15. Back to School
15
BACK TO SCHOOL
PRENTICE
Kimmy wasn’t usually so tense. “The only problem with this plan,” she said, “is that it’s not even remotely scalable.”
We sat onstage in the Caumsett High auditorium and watched the students file into row after row of seats. The balcony slowly filled with the freshmen. They were rowdy and normal, gabbing with their friends or tormenting each other. It looked so very familiar to me. Just ten years ago, I would have been one of them.
“We don’t have to scale this,” I insisted. “We’re supposed to do a big launch. This is a big launch.”
Kimmy rolled her eyes, her hands clenched on her elbows. “It’s too big! There’s actual press in the press box! The local news channel sent a film crew, for god’s sake!”
“That’s good,” I reassured her. “We want that. That’s why we got Opinionated O’Connor involved in the first place.”
“Well, is she going to mention every single school when we open other programs? The idea of a pilot program is that we can use this as a model. We can’t use this as a model!”
We would have continued this same debate, except the many doors to the auditorium closed after the last students filed in, and the principal nodded to Kimmy.
“Go get ’em,” I whispered.
She swallowed and walked to the podium. Her nerves weren’t because of public speaking. By actual count, she only needed to say twelve easy words and her part would be done.
“Good afternoon,” she said into the microphone. Various teachers and proctors hushed the students and they settled, watching Kimmy with a mixture of boredom and anticipation. Archer’s girlfriend, O’Connor, had done a great job of priming the pump.
Kimmy held out a hand but didn’t speak right away. Eyebrows went up, and anticipation built. Then she said her second line. “Will you all please join me at the football field?”
As an opening line went, this one was pretty good. The students were confused, surprised, curious.
Kimmy turned to the administration seated onstage and made the “get up” motion with her hands. “Principal Jeffries, will you lead the kids out, please?”
We nudged and cajoled and pushed air from our hands as if we could actually sweep the entire student body out of the school. Once they figured out we were serious, the kids were thrilled. Any excuse to leave the school building was a good excuse.
Soon we were part of a sea of humanity flowing out the doors, across the parking lot, up the hill, and onto the bleachers. The kids noticed the news station’s satellite truck, the massive antenna already extended for broadcasting, and the calm river of students became a rushing stream. I heard excited fragments of conversation as the student body’s curiosity grew. They mentioned Opinionated O’Connor and the fact that she was dating the lead singer of Aftermath.
Kimmy and I were playing it cool. The principal knew what was going on and so did as much of his administration as he wanted to tell, but quite a few teachers found their way to Kimmy’s side or mine to ask what was going on.
Kimmy was better at the sphinxlike smile and the firm-but-kind, “Wait and see!” I was too excited and tended to giggle inanely and flap my hands, which must have looked ridiculous. The one thing I managed not to do was peer around the far corner of the school to see if I could see anything waiting there.
Interest spread through the students. Some of them broke into a run, and phones were already out, both texting and recording. The beefed-up security team kept them in line and held back a stampede, but they were all curious now, and there were no stragglers. It wasn’t long before the last student pushed their way onto the bleachers.
Principal Jeffries eyed his students nervously and spoke to the head of security. Then he nodded to me.
Oh god.
My fingers were trembling as I typed in the text.
All ready here
Almost immediately, we heard the cadence of the marching band from down the hill, out of sight. The students nearest me were immediately on alert.
“Shit,” one kid said. “If all this hype is for the fucking marching band, we should have skipped.”
“ I’m in the marching band,” his buddy said. “It’s not us. I would have known. We haven’t played since the last football game.”
“Well, isn’t that the sound they make when you guys march?”
“Yeah, but . . . what’s that?”
I hissed in a breath and clenched my hands together. A sleek blue pickup truck appeared at the far entrance to the field. The kids all craned their heads as it pulled onto the track. The screaming started immediately.
Archer was sitting on the roof of the truck, his bass guitar on his lap. Next to him, Ian held his own guitar. In the bed of the pickup, Mal sat behind his full drum kit, playing a marching cadence that worked its way into my brain. Kimmy and I were standing on the track in front of the bleachers. She was bobbing to the beat too. We kept time together.
The response from the bleachers was immediate. The kids came to their feet, and it was only the presence of large security guards at the stairs that kept them from rushing the field.
The truck circled the track and ended up in front of the press box. At the wheel, Ian’s girlfriend, Nicky, set the brake and Charlotte, head out the window, added her excited barking.
