Archives: April 2-April 8, 2006

April 2, 2006

“You know, that's only the second time in the history of the group we've won a best soloist award,” Veronica says, turning to Emma and I in the backseat for a moment. “And the first time I've seen somebody win that award after someone else did the same song earlier that night.”

Emma smiles, content but exhausted, her head on my shoulder, my arm around her. “And to think—you wanted to change the set last minute.”

“What can I say? I shouldn't have doubted you.”

I don't know that anyone in our caravan of cars got more than a few hours of sleep last night. The rigors of the first round complete, even Veronica relaxed. We went through bottle after bottle of wine in one of the hotel room, celebrating The Off Beats' first place finish.

Now, the whole crowd is tired, Veronica wearing dark sunglasses despite the gloom of the day. “Of course, it served the assholes right,” she goes on. “I was telling some of the girls, but I don't know if I mentioned this to you. I used to date Jimbo—one of The Sidewinders. I had mentioned our set list to him before the show, and then his group still does ‘Falling.'”

“Wait, so they were trying to sabotage you?” I ask.

“Hard to say. They might have been—they knew last night's winners were going to be performing against them in the semifinals, so they may have been trying to psych us out.”

“Why would they do that?” Emma yawns.

Veronica smirks. “They play to win. When we did make it to the second round, they beat us on their way to the finals. I should have known better than to tell them anything.” She pauses, looking back at us again. “Not that it matters anymore. There's no way they're bringing “Falling” to the second round against us.”

The second round is two weeks away. Soon enough, Veronica will be planning again, considering shuffling the set to position “Falling Too Deep” in the middle, maybe toying with some of the choreography on the second song. But for now, she's at peace, the mission accomplished. She slumps in her seat and soon both her and Emma are asleep.

April 3, 2006

Leaving the dorm on my way to the newspaper office, I run into Dave outside in his pea coat, one hand buried in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette..

“Again?”

“Ah, you know what they say—quitters never prosper.”

I shrug. Dave didn't come home last night, and this is the first I've seen him since Friday morning. “Good weekend?”

Not bad. “You remember Ariana?”

“Can't say that I do.”

“Yeah, not sure you met her,” Dave says, exhaling a cloud in front of him. “Anyway, saw her at this rally I went to in town this weekend. Had a good time, then had a good time after. Broke out the guitar for her.”

“The guitar?” The guitar has sat in our room since August and I don't think I've seen Dave touch, much less play it more than five times all year.

“Quitters never prosper.” Dave smiles. “Ariana liked it, and one thing led to another.”

“Not sure I need the details.”

“Well let's just say I'm thinking about picking up the guitar a little more often. Forgot where it could get you.” He takes another drag. Somehow, he looks older there, windblown hair, cigarette in hand. “How was your weekend?”

“Good. The girls won the competition.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they were really on. Emma blew them away with her solo.”

“Good for her. Too bad the song still sucks.” We both laugh. “So I don't suppose you had time to do the reading for Brit Lit while you were away?”

I shake my head. “Gonna try to get it done whenever I get downtime in the office.”

“Ah right, your soul belongs to The Window now.”

“Yeah, I'm on my way there.” I sigh. “You know, funny thing is that we call it The Window but there's not a single window in the office.”

Dave chuckles, casting off his butt. “Have fun, buddy. Don't work too hard.”

We clasp hands. “See you later.”

April 4, 2006

Professor Jones is a different kind of teacher. “Run!”

At his order, the classroom rumbles into chaos, people running in all directions, some in circles, as Jones stands on a table at the front of the room watching. I just avoid a collision with one of the guys who never says anything, pivoting to my left. Dave isn't so lucky—dodging a girl, running into one of the guys. They both stumble, hitting into more people.

“All right, enough! Halt!” Jones calls above the thunder of racing feet and laughter. “Everyone take your seats.” Jones, in his black slacks, black vest and pea green shirt, the top three buttons undone, walks around the room as we all return to our regular spots. We shuffle along with more than one grumble, reminding me of kids called in from recess to return to their classes. “Now, it may seem that I had you running around purely for my own amusement. And that certainly was a large part of it. But can anyone guess why else I asked you to do that?”

