Band Fags! (30 page)

Talk about disgusting! The thought of smearing the same greasy white goo used on an infant's ass all over my lip does not make me a Happy Camper. But later that night, I go home and before going to bed, do as Mrs. Reese advised…Two days later, I happily discover my herpes has completely vanished. Two days after that, I prepare to take MSBOA State Band Festival by storm—along with my fellow Band Fags!

Which we totally do…

Straight I's across the board. Even in Sight Reading. The 1986–87 Viking Wind Ensemble is clearly the Best Band Mr. Klan has ever had the pleasure of directing. Which is exactly what he tells us once we've piled into the official yellow School Bus en route to the Holidome in Fowlerville where we're staying overnight.

“I just want you to know how proud I am of all of you,” Mr. Klan gushes. I swear, he looks like he's going to cry. That's how choked up he's getting. “I will never
ever
forget this group.” Then he takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes.

“Mr. Klan rocks!” one of the guys shouts out over the hoots and hollers of the forty-three other rambunctious musicians. When I turn around, I realize it's not a guy…It's Luanne Kowalski.

“We love you, Mr. Klan!” Ava and Carrie add in unison.

At which Mr. Klan weeps like a baby. “I love you, too.”

I can't even tell you how totally ashamed of myself I am at this moment. Despite what anybody like stupid Bobby Russell might say about him, Mr. Klan's never been anything but kind and supportive to me and Brad these past two years. So what if he's over 35, never been married, and probably is gay? It doesn't mean he's not a nice person.

As much as I complain that I hate being in Band, I really don't. At least not when I'm playing during a Concert. Especially at Festival. In case you're not a Band Fag yourself, how can I explain it? It's a lot like Sports. All these different players forming a team, coming together for the exact same purpose—to do their best and win. As the Section Leader, I'm like Captain of the Trumpets. There's an incredible amount of pressure that I don't think the other non-Band Fags can understand or appreciate…Especially the Jocks.

Why can't they understand how challenging what we do is, and how much Effort and Dedication and Team Work it takes? Does Tom Fulton really think he could maintain a perfect 45° angle while pinwheeling around a corner
and
playing a Sousa march at the same time? Does he even realize how much work it is keeping your elbows out and your knees up? Maybe if he'd give it a try, he'd see what I'm talking about! Besides, without Band Fags at football games, can you imagine how boring Half-Time would be?

I don't know why I ever thought things would be different once I got to high school. It's pretty much been “same shit, different day” since Day One. If you're not a Jock, you're not Popular. And there's no way you can possibly
become
Popular without being a Jock! God forbid you should actually have some Artistic ability and want more out of Life than to graduate, get married, and squeeze out a couple of kids. Which is what I'd say 90 percent of the guys who go to Hillbilly High will eventually end up doing—mark my words!

But as they say…
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!

Ever since I can remember, I've had this image in my mind of what being in high school is
supposed
to be like. Making “Top 25.” Spending Spring Break in Daytona Beach. Going to parties—other than my own.

Like in the movies and on TV.

Is it my fault if for once in my life, I want to be Popular? Don't I deserve it just as much as the others do? Lord knows, I'm better looking than most of the so-called Popular Guys. Why shouldn't they all want to be
my
friend?

Come this time next year, I
will
be Popular—no matter what. Which is why I've vowed to devote more time to making that happen…And less to being a Band Fag.

A few weeks later, I inform Brad of my plan…

“We've been in Band since 7
^th
grade,” he says when I Drop the Bomb. “Why would you wanna go and quit our Senior year?”

“I'm just kinda bored with it,” I confide. Then I add, “You know how much I hate playing at the football games
every
Friday night…And I'm sick of being called a Band Fag
all
the time.”

To which Brad replies, “So am I…But you don't see me quitting.” Then he says, changing tactics, “Luanne's graduating and going off to college in the Fall.” “She won't be here to boss us around anymore.”

“I know…” Still, I'm not changing my mind.

“Marching Band won't be the same without you…You know what I mean?”

Now I feel bad. So I tell him, “I'll think about it.” Though as much as I don't want to abandon Brad and Ava and Carrie, my mind is pretty much made up.

Turning down the alley behind Taco Bell on our way for lunch, Brad says, “Please do…I don't wanna be a Band Fag anymore if you're not, Jack.”

