Who Put This Song On? Read online

  “By the way, you guys, I’m driving my dad’s work truck. Hope you don’t mind the absence of glamour.”

  “Oh jeez,” says Meg. “I suppose we can do without glamour just this once.”

  But it does feel glamorous to escape, to be in charge of ourselves.

  Up until now, everything has been commandments: Don’t have a conniption. Do take the SAT practice test seriously. Do not question your faith. Do not ask questions about politics. Do vote Republican. Do not have sex before marriage. Do smile. Do pray.

  Junior year feels different. I decided to keep being alive, so I have to decide how to do it.

  Now I’m picking the music.

  JESUS, ETC.

  For the record, I don’t not believe in something. I guess I’ll just figure out later what “something” is. If you look at things from the other side, any option seems ludicrous. A magic surfer guy in Birkenstocks; the randomness of gas flickering in the sky; chimps becoming people. (I picture Eve the rapper as Eve from the Bible, holding an unidentifiable fruit in front of her paw-print-tattooed boobs. Hilarious. Sign me up for that religion.)

  None of these dogmas provide a valid explanation for my life. Nothing can tell me how to just relax about everything.

  What would happen if I died? What good would it be to know the answer?

  (Still, in the middle of the night when I hear a noise that sounds like it could be a trumpet heralding the Rapture, I am terrified, ashamed that I straight-up am not sure what I believe or what I deserve. Where am I going?)

  Marissa, my former BFF, was—is, I guess—super into Jesus. God’s Plan, Jesus-fish earrings, the whole nine. It’s kind of beautiful, really, the way she walks a line between dark and light. She loves emo bands and guys who resemble the undead, but she still clutches her cross necklace and sings along in chapel. Kelly’s like that too. She really believes.

  (I don’t sing in chapel.)

  (Marissa doesn’t really love emo bands. Once again: she likes Good Charlotte.)

  Marissa and I used to listen to Christian rock and ska bands that played on Christian radio (between anti-gay and pro-life commercials sponsored by Focus on the Family), sometimes went to their concerts at megachurches. Some of the bands actually had really good music, but the lyrics were creepily passionate and uplifting, to the point where I could never all-the-way enjoy it. Like, Audio Adrenaline has a song that sounds like a Sublime song, or Elvis or something, but they’re chanting Do you know where you’re gonna go? and describing various unexpected ways you might die at any minute (run over by a Mack truck; or suddenly, while “nappin’ in your easy chair”). Do you know where you’re gonna go? Straight to heaven, the song asks, or down the hole? I get that dumb song stuck in my head all the time. It’s weird that something that other people celebrate, find comfort in, can make me so traumatized and fearful.

  * * *

  —

  I’ve been freaking out about sins and consequences since my very first day of pre-K at Vista Christian Elementary. School has always been a land of parables and warnings: felt boards depicting scenes of Jesus and his disciples. Moses and the Red Sea constructed with macaroni and painted lima beans. Always there is a snake. A staff becoming a snake, or a snake appearing in the trees, whispering temptation. I almost expected to find snakes slithering through lines of second graders at lunch, coiled under end tables in the church foyer, sticking their tongues out of my PE locker. Just waiting to catch me failing to be perfect.

  If you didn’t grow up in the American suburbs, or in any place that’s designed to be a model of what is proper and wholesome and happy, then you might not understand what living here can do to a person like me, a person who doesn’t want to go in the straight line of a paved and lighted path.

  I could quote dozens of Bible verses about truth, about Christ as the Truth, the only Way, the Light. We nod and Amen. We say we love the truth. Maybe, sometimes, that’s real.

  But not everything true is good. So we keep it behind a wall, or covered with a table runner, or drenched in potpourri, or shelved away in an elaborate storage system from the Container Store. We pretend there’s no elephant galloping around the room (or whatever elephants do), and we don’t ask too many questions or cause any scenes.

