Breakout (14 page)

“That’s just since Friday?” Valerie asks. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” I say. Still nervous.

“So, Anthony, you went singer-songwriter, I hear,” says Mr. Darren. He looks up at me with his usual friendly face. “I didn’t have a chance to listen to the tune yet, but Mr. Jones here tells me it’s pretty great.”

“I guess,” I say, quieter than I mean to, more again like I’m nervous, and I’m mad at myself because I should be confident! Fearless! But I’m breathing fast and feeling sweaty.

“All right,” says Mr. Darren. He plugs an audio cable into the tablet, then runs the line over to the PA and plugs in the red and white RCA ends. There is a pop as he makes the connection. He sits back down. “This one?” he asks, pointing to “Breakout.”

“Yeah,” says Keenan.

“Okay, here we go.” He taps it. The song buffers for a second, then starts.

Even though the music is coming out of the speakers beside us we are all staring at the player on the screen, watching the little bar slide left to right over the jagged-mountain shape of the audio waves.

When my raspy voice comes in, Mr. Darren nods slightly. “Nice melody,” he says, and I think,
Yes!
So far so good.

“That’s you?” Valerie asks.

“Yeah,” I say, and find her looking at me with a sort of inquisitive expression, not exactly awe but still it’s something. Like she’s seeing me different.

Except then she says, “Were you sick?”

Keenan cracks up.

“Um, no, just, I was trying not to let my parents hear me so I was under the covers.”

But then I can’t believe I just said that and sure enough Valerie looks at me like I’m a psycho. “You made this under your covers?”

“Well, sorta,” I say.

“You need privacy when you’re playing with your mic,” Keenan says with a huge grin.

“Shut up.”

But Valerie smiles.

The song moves on to the second and third verses over Killer G. “Interesting form,” says Mr. Darren. Again there is that little nod. Each one gives me a surge of relief but also
makes me more nervous for what’s to come. “Good lyrics, Anthony,” he adds. “Very honest. It feels true, which isn’t easy.”

“Thanks,” I say. More relief. “They just kinda happened.”

“Well, sometimes that’s the best way.”

The song moves into the Flying Aces section and now the countdown is on. “Cool,” says Mr. Darren as the new section begins and the melody picks up. “Such a good change,” he adds, nodding some more. Valerie starts to nod to the beat too. Keenan plays air bass.

But I don’t. Here comes the end. I shift from foot to foot and realize that I’m holding my breath and my pulse is racing and I have this urge to reach out and click Stop before it’s too late—

And then it happens.

My strange self from just three days ago, who sounds to me like some kind of alien or maybe an Allied pilot in his Grumman Wildcat radioing from somewhere beyond the Bermuda Triangle, lets loose and the three f-bombs tear over the song.

And then it’s over.

The speakers hiss silence.

Nobody says anything.

I glance over at Valerie but she is still looking down at the computer even though the play bar has frozen in place. I watch Mr. Darren’s brow crinkle. He’s still looking at the screen too. What are they thinking? Why aren’t they saying anything?

I can’t believe how much I’m freaking out and now I feel like I never should have written that stupid song and I never should have sent it to stupid Keenan. I’m mad at myself and at Keenan for posting it and all those crazy dreams seem so ridiculous now.

After five seconds where breathing seems hard, I finally say, “Yeah, so I guess I know what you’re going to say.”

Then Mr. Darren finally looks up at me. It’s a new expression: one part Mom-trying-to-read-me, but then one part Obi-Wan, like wondering if I’m ready to learn the ways of the Force and leave this stupid desert planet. He reaches up and rubs his chin.

“About what?” he asks.

“About the end,” I say.

He looks at me like he’s curious. “What about the end?”

What does he mean,
What about the end?
I feel more unsteady than ever. “The f-bombs.”

Mr. Darren nods. “Well, yeah,” he says. “Those happened. And there are things I could say. But what do
you
think about them? Clearly they’re on your mind.”

Of course they’re on my mind!
I feel like I have no idea but then I say, “Real bands get to do it.” But I immediately hate how that sounds like I’m whining.

Mr. Darren stands up. “Well, Anthony, every word a songwriter chooses should be for a purpose. Do you feel like you had purpose? Or did you write those lyrics just for the shock value?”