Stepping inside the faux-stucco building, it's all
Brady Bunch
kitchen orange and brown. We join the massively long line of Hillbilly High-Ons, bound and determined to cram down as many Taco Bell Grandes as they possibly can in twenty-two minutes.

“Maybe I can spend the night this weekend?” Brad says, looking up at the menu. “It's been a while…”

It's also been a while since he and I fooled around. I can't tell if this is Brad's way of hinting to me that he wants to again. Even though I'm usually the one who initiates things, I've been thinking maybe it's not such a good idea anymore.

Which is why I tell him, “Maybe…I'm not sure what I'm doing yet.” Then I order my usual bean and cheese burrito, MexiMelt, and small pop.

“You're not mad at me, are you?” asks Brad, once we've carried our trays to an empty table in the corner.

I unwrap my burrito, apply some mild sauce. “Why would I be?”

Leaning in close, he whispers, “Ever since the whole herpes scan-jul, I just thought…” Then he trails off.

I tell him, “Don't worry about it,” taking a bite of my Taco Bell Goodness.

“So we're still Best Friends?”

“Of course,” I mumble, my mouth full of food.

Brad puts down his Enchirito, wipes off his hands with a brown paper napkin. Then he extends his right pinky finger. “You promise, Jack?”

At which point, I hesitate.

1987–1988

School is Boring, Sex is Great, We're the Class of '88!

As per tradition, the week leading up to the Homecoming Game is officially known as “Spirit Week,” with the Big Dance taking place on Saturday night. Why it has to be held in the cafeteria, I don't know. All I know is…I tried convincing our Senior Class President, Jamie Good, aka Jamieleeann Mary Sue, that we should have it in the Gym for a change. Like they do in the movies and on TV. But nobody ever listens to a word I say.

The festivities kick off on Monday with College Day—dress in your favorite college paraphernalia. Tuesday, Sunglasses Day—sport your shades indoors. Wednesday, Unisex Day—which might as well be called “Opposite Sex Day” as all of the Jock Jerks like to use it to get in touch with their Feminine Side and come dressed in Drag. Thursday, Shoe Day—wear two different ones. And Friday, Maroon and Gray Day—which means Jocks in cool Varsity jackets and Band Fags in pathetic Marching Band windbreakers…But not this year!

At least not for
me
as I am officially no longer a Band Fag…HOORAY!

Believe me, I thought long and hard about it. Coming to the conclusion that…What do I need Band for? It's not like I have hopes of pursuing a career as a Professional Musician. And with my newly appointed position as Editor-in-Chief of
The Hazel Parker,
I've got my hands full with plenty of activities of the Extra Curricular variety.

Of course, Mr. Klan wasn't too pleased when I Dropped the Bomb on him back at the beginning of June…

The Band Room seemed unusually dark and quiet after school that afternoon. I don't know if it was because all the Seniors like Luanne Kowalski and Erin Ahrens were off at Stony Creek on account of it being Senior Skip Day. All I know is…I dreaded walking into Mr. Klan's tiny corner office where I knew he'd be working on report cards.

“Mr. Paterno!” he exclaimed when I poked my head in. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He closed his Grade Book, then offered me a seat opposite where he sat behind his gray metal desk.

“I can come back if you're busy,” I told him.

“Don't be ridiculous! I'm never too busy for my Star Trumpeter.”

In the two years he'd been my teacher, I don't think I'd set foot in Mr. Klan's office more than a handful of times. Unlike Jessica Clark Putnam's back at Webb, where Brad and I spent
almost
every single day after school. Behind his head I noticed the Michigan State diploma hanging on the wall, prompting my remembrance of the rivalry between Mr. Klan and Mrs. Putnam, who had gone to Michigan. Oh, yeah. I don't think I've mentioned…After we all graduated from junior high, JCP gave up her job as Webb Band Director to become a Principal at some other school somewhere. Of course, she kept the whole thing pretty hush-hush so none of us really knows where she ended up. Which is a darn shame, if you ask me. We all admired and respected her, and wish her well wherever she is.

But I guess it's keeping in line with the advice she gave me back in 7
^th
grade…

“Friends hold you back.”

Once I told Mr. Klan that I wouldn't be taking Band next year, he asked, “Does this have anything do with you and Brad?” Getting all serious on me. “Did you two have a fight or something?”