  It never really gets cold in Southern California, which makes our little corner of churches and expensive skate shoes feel like its own planet without seasons, where nothing ever dies and nothing ever gets dark. But if you start to see the suburbs differently, if you start to see the rules differently, you start to see yourself differently. You could be unborn again. You could start a new story.

  Here is the church, here is the steeple, here is the church and the church and the church, all of these Good People. Imagine what living in a place like this could do to a person like me.

  THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ME AND THEM

  Meg, James, and I are packed into the truck’s bench seat, ladders clanging loudly on its roof. We drive aimlessly. Bicker about whether to listen to classic rock radio or the new Wolf Parade or the new Death Cab. Compare class schedules. Eventually we decide to go to a café downtown, on the ground floor of an abandoned theater. I order a black coffee, while James and Meg both get large teas. Meg takes two packs of Splenda in hers; James, milk, “like the English.” I don’t know where he gets this stuff.

  James’s family is notoriously kooky and blue collar—his dad is always covered in car grease; his mom always says way too much when anyone asks “how are you”—and it’s kind of great. I know I’m supposed to find them weird, but they’ve always been nice and funny in our brief interactions over the years. Meanwhile, James loves to dress up for no reason, and at other times is completely unkempt. He describes himself as “socially liberal and fiscally conservative.” (I want to say, I’m not sure the conservatives really have your best interests in mind, bro. But I just think conservatives are mean.) He’s out of place but perfectly easygoing and adaptable, kind of like his own vision board. I get it.

  Walking along Main Street, we wander in and out of comic book shops, antique stores. Meg and I give bratty grins to judgmental elderly people and giggle at James’s theatrics. He’s such a great actor and, separately, a fantastically dramatic person. We both do the school play every year, but it’s cool hanging out with him outside of rehearsals; we don’t get to talk much there because he’s like, a lead, and I always play Rosa Parks. (Not literally—I only played Actual Rosa Parks once—but same sort of thing, just sit there quietly. Even my speaking roles seem like nonspeaking roles. Somehow my costume is always a woolen skirt suit.)

  In the antiques store, poring over a stack of postcards with Meg, I’m surprised how natural it is, even though we haven’t hung out since elementary school. It’s like we’re the same shade of awkward.

  “Ugh.” I land on a portrait of Ronald Reagan. “We should get this for Mr. K.”

  Meg titters, “Oh my gosh, he would probably frame it and put it next to the one of Bushy.”

  “He would probably make us pledge allegiance!” I shiver, tossing the cards down. “I am so glad we have that class together.”

  “Seriously.” She squeezes my shoulder on our way out of the store. A little bell jingles at the door. Meg and I raise eyebrows at each other before sliding on our shades. Mine are big and round with white frames. Her lime Ray-Bans match the dinosaur on her shirt.

  “How is this place still open?” I wonder out loud as we pass the scrapbook store, Hearts ’N’ Crafts. “Jesus Christ. How many scrapbooks can people make?”

  Meg snorts and joins me at the storefront window, where I’m gawking at rows and rows of stickers and puffy paint.

  “Isn’t that…” Meg squints at two blond women with short haircuts who are conferring about cardstock. “Kelly’s mom?”

  “Oh dang.” I duck.

  James wordlessly waves us over to a bookstore
a few doors down, and Meg and I rush in, flustered, and collect ourselves. My heart pumps like I just ran laps in PE. (I could never be an effective outlaw—I’m way too anxious, out of shape, and perpetually spooked.)

  We all float to different areas in the otherwise-empty store, which has some books but also CDs, fancy Bible covers, Precious Moments figurines. I glance over my shoulder at the dude behind the register, who’s wearing a high-collared white shirt and too-long khaki shorts, and I’m disturbed to see him looking right back at me, not even trying to disguise his staring. Suddenly he abandons his post behind the counter to lurk at a display on my left. I feel his hovering like needle-pricks.