“No, I …” I have to think about that. It takes me a second and I try to think back to Friday night and to remember how I was feeling and I am getting so worked up at this point that my palms are clammy and my toes are tingling but then I realize that no, really no, I didn’t use the f-word just to use the f-word. In fact, as it was happening, I didn’t think about the fact that I was swearing at all. “I was just really angry,” I say. “And frustrated. I’d just gotten grounded and couldn’t go to Vera”—I flash a glance at Valerie as I say this—“and everything sucked and it just kinda poured out.”

Mr. Darren nods. “Well, so do you feel like the lyrics at the end of the song adequately reflect the emotion that you were trying to get across?”

I think for a second and then nod. “Yeah.” I point to the screen, meaning the song. “That was how it felt.”

“And
that
word was the most accurate way to sum up the emotions you were feeling.”

“Yeah.”

“ ‘F***’ was the best word,” Mr. Darren says.

It’s weird to hear him say it, like it’s just another word in the dictionary. Car, toaster, f***. It makes the unsteady feeling in my head get worse.

“Well, I … I mean, I didn’t think about it like that, it
just …” I am stammering like an idiot and a voice in my head is screaming,
Fraud!
but no … “It was what I felt,” I say, “like I was trapped and all I wanted to do was escape from everything and, like, I think any other word didn’t feel like
enough
.”

“Are you going to make him change the lyrics?” asks Keenan.

Mr. Darren shakes his head and his tone actually gets a little frustrated. “That’s not what this is about,” he says. “Well, not yet, anyway. Look, I’d be a hypocrite if I taught you about rock and roll or any kind of music, really, and then asked you to censor it.

“I think what you’re tapping into is an important feeling,” he continues, “of being trapped by powers that aren’t always in your control. There are a couple human responses to that, but the anger that you’ve expressed is certainly one of them. And to be completely honest, when I heard the end, I have to say I thought it really worked.”

Yes!
I feel relief like I am falling into a pool. “Okay,” I say, but what I am thinking is,
Unbelievable!!
Mr. Darren likes it. The song is right. I was right. My real emotions matter and the song works! My guts start to untangle.

“But,” says Mr. Darren, “I
only
think it works if what you just said is true. That you wrote those lyrics because they were the best way to express the emotion and sentiment that you truly felt, that you truly wanted to share with an audience. I mean, that’s the question an artist has to ask himself.”

“I did,” I say, though really I didn’t think about the
audience at all when I did it. But is the feeling true? Definitely! And also
Yes!
again, because Mr. Darren just maybe called me an
artist
.

But he’s still looking at me like he’s a detective. “And you weren’t doing it for laughs or shock value.”

“I wasn’t,” I say, and I really do feel as sure as I can be that I wasn’t. “I didn’t even mean to show it to anyone. Keenan’s the one who put it up on BandSpace.”

“ ’Cause it was so good,” says Keenan.

“And I didn’t even know about it until yesterday,” I say, “and now it’s this huge thing and we’re getting comments from, like, the Philippines.” I look at Valerie when I say this too, because I want her to know that, and I’m hoping she’ll look like,
Wow!
except actually she’s sort of gazing off into space, her face kinda blank. She hasn’t said what she thinks yet.…

But then Mr. Darren is saying, “There’s part of the Rusty Soles’
Behind the Music
, that’s for sure,” and he and Keenan and I smile.

“So, we can do it for Arts Night?” Keenan asks.

Mr. Darren’s smile fades. “Okay, so in spite of everything I just said, this is the tricky part.”

“I hate to say it,” says Mr. Darren, “but we’re going to have to ask Ms. Tiernan and the faculty.”

“What?” I say. “Why?”

“That’s not fair!” says Keenan, because he can already see like I can that asking
them
is going to equal a big fat
absolutely not
in about a second and a half. Keenan adds, “I know bands who are underage who play at Vera who have swears in their—”

“Yeah, but, Keenan, that’s the difference,” says Mr. Darren, and his tone gets a little sharper. “Arts Night isn’t Vera. It’s a school function, with a school audience of parents and teachers and younger siblings and grandparents.”