How the Hell did Mr. Klan know anything about me and Brad? Not that we were fighting or anything, 'cause we weren't. I just pretty much decided what was going on between us—physically—needed to stop. And the only way I could make sure it did was to start keeping my distance.

Mr. Klan said, “I was talking with Luanne the other day…” Then he trailed off.

I found myself staring at the wall of photos surrounding me, most being group shots of all the various Marching Bands Mr. Klan's directed over the years. But one in particular stood out from the rest…A college-age Mr. Klan stands beside a handsome young blond man, their faces sunburned from a day of parading on the Spartan football field. Arms around each other's shoulders, they grin for the camera. Even though there's
at least
a foot of space between them, you can't help but notice how close the two men are…connected.

“You might not think I remember what it's like being a Teenager,” said Mr. Klan finally. “But believe me…Some things never change.” He looked away, focusing on the far-off distant place adults call “Nostalgia.” Then his voice grew soft. “When I was your age,” he began, “I couldn't wait for the day I'd go off to college so I could start living my life…And you know what happened when I finally did?”

I looked down at my crossed ankles, noticing the black scuff mark grazing the left big-toe area of my penny loafers. I thought about the day Betsy Sheffield helped me pick them out last September. We rode the John R bus up to Oakland Mall, just the two of us. They were no longer my New School Shoes.

“I discovered that what happened in high school,” Mr. Klan revealed, “didn't matter anymore…The friends I made at State, they were my
real
friends. Those so-called Popular Guys—the ones who made fun of me because I marched in the Band—I never saw them again.” Then he added, with a sheepish smile, “Until my 10-year Class Reunion…By that point, they were all fat and bald!”

As much as I wanted to believe Mr. Klan, I didn't care. Maybe that's how
his
life worked out and he was happy with it. But this was
my
life we were talking about and I knew I had to do things
my
way.

Unfortunately, things aren't quite working out the way I had planned…

Okay, I realize I may not be the Most Popular Guy at Hillbilly High. I know I'm not in the A-crowd. But I'd say I'm definitely in the B. Maybe even B+. Despite what the Jock Jerks might say about me being a Total Fag, I'm friends with a lot of the Popular Girls. Like Betsy Sheffield and Marie Sperling. And Jamieleeann Mary Sue Good and Shellee Findlay. Now what I want to know is…If all of these Popular Girls like me, how come when they announced the 1987 Homecoming “Top 25” results,
my
name wasn't called?

I can't even tell you how humiliated I felt sitting there in the Auditorium that day shortly after Senior Year started. Out of all my friends, I expected
I'd
be the one to make The List…Guess I expected wrong!

Which explains why tonight is the night of my Senior Homecoming Dance and here I am at home, lying on my bed watching
Days of our Lives—
“Like sands through the hourglass”…

As much as I vowed I'd quit tuning in after Bo & Hope Brady sailed off into the sunset aboard the
Fancy Face
with their newborn son, Shawn Douglas, I got totally sucked into the whole storyline, “Who Killed Shane's Recently-Returned-from-the-Dead Wife, Emma?”. Not to mention, Melissa and her new Russian dancer boyfriend, Lars. And the Frankie/Jennifer/Glenn love triangle. I also figured, I've invested so much time already, why should I abandon
Days of our Lives
just because Kristian Alfonso and Peter Reckell did?

“Knock knock.”

I sit up and look over my shoulder as the flimsy accordion-style door to my bedroom slowly opens. Who do I see standing there, dressed in a fancy navy blue suit, complete with red tie to match his curly coiffed hairdo? None other than my so-called Best Friend since 7
^th
grade, Bradley Dayton.

“Hey, Jack…I was in the neighborhood so I thought I'd stop by.”

Being that I'm not in Band this year so we don't have any classes together, I've hardly seen Brad since school started a month ago. I've also been working a lot more at Farmer Jack's, so I haven't been doing much hanging out—with anybody. Including Ava and Carrie and Audrey and Max. Not even with Betsy Sheffield. By the way, you'll never guess who she's going with to the Homecoming Dance tonight…Would you believe, Tom Fulton? Don't even get me going on that!