Next on my list of things to worry about was whether their microphones really would pair with the announcement speakers, but I shouldn’t have worried. Ian stepped forward to stand on the newly reinforced hood, and Archer stood on the roof of the cab. Mal’s marching cadence shifted to the opening beat of “Lizabella,” and the kids erupted into thrilled applause.
Archer’s voice was as strong as ever, and the harmonies were precise. The bleachers shook from the dancing feet. Camera crews on the roof of the press box spent as much time filming the kids’ reaction as they did the band. Kimmy and I were squealing right along with the kids, knowing our overstimulated joy would be lost in the rush of noise.
Aftermath went from “Lizabella” straight into Archer’s song “Freedom,” which the kids loved.
“It’s all working!” Kimmy shrieked at me. I clutched her just as eagerly. We were dancing and jumping up and down, giddy and drunk with the rush.
Archer kept the students dancing long enough to work them through the wort of their nervous energy. By the time the extended version of “Freedom” ended, the students were about as ready to listen to a rocker’s version of a speech as they were ever going to get.
“Caumsett!” Archer screamed at them. They screamed back, thrilled. “You know Mal, Ian, and I all met at Caumsett, don’t you? The boys of Aftermath are Wildcats too!” He modeled the green-and-white football jersey he’d found somewhere, and the kids roared in solidarity.
Archer let them scream their school pride—something I would have bet they wouldn’t have done half an hour earlier if I’d paid them to do it.
Archer timed it perfectly. As the energy crested, he spoke, quieting them: “I hope you all understand that the Aftermath dog, Charlotte, needs to be an honorary Wildcat, although she’s not so sure about that. Are you, baby?” He leaned over to look at Charlotte, most of her body out the window, held in place only by the leash clamped to a seat bracket. When she realized Archer was overhead, she tried to get at him, her tail thumping on the windshield and seat hard enough to be heard over the roar. We all laughed as Archer knelt and leaned over to kiss his Great Dane on her massive skull.
He pushed her head down playfully and stood again. Charlotte settled, happy to have connected with the human she loved more than anyone else. Mal waited behind his drums, grinning easily. He was luscious in his beauty. At least for now, that man—lusted after by every girl in the stands (and a good percentage of the boys, too)—was mine.
I felt a deep, primitive sense of possessiveness rise in me, sharpening my gaze. That was mine.
Now, now, Prentice , I told myself. Calm down. Focus on the task at hand.
“We’re in the studio right now, recording our next album,” Archer told the students. “And although it’s going to give our producer a really bad case of heartburn, we’re going to play one or two songs for you here. World premieres, here at Caumsett.” The kids roared. Easily half of them were holding out their cameras, and Archer grinned. “So go ahead and record. Post your videos. Our entire career was built on videos, so go ahead. Forgive us if we aren’t as polished as the final version will be. But before we keep playing, listen to this.”
He turned to Mal, who nodded. “Hey,” Mal said.
The students screamed back at him in welcome.
“So, I wanted to tell you how it was that I came to Caumsett, okay? I went to a different school until eighth grade, but you know why they kicked me out?”
The roar and screams of the students had died. Every teen wants to know what someone else did to get into trouble.
“I was getting into fistfights. Like, a lot of them. Now, I know none of you guys ever get that feeling, you know? Like the rage inside you is too big to hold in, and if you don’t do something about it, you might explode. None of you know that, do you?” The screams were predominantly male. He’d reached the young men in the audience. “Yeah,” he said. “I know that feeling really, really well. And once these muscles began to develop”—he flexed his impressive arms, and the crowd roared in appreciation; I inhaled at the sight—“well, fighting went from being slap fights on the playground to something that began to hurt people. Pretty quickly. And I broke my fingers a few times.” Hoots and catcalls from the male population. “I’m not here to tell you that fighting is wrong. Shit, you all know that. Oh, sorry. Not supposed to use that kind of language around you delicate flowers.”
They howled in appreciation.
“But I will tell you what saved me from more broken bones—which hurt like a motherfucker, I’m here to tell you. Oh, sorry.”
Screams and high fives and rueful grins from the administration.