“What about Sister’s Secret?” says Keenan. “We saw them once and they were at the high school and they totally swore in like every song.”

“Again,” says Mr. Darren, “that’s high school. There’s going to be a little more freedom there for artistic expression, though I bet they had to clear it too. But for middle school—”

“We’re still treated like we’re just dumb little kids who can’t handle it,” I say, and I feel all that frustration that made the whole song happen in the first place returning.

Trapped.

No options.

Stalag.

“Hey,” says Mr. Darren, and he sounds a little frustrated now too, and I swear I catch a glimpse of that exhausted
adult look creeping back into his face. “If you go onstage next week and play this song just like it is now without the school and parents knowing it’s coming, you are definitely going to get suspended, and likely get kicked out of Rock Band altogether, so there goes the Spring Arts Night too. Not only that, since I knew about this song and didn’t say anything, I could get fired, and I really like this job. I really like you guys.”

He thinks for a second. “Listen, I’ll set up a meeting with the faculty, and I’ll be there with you and we can see what they say. I believe Anthony’s reasons for writing this song, and I think it’s worth explaining to Ms. Tiernan, but it runs up against a school rule, so that’s what we have to do.”

I hear what he’s saying, and yet I can’t help feeling like we have no chance. “Why don’t you just say no right now? That would be easier.”

“Because I think it deserves more than just a no,” says Mr. Darren. “I think it matters that you tried to capture a true feeling. At your age, I think it’s important to try to figure out the best way to express what you feel. I’d honestly like to have you perform this, and see what that feels like … but it’s not up to me.”

“But you know they’ll say no,” says Keenan, and he’s sulking now. “Every kid in school loves the song but they’re still going to say no.”

“Probably,” says Mr. Darren, “but you never know for sure. I’ll set up the meeting and we’ll see. Just be ready to talk about the song and what it means to you and the honest feelings
that led you to write it. If anything’s going to change their minds, that’s what it will be.”

“Okay.” I nod, and I think it sounds like a hopeless battle and we are going to be the Germans at Stalingrad, and there will be too many Russians, millions swarming over us across the frozen fields, and that
sucks
. It sucks that after all that’s happened with the song and the plays and the reactions from around the world and now even Mr. Darren believing in me that in the end it’s not going to matter and we’re going to be slaughtered.

“Don’t look so down, Anthony,” says Mr. Darren. “We can try. Though it’s not too late to go write a nice little song about love or cars or something.” He smiles at me.

“Lamborghini love,” Keenan jokes.

I try to smile but it’s fake. I risk another glance at Valerie, but she is still staring into space. It is killing me not to know what she thinks, and I’m fearing the worst.

“Okay, go get some lunch,” says Mr. Darren. “I’ll let you know when the meeting is.”

“Thanks.” We head for the door and Keenan is beside me but not Valerie. I look back and see her moving toward the drums.

“Mr. Darren, is it cool if I stay for a few and try some stuff I saw the Clones’ drummer do Friday?” she asks.

“Sure,” says Mr. Darren.

Valerie glances over at me. “I’ll see you guys later.” She smiles but I can’t help thinking it looks halfhearted.

“See ya,” I say, and I wave but she just starts slapping paradiddles on the toms.

The rest of Monday goes by and I can’t shake the nervous feeling in my gut about that meeting. And also I want to ask Valerie what she thought of the song but I don’t have a chance. She must not have liked it. She would have said something if she had.

I turn in my definitive list to Ms. Rosaz and leave class before she has a chance to look at it. Whatever she’d say, I’m not in the mood. Then school is over. As Keenan and I head outside, three little kids run up to us, probably fourth graders. They stop right in front of me. “Did you write that song ‘Breakout’ with the bad words?” they ask.

“Um,” I say, “yeah.” I glance at Keenan, and he cracks up.

“My sister says that’s her favorite song,” says one boy, “and that she thinks you sing hot.”

This makes some kids next to us crack up. I notice Skye look up from nearby, where she’s busy collecting signatures for Winky.

“Well, that’s cool,” I say. The kids are pushing closer to me. “Why don’t you talk to him?” I say, pointing my thumb at Keenan. “He’s in the band too.”

“What do you play?” one of the kids asks.