss ever. (Okay, there was that sad attempt to make out with Jeremy, aka Germy, on the seventh-grade band trip to Sea-World, but trust me, the less said about that the better.)

Anyway, I’m so woozy and giddy that my first post-kiss attempt at getting geared up for practice ends with my right knee pad on my left elbow and my right elbow pad on my left knee. I’m a safety hazard.

The girls are ripping on me, laughing as I turn deeper shades of red with each crack. I guess it’s sort of hilarious, if you’re not me. I don’t have that luxury.

Malice rushes in and drops her bag dramatically next to mine. “Ruthless!” she shouts, her derby panties in a total bunch, “What did I tell you about dating boys in bands?”

“What?” I say, genuinely perplexed. Did I miss something?

“Oliver Hastings,” Malice says, like she’s just discovered the secret fact that illuminates some great, unsolved mystery. “He’s in a band!”

“Malice. It’s Austin—everyone’s in a band,” Emma says casually.

“Yeah, but the Stats are, like, a real band, a band that doesn’t suck,” Malice counters.

“It’s cool,” I say.

“For him,” Malice warns, “not you.” I had no idea she was this protective.

“Oliver’s so not like that. He’s kind of a dork, actually. It’s supercute,” I say.

“Oh, Lord, here we go,” Malice says, looking at all the other girls.

“You know, not every guy who’s in a band is a total dick, O Bitter One,” Crystal says, rolling her eyes at Malice.

“Really?” Malice says, scanning the twenty-four girls all lacing up their skates. “Everyone here who’s ever dated a guy in a band, raise your hand.”

All the hands go up.

“Okay. And how many of those guys weren’t dicks?”

Every hand but Letha’s goes down.

“Letha, dating a trombone player in the UT marching band doesn’t count,” Malice barks as Letha drops her arm.

Malice folds her arms. “I rest my case.”

Crystal smiles. “Right, Malice. You’re telling me if Jack White walked in here right now and was all, ‘Malice, I’d like you to ring my doorbell,’ you’d be, like, ‘No thanks, you’re in a band’?”

We all look at Malice, who starts to crack under the weight of an imaginary date with Mr. White Stripes himself, her celebrity crush of all crushes.

“Okay, fine,” Malice finally admits. “I would ring his doorbell, but I wouldn’t go to Kinko’s and make flyers for his band’s gig on Friday.”

“I rest
my
case,” Crystal says as everyone laughs their asses off. Even Malice cracks a smile of surrender. She throws her arm around my shoulder and says, “Just look out for yourself, okay?”

“ ’Kay.” I nod. I don’t know what she’s so worried about. Of all the supposed nightmare stories about dating boys in bands, I promise you, they don’t apply to Oliver. He’s totally different.

I mean, c’mon, if Oliver were Asshole Extraordinaire, would he come all the way to Bodeen to pick me up? Would he pick me up after practice and drive me all the way back to Bodeen? I doubt it.

Though, upon reentering Suckville, USA, it suddenly occurs to me that I’d rather have Oliver drop me off at the Oink Joint instead of my house. The “Oliver, these are my ’rents. ’Rents, this is my Oliver” introduction will leave me vulnerable to a whole line of questioning I’m not at all prepared to deal with. Not tonight. Things are too good.

But Oliver, the gent, insists on seeing me home in the dark, despite my assurances that “Bodeen doesn’t have a crime rate. Fashion crimes—yes. But actual crime crimes—no.”

“Whatever,” says Oliver. “Everybody knows the weirdest murders always happen in small towns. I got your back.”

So, as Oliver’s car creeps onto my street, I have him pull into the Gundersons’ driveway, four houses down from mine. The Gundersons are an elderly couple who always turn out their lights by seven
P.M
.—they’ll never know we were here.

Oliver puts the car in park and gives me a casual look. “Okay, then, see ya later,” he says tauntingly.

“Yeah, later,” I say, not moving.

“Get out,” he says, turning off the ignition.

“I’m already gone,” I say, grabbing his keys.

We pause, look at each other, and then, as if on the same unspoken cue, we totally start making out. And not like a sixth-grade make-out, but, like,
for real.
Oliver slides his hands along my shoulders, sloooowly down my arms, and just as he gets to my wrists, he pushes me back in my seat. He pins me there, looks me in the eye, then calmly leaves a trail of kisses from my collarbone to my ear.

It’s electric. My toes curl in my flip-flops, and even though there’s technically nothing past first base happening, this is not a PG moment. It’s very R, at least in my mind.

Minutes later, when Oliver’s car pulls out of the driveway and I wave woozily from the Gundersons’ porch (pretending it’s mine), one thought blinks in my brain like a red neon sign:

Maestro, a Little Music

L
ike a cat burglar in some old movie, I carefully open the front door and tiptoe to my bedroom, trying to get safely inside before anyone sees me. I’m still on fire from the hot Oliver kiss, and I know my acting skills aren’t enough to snuff out the obvious flames, since I’m supposed to be returning from my “SAT study group” and all.

I hear the distant sounds of Brooke, no doubt with Shania by her side, watching
America’s Next Top Model
in the back of the house. So I slip into my room undetected.

I wade through the ever-present pile of clothes on my floor to get to my stereo. I carefully pull the Stats CD out of my bag as though it were a precious gem smuggled from some faraway land, drop it onto the player, and turn up the volume, making sure my headphones are plugged in, of course.