  Meg and James are completely out of his view—they could be bolting out the door with armfuls of cross necklaces, for all he knows. I try to shake his suspicion, scrunch my eyebrows and begin purposefully flipping through books like I care. One spine in particular catches my eye: The Negro and the Curse of Ham.

  Everything happens quickly: James shrieks, something topples to the ground; lurker guy darts over to them; Meg mumbling “accident” and “we’ll fix it”; I get a rush of screw it, snatch up the book, and drop it into the abyss of my tote bag; I slyly exit the store. Truancy and theft. So punk.

  Out on the sidewalk I sneak a look at the book’s cover: in the background are a bunch of Noah-looking bearded dudes wearing robes and holding staffs, and in the foreground is a slave-looking guy in a loincloth and shackles. (Maybe this explains why I feel so doomed. Or at least why that dude was staring at me the way he was.)

  Meg and James burst through the doorway, looking guilty and stifling laughs.

  “Yo, what happened?”

  James raises his hand as an admission of guilt. “I got a little too engrossed reading about Mormon underwear.”

  Meg doubles over cackling.

  “Whoa, wait. What?” I ask, wide-eyed. “That was a Mormon bookstore?”

  “Of course! You could tell because it was so creepy and clean,” James explains, turning up his nose.

  “What are they all about?”

  “I think they’re basically like Protestants but more racist?”

  “Makes sense.”

  “I could be wrong, but who cares,” trails James. He’s already on the move, strides ahead of us, headed toward a wide alley. He makes a sudden turn into the little street, sidestepping a gutter.

  Fatigue settles into my shoulders, and I start tallying up ideas for getting out of the situation, going home, shutting down, curling up. This is kind of a lot for me, the most socializing I’ve done in a while.

  Meg halts. “Where are we going?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I know a place,” James says coolly.

  Sashaying is the only way to describe how he is moving. I’ve never seen him so comfortable. I feel special witnessing it.

  “I just want to get an horchata.” (Horrible accent.)

  “You are ridiculous,” Meg snorts matter-of-factly.

  We follow, because what else can we do? He could be leading us into an underground cult situation, and we would go. Anything new is by default the most exciting thing that has ever happened to us.

  “I’ll wait outside while this whole situation plays out,” I say, flicking my lighter to a cigarette.

  “Me too,” Meg says quickly, and James disappears into a taco shop. “I don’t smoke, but I like the smell.”

  She squats, leaning back against the stucco, and I join her. What business do I have being pissed that someone wants to be near me?

  “You know, I don’t even really want this,” I admit, and stomp out the cigarette after only two puffs.

  We sit and exhale. She picks studiously at a fingernail bed. “Good call on skipping the pep rally. I’m so glad we didn’t have to sit through one of Pastor Tyler’s virginity lectures.”

  “Yes!” I gasp. “Some dumb sports metaphor about defending the goalposts or whatever. Thanks for being deviants with me. I know I could have just hung out in the yearbook room but…”

  “Oh, this is way better.”

  “Yeah, I think I needed this.” I squint up at the fluffy clouds and the relentlessly blue sky.

  “I kinda thought you’d be into all that stuff because of Marissa….” She sneaks a sideways glance at me; I shrug back knowingly.

  “Psh,” I say, like I’m totally over it. “Not since she ditched me for Jordan Jacobsen.”

  “Gross! When did that happen?”

  “Oh, just on the very last day of school.”

  “Yikes. That really sucks. I’m sorry, dude.” She presses her shoulder into mine, and I take a deep breath.

  “You know, it does, but it’s actually okay. I’m ready for something new, anyway. And I don’t want a friend who’s just gonna disappear over some douchebag.”

  “Yeah! Over some asshole! Who does that?”

  I just shake my head. I can’t look at her, because I’ll fall apart, but I want to reach out and grab her hand and hang on. I want her quiet confidence, her self-determination. Like all other freaks, my mantra is I don’t care what people think. But like most other freaks, I care desperately about what people think, how they see me, what makes my existence so different from theirs.

