Free Those Girls by Lauren Saft Page A

be myself and be different from them, and they accepted, respected, and enjoyed me for whatever brand of different I was. They made me feel like maybe I was going to be okay out there, outside of the incestuous circle of Crawford and Harwin and girls with blond ponytails and boys with roman numerals after their names. And they loved music like I did. And they knew how to talk about it and roll around in it, analyze it, and create it in ways I’d never even considered to be an option.
    “So, guys,” Ned said as he tuned his guitar. “We got our first gig. We got accepted to Halloween Battle of the Bands.”
    I looked at Fernando and Pete, ready for them to laugh and say, “Dude, we’re not ready!” But instead, Fernando said, “Awesome, man.”
    Pete just nodded.
    Everyone went to Battle of the Bands. Everyone. All my friends would be there. I hadn’t really thought about what playing in front of them was going to be like. I was so happy here in my little music bubble with Ned and Pete and Fernando. I wanted to live here, among people who understood, who were supportive, who weren’t just looking for an excuse to mock me or for confirmation that I was a talentless wannabe.
    “We’re not ready,” I said. I started to sweat.
    “Sure we are,” said Ned, completely unfazed. “But we should probably decide on a set list now. What do you think? Do you guys wanna do ‘If You Knew’?”
    He was so matter-of-fact. So unshaken. Wasn’t there anyone he was trying to impress? Anyone he was worried about exposing himself to?
    “I don’t really know that one yet,” I said, my heart still fluttering, head caving in.
    “I’ll teach it to you,” Fernando said. And he came over to my keyboard and stood next to me. He placed his hands on the keyboard and hit A–A–C–G. Then he did it again and said, “A, A, C, G,” as he played. I’d never really stood this close to him before. Never realized how much taller than me he was. He smelled like Irish Spring.
    I repeated after him, “A, A, C, G.”
    He put his hands on my hips and shuffled me over. He nudged me with his elbow and said, “You try.”
    I did.
    He said, “You got it. It’s a really simple four-chord progression. You do way fancier stuff than this in your sleep, dude. The words are easy, too.”
    “Words? Oh, I don’t need to bother with that,” I said. “Right?”
    “We’re a band. We all learn the words,” Ned said.
    I nodded, bit the inside of my cheek, and looked down at the keys, chords, and patterns running together, the song already playing in my head, my hands already twitching, itching to play it out and connect the dots.
    Fernando nudged me with his elbow again and cocked his head, shaking out his brown curls. “You’ll be fine,” he said.Then he winked and put his hand on the small of my back before he turned to his drums.
    THE ANNUAL BATTLE OF the Bands had become a Halloween tradition. It was held in a dingy old club on Franklin Avenue that was owned by the father of a Crawford boy in Sam’s class (Billy Todman; his band was playing right after ours—his band also won every year). Mr. Todman didn’t shut down the club for the event, but he made us wear UNDER 21 wristbands, which people like Mollie and Sam found “degrading.”
Why pay ten dollars to go somewhere we can’t drink when we have places to go where it’s encouraged?
Four other bands from schools around town were playing. I threw up every morning the entire week before. If I were Mollie, I would have run around telling everyone I was pregnant.
    But everyone said they’d come this year and root for me. Even Mollie promised she’d ditch the annual Dress as Your Favorite Slutty Animal lacrosse party and come, even if it meant ditching Sam. I’d believe it when I saw it. We’d been sounding pretty good in practice, and the boys were determined to make me sing at the show. Screwing around in practice was one thing, but I was not prepared to take lead vocals onstage.