Jane didn't get home until late on Wednesdays. So instead of retreating to my room and drowning in music, I paced around the house thinking of what a stupid decision I had just made.
Half a dozen times I found myself ready to take text Elijah, Sorry, I change my mind. I'm a paranoid coward.
I was in my bedroom reorganizing my albums for the third time in a row when I heard the front door open.
I waited until she had set down her keys and walked into the kitchen before I sauntered tentatively before her.
Jane was my foster mom. I'd only known her for a few months. The majority of that time I spent going through various psychotic episodes, so you can say I was a bit uncertain of our standing.
"Hey, kiddo." She was opening a beer as I walked in, loosening her bun. Jane was somewhere in her late forties, her brown hair going grey at the roots. She had a kind smile but a firm voice, qualities that must have benefited her in child services. She had never planned on fostering any kids, but as she tells me, she took an interest in my case and... well, here we are.
If she hadn't, I'd most likely still be stuck in the system. Most parents aren't looking to adopt a sixteen-year-old with PTSD.
"How was your day?" She asked.
"Terribly mediocre," I replied. "My guidance counselor says the school is considering letting me graduate this year." Last year, I'd gone to a competitive preparatory school, where an A was as common as a loosened tie, but the curriculum could get you a Bachelor's degree, so I ended up in pretty advanced classes with mostly seniors.
"That's great, Drew! I know you don't find Truman very challenging, but maybe this will help."
I sighed. I wasn't exactly looking for challenging right now.
"So what's on your mind?" She asked.
Here we go. "I was wondering if I could, um, hang out with some friends tomorrow?"
She gasped, slamming her bottle on the table. "Absolutely not, young man! Are you insane? Don't you know this is the only safe place for you?! You can't trust anyone, not even me!" Then she took a knife from the drawer and stabbed me in the chest.
Except none of that happened. Instead, she shrugged. "Sure. Just leave their address and any numbers. Curfew is midnight, remember." Then she took her suitcase and headed upstairs to her office.
The truth of the matter was I could probably ask her if I could go rob a bank and she'd just tell me to pay the phone bill when I got back. Last week, the morning after sneaking to Henry's party, she simply looked amused as she watched my hungover self stumble into the kitchen.
"Have fun?" She had chuckled.
I had grumbled back, "I have no idea."
Feeling overdramatic, I made my way back to my room. It was still weird referring to it as so. Nearly five months, and I still felt like a stranger in this life. I was a stranger to all of this.
These clothes in my closet, they weren't mine. Before, I wore blazers and dress shoes. I styled my hair every morning. Now, I wore band shirts and didn't even own a comb.
This music wasn't mine. Before, I listened to indie rock on vinyl, not alternative on my iPod. I didn't sleep in this bed, cluttered and unmade.
At least one thing in this place was familiar. I crawled into my closet and pulled my guitar from underneath a pile of t-shirts. It was the one thing I had left of myself. The one thing that didn't belong in this new reality.
It belonged to summer nights by the poolside, my parents dancing as my sister and I made ridiculous parodies of songs. It belonged to a happier time.
My closet was just large enough for me to sit comfortably with my guitar in hand. Her name was Vicky, an acoustic I got for my thirteenth birthday. On her back, I'd written the lyrics to Sting's Shape of My Heart, the first song I had learned to play, in bright red Sharpie, along with doodles of the suits. It was a pretty repetitive melody, but I was so proud of myself; it was all I would play for months. My sister would usually whistle at certain parts for me and her untimely drumming always threw me off, but we made it work.
For memory's sake, I picked the first few notes. Then I found myself playing the entire song, singing quietly so as not to disturb Jane.
I usually practiced in the closet because it had good acoustics and was comfortable in its solitude. (Also, irony.)
I had moved on to strumming random chords when my phone went off on my desk. I tried to ignore it, but a few minutes went by and it continued to ping like firecrackers.
I groaned and shuffled back into the room. I found myself in a group chat with two unsaved numbers and Elijah. I didn't need to read the messages to know who they were.
The name of the group kept changing as Elijah threw out random names, ranging from "Sexually Frustrated Unicorns" to "11 Tricycles and a Uni."
Im diggin the unicorns tbh. One of the unsaved numbers, which started with 375, replied.
There are just so many possibilities. D: Elijah said.
Let's see if some of us can actually play before we start making band names. I concluded this one must have been Raj Malik. I imagined a Malfoy-like sneer as he typed.
how about each one of us sends a video or something to reassure Raj he isn't wasting time with novices?375 suggested.
Good idea, Cole. Eli answered. What do you think, Andy?
Who's Andy? Malik asked.
I still think this is stupid. I shared.
Thanks for the intriguing input. -_- Malik said.
A few minutes passed without any more texts and I took the chance to lean back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. One part of me wished I'd never gone along with this. The other part... admittedly, the other part of me was a little thrilled by this idea.
Eli sent a three-minute video of him singing a nursery rhyme, exaggerating each strum of his bass as if it was Metallica and not a song about old ladies and shoes. He had a pretty brilliant setup, with lighting and soundproof foam. He told me once he ran a YouTube channel, but never mentioned the name. I tried not to think about that too much.
The equipment couldn't have been hard to come by, considering his rich adoptive parents would buy him anything. Plus, Elijah had the type of personality that made you want to give him the sun.
Simultaneously, Cole and Malik sent their own videos.
I could barely see Malik's hands, which moved at Superman speeds as he beat away on his drum set. His complexion was so smooth and his face chiseled like a Roman statue. I just wanted to break his nose and prove to everyone, "Hey, look, this guy actually is human! Who'da thunk it?"
Begrudgingly, I agreed with Elijah and the Dodgers from early. His drumming was pretty impressive.
Cole sent in Stranger Things Have Happened by the Foo Fighters. Mostly he just played the guitar, but occasionally he'd sing along. His voice was deeper than Dave Grohl's, which was a little unsettling because the voice didn't really match his appearance at all.
The video quality was kind of crappy, but I didn't need high definition to see that the guitar was way too big for him. He looked young, probably a freshman, with long, platinum blond hair pulled into a bun. It complimented his "hipster" glasses. Everything about him screamed "indie rock", but his voice sang the blues. He also had a slight accent I wasn't able to pinpoint.
Decent, I suppose. Malik replied.
Andreeeeew. Elijah said. We're waiting on you.
Why can't we just wait until tomorrow?? I asked.
Afraid you won't measure up? Malik, of course.
I stopped myself from calling him a number of inappropriate things and instead made my way back to the closet.
I recorded three different songs and ended up deleting them all. I finally decided on "What Makes a Man" by City & Colour. The song meant a lot to me-- maybe because I found it during a time where it could have easily been the theme to my life.
I let the camera face the floor as I played, and tried to ignore the memory of studio mics and my dad's voice in my headset snapping, "Again."
I sent the recording without reviewing it. Happy??
I didn't wait for any replies. I stripped out of my school clothes and burrowed into my bed, right into my nightmares.
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