“It mirrors the beginning of the play,” Nick says, sitting up very straight in his chair. “In Doring's dream, everyone is running in the street, all going in opposite directions.”

“Very good,” Jones says. “As Nick so astutely points out, you were all thespians just then, acting out the opening of The Shimmering Line . Which brings me to the reason why I had you act it out.” Sitting down at an open desk, Jones lifts a copy of the book from Valerie, sitting next to him. “This is the one play that we're reading this semester. It's important to observe that difference, because you have to keep in mind that plays are meant to be performed. You have to picture it all playing out, all the more so than you do with a novel. And you have to keep in mind that writing action and the scene aren't entirely fleshed out, because the playwright had to leave something for the director to take care of.

“With that in mind, I am going to inform you now of an option you have. As those of you who are upperclassmen may be aware, each spring I like to put on a staged reading on the quad, bringing free theatre to the masses. This year, I'm opting to have this class do the job.” Jones puts up a hand as a series groans unfurl. “Wait, wait. The play is optional. But, if you do decide to read in it, you are exempt from writing the final paper. So take some time to think about it. In the meantime, let's get on with the play.”

April 5, 2006

“Presto, what's the hold up?”

I knew my first Wednesday night as an editor was going to be rough. The paper comes out each Thursday, meaning that Wednesday—the last night before going to press—is the ultimate trial for a new editor. Sam warned me to expect a late night, which I figured would mean midnight , maybe 1 a.m. I never stayed later than 11:30 when I was training with Sam.

Besides the writing and layout work, each section of the paper goes through three sets of proofreads. The copy editor reads it. I put in the corrections. The managing editor reads it, I put in corrections. Sam reads it, I put in the final corrections, save my file accordingly, and hope it'll look all right in print the next day.

It's creeping up on midnight now, my section just got through first reads.

“It's coming along,” I say, my hands flying across the keyboard, fixing spelling and grammatical errors, polishing the layout. It's a surprise to see just how many typos Carl had in his article this week, and a part of me wonders if he was setting me up.

“All right,” Sam says, walking behind me. “Take your time on it.”

“I thought you were asking why it was taking so long?”

“Yeah, but there's no point in rushing and putting in more errors that you're just gonna have to fix later.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “And besides, it's gonna be a late night, any way you cut it, so relax. This is a learning week, not a speed week.”

It's not so much Sam I'm worried about. Carrie waits in the wings, to have her crack at editing the news. Whereas our new editor in chief believed in me from the start, I'm pretty confident Carrie voted against me. She's one of the ones I have to win over—her and anyone else who doubted my ability to run this section.

As Sam walks away, I take a deep breath, and keep plugging away.

April 6, 2006

As the feedback dies down from one Directionals song, the front man walks up to the microphone. “You still all having a good time tonight?”

I want to yell back, “No!” but think better of it as everyone around me cheers and squeals. The gym at Taylor College is packed tonight for this emo concert, brought to us courtesy of Alan Chilling's scheming when he was still SA president. I almost feel as though this crap concert is his last slap in the face the student population.

It doesn't help that I'm tired. In fact that may be where the worst of my attitude is coming from. We didn't make it out of the office until 3 this morning and only ended up getting about four and half hours of sleep, followed by a day of classes, coming up with story ideas for next week's issue of The Window , and then going to the staff meeting. And here I am tonight, miserable and achy from standing for the last three hours while Emma dances and sings along to most songs.

The band is already three songs into its encore. “All right, we've only got one more song for y'all,” the lead singer goes on. “I think you all know this one, so feel free to help me sing it.”

The next song is an obvious pick and yet the girls still scream and jump up and down upon hearing the opening chords of “Falling Too Deep.” Perhaps remembering that this song is more of a ballad, and they soon begin to dance a little slower. Emma's back is to me, and she takes my hands, so it's like I'm holding her.

For a moment, she feels good against me, her skin warm and smooth. I even like that faint smell of perspiration, the same way she smells after we've been making out for a while, or if we've been wrestling in bed. And I think about how she sang up to me last weekend at the competition.