  The restaurant door flings open with the sound of accordions and James bellowing “Gracias!”

  “I have returned!” He poses, and we giggle despite rolling our eyes at him, pull ourselves up from the ground. “Ready?”

  I give him a salute.

  “Hey—” I’m suddenly enveloped in a loose, bony hug from Meg. It almost confuses me. “At least you have us now.”

  That’s one thing I’ve always liked about Meg. She actually doesn’t care what people think about her quirks or bluntness or ridiculousness. At least not enough to hide herself. You can’t help but respect her.

  What I decide to do next is get out of my own way. Hazy with exhaustion and hope, I link arms with them, James slurping loudly on his horchata.

  “Yeah.” I nod. “At least there’s us.”

  THE PROMISE RING

  Chapel is on Wednesday. That’s the way it’s been since kindergarten, and that’s the way it will always be. It’s part of the unspoken order of Christian schools. Without thinking we bow our heads. Without thinking we recite verses in weird dialects—thou and whosoever and begotten. We pledge allegiance to the Christian flag. And first thing on Wednesday mornings, we report dutifully to the auditorium, otherwise known as the gym.

  I slide into a folding chair next to Meg in the back row and prepare to zone out. Later, during opening prayer, James takes the end seat next to me. Jenn Hanson leads worship today, like she has since freshman year, singing a version of Beyoncé’s “Halo” with baby subbed in for Jesus. Adam accompanies her on the acoustic guitar as usual, his checkered Vans dangling as he perches on a stool, smiling with his eyes closed while he sings. Then Mr. K gives us a spiel about modesty, briefly citing something from Psalms but mostly making a long, involved case against short skirts.

  (The Hot Girls uniform is short jean skirts, Abercrombie sweatshirts, and Rainbow flip-flops. Flip-flops even when it rains. After first period, they’re always caught and given a lecture about Honoring God with Your Body, along with a pair of baggy gym shorts. If someone is wearing gym shorts, they are a Hot Girl, their thongs peeking out of the elastic waistband. It’s almost better (hotter?), a badge of sexy badness. Marissa started wearing those ridiculous thongs last year, and I guess that’s pretty much how I knew we were doomed.)

  James is dozing; his hair falls down into his face, and he lurches his head up with a snoring noise. Meg is drawing pictures of dinosaurs in the margins of her Spanish homework, completed early and perfectly. I’m working on an assignment from Susan. Make a list of things you like about yourself.

  Good outfits!! Thrift store queen
/>   Hilarious sometimes.

  I get good grades.

  “I’d like to read from Deuteronomy,” Pastor Tyler says soberly under a spotlight onstage, and hundreds of vellum Teen Bible pages flap their wings.

  (I really don’t like this guy. He says “rock on” all the time. Youth pastors have such a look. His hair annoys me.)

  “However, if you do not obey the Lord your God and do not carefully follow all his commands and decrees I am giving you today, all these curses will come on you and overtake you:

  You will be cursed in the city and cursed in the country.

  Your basket and your kneading trough will be cursed.

  The fruit of your womb will be cursed, and the crops of your land, and the calves of your herds and the lambs of your flocks.

  You will be cursed when you come in and cursed when you go out.

  The Lord will send on you curses, confusion, and rebuke in everything you put your hand to, until you are destroyed and come to sudden ruin because of the evil you have done in forsaking him.”

  Damn. Whoa, what? (Also, what is a kneading trough?) The Lord is going in. This is why I haven’t had the balls to read The Negro and the Curse of Ham. I already feel Pastor Tyler’s words needling into me like a direct address. One word in particular: overtake. All these curses will come on you and overtake you. That’s how my depression feels.

  I get that this is supposed to be a back-to-school “make good choices” sermon, but it feels more aggressive than that. It’s a reminder that some people are better—it is easy for them to walk in the light, follow the rules; it’s their instinct to obey, to stay in line. The rest of us deserve every curse that falls on us, all the hardship we shovel through.