Andrew
“Are you coming to band practice tonight?” My best friend Rayne’s voice is drowned out by the sounds of our dark blue lockers slamming in the hallway.
He adjusts his long, black, wavy hair from under the ebony strap from his bag hanging across his shoulders and studies my face while waiting for an answer.
Our band, “Blood Red Serenade,” practices every Friday night.
We begin at six, and I usually end up staying at his house for the entire weekend.
Unfortunately for his neighbors, we have our jam sessions until midnight or later.
His mom doesn't care. She works the third shift at the local hospital as a night nurse.
By the time she comes home in the morning, we're passed out in his room, or we're still up playing his PlayStation. With her usual disappointed “mom” look, she finds us scarfing down whatever chips she bought at the store and a steaming hot plate of Totino’s Pizza Rolls.
As for his dad, he's a piece of shit. He left when we were in the third grade, and no one has heard from him since.
“Yeah, I wouldn't miss it,” I answer immediately, sliding the dark colored straps of my backpack over my shoulders.
He follows close behind and quickly catches up.
Our footsteps are almost in tandem as the soles of our leather combat boots echo on the hard white tile in the halls of North High School.
“Only four more months of this shit.” He laughs as we walk into our first class.
The first period is history with Mr. Ferguson.
He watches Rayne, and I follow behind everyone else.
He stands behind his desk with his gradebook and a blue pen in his hand.
“Nice of you two to join us,” he states.
His stern look behind his thick glasses trails us until we sit down at our seats in the back row.
“Chill,” Rayne begins. “The second bell hasn't rung yet.” Like clockwork, the final chime dings as he throws his bag down next to his feet.
“You're lucky this time, Mr. Thompson.” Mr. Ferguson’s eyes dart up to the intercom near the white analog clock hanging next to the door.
Rayne rolls his eyes and props his feet on top of the empty chair back in front of him.
“Now, that we can begin…” Mr. Ferguson turns to face the chalkboard, and his deep voice drones on about the branches of government or something we're supposed to memorize for the next test. I know, I know this stuff is important, at least that's what the adults in my life say, but I can't concentrate.
Not when she's sitting so close to me. Candi.
Everything about this class sucks except sitting next to her.
I can't help my stare at her shiny, long, auburn hair that brushes against the cover of her blue spiral notebook.
Damn. I can smell her coconut-scented shampoo from here.
Her strands look so smooth and soft. The urge to run my fingers through them almost overtakes me.
I follow her pencil as it falls off the smooth desk, landing on the light grey tile between us.
She struggles to pick it up with her pointy red nails.
Goosebumps cover my arms under my long sleeves as I watch it roll towards me.
She's never been this close to me before.
Her emerald eyes meet mine before it hits my shoe.
“L-let me get that for you.” I stutter, my voice cracking in my throat.
It's warm between my thumb and forefinger. Tiny bite marks are engraved in the sides. Her lips have been right where I’m touching.
“Thank you.” She looks at me coyly, and the bright light from the overhead fluorescents reflects off her shiny pink lip gloss.
“I don't think we've ever really talked before today.
I'm Candi.” She whispers, grabbing the pencil by the used eraser.
“I know,” my lips turn up in a small curve. “We've sat next to each other in this class all year, and I see you in the halls sometimes when we walk to other classes. I'm Andrew.”
“Seriously? Why didn't you ever say anything?”
“Why didn't you?” My smirk never leaves my face, and my cheeks start to strain from the change of pace. I'm so used to my permanent scowl that I wear to keep people from wanting to talk to me.
“Well, Andrew. It's nice to meet you… officially.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Candi.” Her name feels so right leaving my lips. Candi, Candi, Candi.
It's cold in Rayne’s garage. Even with the small space heater in the corner of our tiny practice space, our fleece hoodies, and our attempt at moving around when we play, there is still a sharp chill to the Ohio February air.
I struggle to keep a grip on the neck of my bass as my fingers start to go numb.
My fingertips burn as I strum each bass line.
I swear the black nail polish on my short nails gets more chipped with every fucking practice.
“Hey!” I yell into the mic a mere few inches from my face.
Rayne stops playing mid guitar solo, and our drummer Seth’s beats slowly dissipate.
“You guys cool if we end practice early?
I'm freezing my balls off in this garage, and I can barely pluck these strings with how cold it is.” As much as I love jamming with these guys, I could really go for some unhealthy frozen snacks and some time on the PlayStation.
“Yeah, that's cool,” Seth begins, standing up from his drum throne.
“I've got to meet with Jess anyway.” She's his girlfriend of three weeks, and he's been up her ass every chance he gets.
I don't blame him, though. She's hot as hell, and honestly, she's probably the hottest girl he'll ever get.
He's not a bad-looking guy, just fucking arrogant.
He moves his head to the side, swishing his long, blond bangs away from his blue eyes.
“Is Jess going to let you play the show in a few weeks. You know the one on Valentine's Day weekend?” Rayne's harsh tone echoes loudly off the concrete floor. He sets his red electric guitar in its stand.
“Fuck yeah, she is. We already talked about it. She said she'll be right in the front.” He grins like a fucking lovesick asshole.
“Good…because we can't cancel this show. I've got so many people wanting to buy tickets, and I can't let them down.”
“Chill, bro. No one is canceling the show. Especially not when Jess gets to see how fucking awesome I am at my drum solo.”
“You think she's just going to take off her bra and throw it on stage when she watches you wave your sticks around?” I chime in, setting my bass in its case.
“Nah. I'm hoping she takes everything off as soon as I take her back to my car.” The idea makes me laugh.
His car is nothing impressive. It's just a light blue 1995 Honda that his grandma gave him for his eighteenth birthday.
What girl sees that beat-up piece of shit and says, “Yeah, I'll gladly suck your dick?” None. Not a fucking one.
“Do you have anyone coming to watch you?” Seth's question is like a punch to the stomach.
The short answer is simple. No. My parents don't give a shit about my band.
Hell, they don't know where I am half of the time.
My mom is so strung out that she basically lives on our couch, and I only see my dad when he comes home from his factory job.
He greets me with his usual head nod and goes straight to the fridge for a beer.
“Nah. You know I don't care about anyone in this fucking town.” My case closes and loudly locks in place.
I try to mask the disappointment on my face, but I know I'm not fooling them.
These guys know me better than anyone else.
As much as I try to wear a mask with a rough exterior, I'd be lying if I didn't admit there is one girl I'd love to see in that crowd.
“That's cool, man,” Rayne adds. “Just playing for the sheer passion of the craft. I get it.”
“What about you?” I ask, moving my mic stand and propping it against the wall. Rayne's mom hates it when all of our band equipment is in the way when she comes home from work.
“You know I don't give a shit about anyone except my boys playing with me on the stage…” he begins, winding his cords around his hands before placing them in his guitar case.
“That's fucking sweet, Rayne. You want to go make out backstage after our set. You know I'm always down, but my girl might get jealous.” Seth laughs a little too hard at his own joke.
“Shut the hell up. I mean it. I'm not in this for the girls, man. This is my fucking dream, and I couldn't find anyone better to share it with.”
“You're going to make me cry with all this mushy talk.” My voice carries in the closed garage, and I continue to move more of our equipment out of the way. “You know we're both with you. We all want this. Even if Seth is fucking pussy-whipped.”
“Fucking proud of it, man.” Seth slides his remaining drumsticks in their protective sleeve before placing them in his black duffel bag. “Alright, I've got to head out. Don't worry about the show. We're going to do fucking awesome.”