Emma's singing again, but she's not looking at me at all this time. Now, she gazes up at the stage, just like all the other girls, at the little lead singer in his too-small t-shirt, with his tattoos and dyed, gelled hair. I know there's no point in being jealous of a pop star. Nonetheless, I'd like to let go of Emma, make my way to the stage and deck the guy.

 

Trying to hold down these dreams

‘Cause I'm falling too deep

April 7, 2006

I'm not having fun.

Dave was spending the night elsewhere last night, so Emma and I went there after the concert. I was annoyed with the crappy music and with Emma at the show, but when we got back to my place, we started making out and I sort of forgot about it. I unbuttoned her jeans, and started to slide my hand beneath the surface. Not a second later, she whispered, “No—please, honey. I don't want that tonight.” And so, we went to bed—her to sleep, me awake and annoyed enough that I actually got up this morning and went to my Friday class.

I didn't see her until tonight, when I met her and her roommate to go to this costume party one of The Off Beats and her housemates were having. I sort of copped out on the costume, wearing a hoodie and carrying sunglasses in my pocket, to pose as the Unibomber as he appeared in the wanted photos before they caught him. I feel like an idiot walking up the street with the two girls. Emma's wearing a cardboard box with holes cut in it for her arms and head. Half the box is painted black, and she's supposed to be a battery, while her roommate is dressed all in white, which I guess is supposed to make her look like salt—get it, ‘a salt and battery?'

Things pick up a little as we near the party. We can hear the music from a few doors down, and when we get there, there are about 10 people outside, smoking or hanging out with those who are. Making her way in the door, Emma maneuvers her cumbersome box around a girl in white mini-skirt, pink tank top and bunny ears, shivering in the night cool.

“I don't get that,” Emma whines as we get inside. “Why do girls have to make every costume slutty?”

“Presto!” Sam interjects himself, making his way through the impressive crowd. I'm glad to see him, goofy pirate outfit and all. “Didn't expect to see you here!”

“Yeah, same to you, man.” We clasp hands as he reaches us.

“So what's your costume?”

I slide on the sunglasses. “Unibomber—circa-mid-nineties.”

“Nice,” Sam regards me with the eye not hidden by a black patch. “Here,” Sam says pressing a red plastic cup full of beer to me. “I just poured this. We gotta get you drinking.” I chuckle and accept.

As Sam and I shoot the shit, Emma rolls her eyes, and heads of with the salt to get a drink of her own. I spy her talking another one of the Off Beats, who draws her in to sing along to the music. Emma's back before long, and finishes her beer before me, then goes off to get another without saying anything. Ordinarily, I might say something—she can't handle her beer so well. I'm not looking for a fight, though, and besides, I sort of feel like letting her make her own mistakes tonight.

*

Sure enough, Emma's feeling sick an hour down the road. While her roommate tends to her, I find myself face to face with Veronica.

“You've gotta pour it down the side of the cup,” she instructs a girl she's pouring a beer for out of the keg. Veronica's wearing a white dress with a plastic tiara. On most girls, it would probably look pretty cheesy, but she can pull it off.

“You mind filling mine up while you're at it?” I ask when she's done.

Veronica looks up and grins when she recognizes me. “You freshmen—can't do anything for yourselves.”

I shrug as Veronica takes my cup, pouring another one down the side, leaving just the traces of a head on my beer. We end up talking a little bit. Some guys in ninja suits come over, looking for beer, so we move away from the keg, and soon we're sitting on a staircase, a little apart from the rest of the crowd. She brings up the newspaper, actually complimenting me on how the news looked this week. That means something to me. Regardless of my new position at the paper, the most I heard from anyone outside the staff this week was the usual compliments on my article that people say automatically after they see the by-line.

“How things going with the girls?” I ask. “They ready for the second round next weekend?”

“Eh, as ready as they're going to be.”

“What's that mean? You guys kicked ass last weekend.”

“Yeah, but I just don't know if this group is strong enough,” she says, looking out at the party. “They're trying hard and everything, but I don't know if we have the talent to beat The Sidewinders.” Veronica shakes her head. “We might place, but unless they fuck up, we're not going to the finals.”