For a moment, during that little hiccup of silence before the music begins, I start to panic. What if Oliver’s band totally sucks? My growing feelings for him are firmly rooted in the assumption that I will like his band. What if I don’t? What if they sound like some Disneyfied monstrosity created by pods in a lab for vapid mall girls who wouldn’t know real music if it hit them upside the head?

Music is pretty much my religion. There’s no way I could worship something that made me retch. No. Freakin’. Way. Then again, Oliver is a damn good kisser.

Okay fine. I won’t fall in love with him. I’ll just make out with him.

The music kicks in, and thank God, it’s not an atrocity. The Stats are quite good, actually. Honestly, I hate describing bands, because I always feel like I say the same thing over and over, and I never make the music sound as cool as it really is anyway. What’s the point? Music is its own language.

But, just so you don’t think I’m holding out, the Stats are stripped down, classic garage rock, with catchy guitar hooks and a touch of light melody here and there. Not girly but not overly aggro for aggro’s sake. They’re 84 percent messy loud, and 16 percent sweet geekiness, which is good enough for me.

It’s the sixth track that really kicks my music-lovin’ ass, a killer tune called “If We Kill Ourselves, Can We Still Hang Out?”

The lyrics follow this total fucked-up guy who hates the world and wants to kill himself. Then he meets this equally fucked-up chick and they make suicide plans together, but while they’re hating the world and planning their funerals, he ends up falling for her. Plus, it showcases some awesome moments of Oliver on bass.

It’s completely sarcastic and loud and hilarious, but then this bittersweet lyric creeps in at the end:

The most alive I’ve felt is planning my death with you.

It gives me chills, and I immediately bestow it with the prestigious honor of my new favorite song and stay up listening to it a hundred times in a row as a show of good faith.

I study the Stats’ understated DIY CD cover—no fancy booklet or liner notes, they’re a total starter band—featuring a grainy Polaroid of Oliver and his three band mates sitting on a granny sofa in the back of a pickup truck. Brilliant.

I flip it over and read the credits on the back. There are a few names mentioned, but my eyes only go to one, “Oliver Hastings: Bass.”

Oliver Hastings: Bass, Oliver Hastings: Bass, Oliver Hastings: Bass, Oliver Hastings: Bass.

Question: Could School Be More Boring? Answer : No

S
o, Pash and I sit in Mr. Smiley’s class as he drones on about supply-side economic philosophies, and who am I kidding—I’m practically asleep. Head on desk,
this close
to having a little puddle of drool next to my mouth. That’s what happens when I’m beyond exhausted. No snoring, just drool, but usually on my pillow in the safety and comfort of my own home. Not in public.

As Mr. Smiley lectures about our six-week project and how we should get with our partners and “shake a tail-feather sooner than later” (Mr. Smiley-speak for “get crackin’”), Pash whispers to me, “He’s talking about you, slacker.”

“You know I’m a procrastinista,” I say, not lifting my head from my desk. “But I’ll get it done.” I could do without the judgmental look I can feel Pash giving me as I close my eyes. Who does she think she is? Last time I checked, she’s not the only one rockin’ the honor roll these days.

Besides, I really need her to listen to the Stats right now. It would be unfair for me to keep Oliver’s band to myself.

“Listen,” I say, covertly passing her one of my iPod earphones. “Isn’t this the best song ever?”

Before Pash can settle in to the sweet tunes, an office aide enters and slips Mr. Smiley an official note. He reads the note, then waves the telltale yellow paper in my direction.

“Sunflower, you got yourself a date with destiny,” Yoda-man says before handing me the slip and sending me on my way.

You Can Bee All That You Want to Bee

I
wander into the main office, flash my yellow note, and am quickly ushered like a VIP toward Ms. Meyers’s office. Ms. Meyers is our school’s guidance counselor, who neither guides nor counsels. Not that she doesn’t try.

Ms. Meyers is really into slogans. Her favorite is “You can bee all that you want to bee”—an affirmation she likes to drive home by pointing at a piece of bumblebee jewelry that she always wears.
Par example.
I’ll be walking innocently down the hall, trying not to be noticed, when Ms. Meyers will get me in her crosshairs.

“Good morning, Bliss. How are you?” she’ll say.

“I’m fine, Ms. Meyers,” I’ll answer.

“Good. Don’t forget, Bliss. You can
bee
”—points to bumblebee ring—“all that you want to
bee
”—points to bumblebee earring. It’s like a shtick she developed in a previous life as motivational speaker for six-year-olds on a low-budget children’s show, only the gig didn’t pan out and, thanks to the miracle of a couple well-chosen community-college courses, Ms. Meyers now plies her trade to high-schoolers. And, naturally, she brought her bee wisdom with her. Lucky us.

The woman has no shortage of bee accoutrements. You name it, Ms. Meyers has got it—bumblebee rings, bumblebee pins, bumblebee earrings, bumblebee necklaces, and sometimes she wears them all at once. Today Ms. Meyers is showing real restraint, with only a single, bedazzled bumblebee pin perched on her shoulder, its rhinestone wings wide open, as though the bee had just flown in through the window and landed there. It’s pretty awesome as bad fashion statements go. I’d probably hail its genius even more if Ms. Meyers weren’t so annoying.

She talks reeeeeaaaallly slooow, overenunciating everything. Plus, she’s the kind of counselor who’s really into hanging motivational posters all over her office. Y’know, the kind of über-positive, uplifting propaganda that is meant to keep teenagers from taking drugs and getting knocked up. But, honestly, the posters are so obnoxious, I’m tempted to get pregnant, start shooting heroin, and join a gang just to protest.