“So anyway, I got kicked out of that school and came to Caumsett. Yeah, thank you. I came to Caumsett and got sucked into the marching band.” Mal began to play the same marching cadence as he spoke. Feet began to tap, heads bobbing. “And they put me on the drum line. And here’s what happened for the first time ever—they wore me the fuck out.” He hit the drums hard, riding over the shouts of applause. “Getting into an arts program saved me from a life in juvie, I’m telling you. If you’ve got rage you can’t express”—his pattern swelled to the madness of furious beats—“if you’ve got sorrow or confusion”—the percussion slowed to something driving and urgent—“and if you’ve got emotions you can’t get out any other way, then think about an arts program.”
His drumming settled into a powerful groove, and while the kids were still recovering from his rapid change of pace, Aftermath sang Ian’s song of adolescent rage, “Blood Burn,” which was about the fights he’d had with his father.
“That’s good,” Kimmy shout-whispered to me. “He’s getting the message across.”
I nodded, looking at the kids who were still filming. “The TV cameras will cut this to a few seconds, but the kids will post the entire thing. The message will get out.”
She grinned, and her grip on my arm tightened. “I think it’s working!”
“I think so too!”
The students loved “Blood Burn,” and didn’t so much sing along with the final verse as much as they screamed it.
I can’t give in to what you say
See me true or go away
You want my love, you get my rage
And I will shred your fucking cage
“It’s like a teen anthem,” Kimmy said. “I guess I never noticed.”
I nodded in agreement.
Archer bowed when they finished, accepting the applause. “Do you all know we’re here to promote after-school arts programs?”
The crowd roared. Whether they knew it or not before, they knew it now.
“So, you don’t have to think of arts programs as music, although that’s what brought us together.” Archer grinned, and Ian released a blistering guitar solo that made the students shriek. “There are other things you can get involved in. For example, my girlfriend got involved with a club that focused on creative writing. Maybe you’ve heard of her. Opinionated O’Connor?” The energy swelled as they applauded. Yes, Opinionated O’Connor had a few followers in the crowd. “Ian here? His girlfriend took drawing classes when she was in high school. We have to thank her, by the way—besides managing our marketing, she’s the one driving the truck today. Thanks, Nicky!”
Nicky thumped her fist on the roof above her and waved. The students cheered.
“My boy Mal here? The former teenage brawler? He’s dating a woman who studied ballet.” He pointed at me and I jumped, startled to be thrust into a very brief spotlight. I raised my hand shyly, and he moved on. I was the woman Mal was dating . . . in public.
How astonishing.
“So, there’s studio arts, dance, music, creative writing . . . what about the dramatic arts?” Archer asked. “Ever had the desire to be a real hambone? Stand up in front of a crowd and make some noise?” He threw his arms out, and the audience screamed in appreciation. Archer grinned and jumped from the top of the truck into the bed, avoiding Mal’s drums, then fished out the sign we’d made. He hung it over the side of the truck. “That’s the website where you can explore what after-school arts programs are available to you. And just in case someone is watching who isn’t a high school kid, there are programs for you too. Take a picture of that sign and go explore. It could change your life.” He bumped Mal’s fist before climbing back to his perch at the top of the truck while phones clicked. “My boy Ian doesn’t talk much, but he plays the hell out of a guitar. We’re now going to do a world premiere of a song Mal just wrote called ‘I Was Watching.’ Everybody recording who wants to? Okay. Go ahead, Brother Ianacus.”
My heart was in my throat. If Mal had just written this song, it was possible I might be a part of it. Oof. Like being ambushed.
Ian’s fingers flew, and a silvery, beautiful melody raced over the field. This wasn’t a dance beat; this had the feel of a love song. I watched Mal, but he was looking down, focused on his drums. Archer began to sing.
A small figure crouched against a brick wall
Hit by fear, anger, the lure of power’s call
Hidden from the eyes of authority,
You thought no one saw
But I was watching
I was crying before the first verse ended. He’d written about me as a child, being bullied by Johnston in the brick alcove at Shield Academy. I had to duck behind the bleachers to hear the rest of the song so I wouldn’t be obviously sobbing where everyone could see me.
That much power creates an illusion
Of being above want, need, or confusion
Nothing could stop you
No one dared try
But I was watching
He had been watching. He’d watched over me, saving me again and again. I leaned against one of the bleacher supports and let the beauty of the song swamp me.
They weren’t my actions, but they made me who I am
You shaped me into this challenger and I am ready to jam
When you need a warrior you can call your own,
You no longer have to go it alone
I was always here
I will always be near
And I am watching
He was my warrior. There was no use pretending that I was simply infatuated with Mal. This wasn’t a childhood fantasy. This was the real thing.
I was in love with Mal Becker.