Free Beautiful Music for Ugly Children by Kirstin Cronn-Mills

that!” I point to a Swiffer WetJet in a tight embrace with a barn broom. “Mops and brooms fraternizing, heaven help us all.”
    John’s got his phone out, snapping photos. “We should make a Facebook page for this stuff. Show everyone the work of the UCB.”
    “You’re on Facebook?” Just when I think there can’t be any more surprises in one night.
    “Isn’t everyone?”

    When we finally get home, I let John out in his driveway. “Thanks for hanging out.”
    “You were awesome.” He waves and goes into his house.
    I get parked and head inside, but not before I hear very loud AC/DC coming through John’s windows. Plenty of neighbors complain about the volume, and sometimes the cops come by, but they usually leave with smiles on their faces and CDs in their hands.
    After I’ve brushed my teeth, I open my window and listen. Still AC/DC. I dust my Elvis 45 for a minute, admiring its label and its lack of scratches. If worst comes to worst, I could sell it and use that money to move away. But I don’t know if even that’s worth selling my connection to John and Elvis. I need them too much.

    As I’m drifting off to sleep, I consider telling Paige about my date, but I decide to keep it to myself. I don’t need her crap if it doesn’t work out.

Elvis Costello is the new Elvis because
He Changed his Name to Honor the King

    Monday. I check my email to see if there’s an answer from the Vibe, and of course there’s nothing. They must be having big yuks at their staff meetings: “Hey, did you see this girl who’s a guy? What kind of stupid shit is that?” Every night, I listen for a while before I go to sleep. I imagine myself chatting, laughing, giving the promos, talking about concerts, playing commercials. Then I imagine going home to my apartment. Gabe’s apartment.
    Sometimes, when I open the door of that apartment, Paige is there on the couch, reading her textbooks and studying for med school. It’s late at night, after my shift, and she’s tired. We curl up on the couch for a while, and watch some TV, and then we … I can’t even let myself go there. Too amazing. And it’s too sad, because it will never happen, so why bother?

    Tuesday: no email. Paige comes over, drags me to my room, and demands my laptop. “You absolutely have to see this.” She pulls up Facebook and types in “Ugly Children Brigade.” A page come up. Paige clicks on it, and it’s a fan page, complete with an Ugly Children Brigade logo, photos, and 57 fans to go with it.
    “No way.” I click around to see if there’s anyone I know. Paige is there, Heather Graves is there, and so is Mara, but I don’t point that out to Paige. There are even some grown-ups: a local DJ who’s not horrible, and Russ, the station manager of KZUK. “I’ll have to tell John about this. Who made that logo?”
    Paige is surprised. “John’s on Facebook?”
    “Evidently. Did you put this up?”
    “Nope. I saw it on Allison’s page.”
    I click through the photos. “Look—the wall, the mops, and check this out!” It’s a photo of a movie marquee, one over by our local college. The letters have been rearranged to say G BE R X—UGLY CH LDR N BRIG DE . Must’ve been a vowel shortage. And there’s a video of people setting up the mop display at City Hall. Paige and I fall over laughing when they set up the ones doing it by the fountain.
    “So, are you going to ‘like’ them?” She sits back and looks at me.
    “No.” Liz has one friend on Facebook—Paige. Though I should probably friend John.
    “How would anyone know that you’re Gabe?”
    “Look at my profile photo. It’s a 45.”
    “So what? Change it—be Elvis or Donald Duck or Raggedy Ann. You’re so dense you haven’t said a word about the fact that people set up a Facebook fan page for your show!”
    “There are Facebook fan pages for everything from farts to Jell-O.” Which is true.
    “You know what I mean.” She points at the screen. “ ‘Like’