I take a sip from my beer. “You showed them up on Saturday. I mean you did the same song as them all of ten minutes later—and the crowd ate it up.”

“Yeah, but how many times is Emma going to turn in a performance like that?” She stops herself. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.”

“Na, go ahead. You're probably right. I mean, you know more about this stuff than I ever will, so I trust your opinion.”

Veronica smiles. In the dark and din of the party, the stink of beer all around us, she's still beautiful. “You know, Preston , you're not like other guys.”

I chuckle.

“No, seriously. You really listen when someone's talking, and you care—you can tell from the way you write your articles for the paper, and how detailed they are. And I can tell from how you talk to Emma.” Veronica pauses to take a gulp of beer herself. “I guess all I'm trying to say is you're a lot different from the kind of guys I date.”

“Well maybe you should tell them,” I say. “You're the kind of girl who a guy will change for.”

I turn and Veronica locks eyes with me. She has the most melancholy, longing look on her face—in that instant, not just a princess, but a damsel in distress. “I don't know if I've found one worth changing. I mean the closest thing was Jimbo—that asshole from The Sidewinders. Even when it seemed like he cared—all he really cared about was himself.”

I look away, and smile. “Well fuck that. I mean, what's the point of being involved with someone if that's how it's gonna be?” Turning back, Veronica's still got that same look, her eyes gleaming.

Out of the corner of my eye, I look past Veronica. I peer through the spaces in the posts of the wooden banister, out at the party. I can see Emma and her roommate. Emma has the box off and has a hand over her stomach. Her eyes are fixed on the ground, while her roommate is looking around. I suppose she's looking for me, and I think about calling out to her.

I don't say a word. I don't move. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Emma and her roommate leaving. In front of me, I see Veronica close her eyes. It's like there's a heavy wind, blowing at her back as she glides toward me. I close my own eyes

Her hair smells amazing.

April 8, 2006

I open my eyes, and nothing's familiar. My head is on a fluffy white pillow, and there's a white teddy bear by my face. I have an arm around me, but it's a shade darker than Emma's, beside the fact that it's longer and a little more muscular. Looking behind me, I see a plastic tiara on a dresser, jolting me into reality.

I turn with a start, to find Veronica lying next to me. She opens her eyes and smiles. Her hair is all spread out across the pillow and there's a tiny bit of crust in her eyes. I've never seen her like this. She says, “Good morning.”

My mind races, recalling the night before. Surveying the both of us, I note that she's wearing a navy blue tank top and white underpants. I'm still wearing my plain white undershirt from the night before, and my boxers.

It's bizarre—the mixed sensations running through me. At once, I want to jump out of bed, get my clothes together and leave behind a drunken mistake. Another part of me is unmistakably excited to be in Veronica's little bedroom in her apartment. As her bare leg, perfectly smooth, grazes mine, I'm more excited still. Veronica touches my faces softly with her fingertips, leans in and kisses me.

“Good morning,” I say back at last, and scratch my head. “I'm not sure I remember everything—”

“Well, don't worry. You were perfect gentleman. And you showed me a good time.” Her smile fades a little as her hand slips from my cheek to my chest. “And if you want to say that you were drunk, and it was all a big mistake, I'll understand.”

“No, no,” I say, maybe a little too fast. “I mean, I don't know what happened.” I rub at my eyes then take a hold of her hand. “But I'm happy to be here. That's not a mistake.”

Veronica smiles, but a bit more reserved than she did before. “You were worried about Emma when we got into bed last night. You were talking about her just before you fell asleep.”

“Oh man.” I remember Emma. I think of her—sick, her roommate helping her out the door. I should check on her. I look back up, at the shining red numbers of a clock radio beside the tiara. It's almost 11.

For all I know, Dave was home last night. He may be wondering where I am—especially if Emma came looking for me. And if she wasn't that sick, she very well may have stopped by after I disappeared at the party last night. Suddenly, I feel the need to go, and start to explain.

“I know,” Veronica cuts me off, putting a finger to my lips. “You have to go. Just come talk to me sometime, all right?” She pulls the finger back and kisses me again. We get up, and she ties a white cotton robe around herself while I get dressed. She walks me out, and I hurry to the dorm.