I hit STOP on my VCR remote. At which point, I hear Alex Tribec say, “No, I'm sorry…The answer we're looking for is, ‘What is
Das Boot
?'” Then I get up and turn off the TV. “Well, don't you look nice?” I coolly observe.

“Thanks,” Brad replies, blushing. “I feel like a dork.”

He kind of looks like one, too, what with the maroon and gray “Top 5” banner he's got draped across his chest. Still, I say, “Nice suit.”

He brushes his hands over the lapels of the jacket. “I borrowed it from my sister Janelle's fiancé, Ted…It's a little big, huh?”

“No,” I tell him. “You look good.” Because, truth be told, he does. Like a Grown Up Man almost. No longer a Little Boy.

“I was wondering if you might wanna meet me after the Dance,” Brad tells me. “I thought maybe we could go down to the bar together or something.” By which he means the gay bar. Where I haven't been since the first time he and Luanne took me back in 10
^th
grade.

“Won't your date get pissed?” I ask, kind of snottily.

“What date?”

I say, “I thought Shellee Findlay was your Homecoming partner? Aren't you taking her to the Dance?”

“Please!” he scoffs. “Shellee's got a boyfriend…I'm going Stag.”

The last thing I really need right now is to be going out and getting drunk with Brad. Then ending up back at his house doing something we both will regret. “I don't think I'm up for the bar tonight,” I decline.

Brad frowns, disappointed. “Okay…Maybe we can go out next weekend, instead?”

To which I decide, “I shouldn't be spending a lot of money.”

“I can always treat you to a night out,” he offers. “It's the least I can do for my Best Friend.”

So I say, “Maybe…I don't know.”

We stand in silence a moment, Best Friends since 7
^th
grade, about to have it out for the very first time. Talk about tension filling the air! I don't even think a knife could cut it, that's how thick it is.

“You're not still pissed about the whole ‘Top 25' thing, are you?” asks Brad, taking a seat on my bed. “Why are you letting it bother you so much, Jack?”

I can't even believe he has the nerve to ask me that. “All I ever wanted since we got to high school was to be on ‘Top 25.'” I shouldn't have to repeat how much I think it's a crock of shit that the people who get nominated for Homecoming do
nothing
to support our school. For the first time in I don't know how long, we got a Foreign Exchange Student this year at Hillbilly High. Some guy from Sweden named Jens Andersson. For all of three weeks he's lived in Hazeltucky, and what happens? They make him an honorary Varsity Football player
and
he gets elected to “Top 25.”

“There are plenty of people who've gone to school in this damn town their entire lives,” I inform Brad, “and they never get
any
recognition.”

“Meaning you?”

“God knows I deserve it
a lot
more than those other guys…But because they're all Popular, people vote for them.”

He interrupts my rant. “Would you stop whining for a minute and listen to yourself? You know ‘Top 25' doesn't mean
anything
…Nobody cares if you're on the list or not.”

“Easy for you to say,” I spit back. “You're the one wearing the sash.”

Brad looks at me a moment. I can tell he's surprised by the spiteful tone in my voice. “You know I had nothing to do with the votes, Jack…I just about shit my pants when they called my name for ‘Top 5!'”

To which I scoff, “You weren't the only one.” I can't even tell you the shock I felt sitting in the Auditorium at the all-school assembly last week as Band Fag Bradley Dayton took his place alongside Homecoming King Tom Fulton, and the rest of the Jock Jerks' Homecoming Court.

Brad gets up and heads for the door. “My Mom's waiting for me in the car…I don't wanna be late.” Then turning back he says, “I thought you'd be happy for me…But you don't even think I deserve to be on ‘Top 5,' do you?”

What Brad doesn't realize is…People have been calling him names since 7
^th
grade. Just because they've stopped saying it to his face doesn't mean they're not still thinking it. So I say, “Haven't you ever seen that movie
Carrie?
”

I can tell he's had enough. And to be honest, I just want Brad to get the Hell out of my house and leave me to my
Days of our Lives.
But he's far from departing without letting me have it.

“Just because people don't like
you
, Jack,” he snarls, “doesn't mean they don't like me…We're not the same person.”

Talk about a mean thing to say! So I come back with, “You think those Jock Jerks at school really like you? Wake up!” The only reason they're even nice to Brad at all is because his sister Janelle is totally hot and they all want to fuck her. Which is exactly what I tell him.