DON’T FLINCH
CELESTE BELTED OUT the final la la la’s of the song as best she could, trying to keep her voice steady and clear. Auditioning for a band was nerve-wracking enough, so the expressionless stares from the three college boys in front of her were not helping. She replaced the microphone back on the stand and took an awkward bow.
It was hard, she was learning, to move easily in a skintight catsuit, but she had felt it appropriate to dress the part. Or what she guessed the part would look like. The costume selection from the school’s drama department offered a finite selection from which to choose. She would return it, of course, since Celeste was not a thief, but she did feel slightly guilty about taking it without asking. The flyer that she’d taken from the rocker in Harvard Square didn’t spell out too many details on song or fashion choices, and she didn’t know much about “skate punk” music, so it had been up to her to package herself. The girl at the salon this morning had been all too enthusiastic about coloring Celeste’s hair neon red, and even though she promised that it would wash out soon enough, Celeste was not yet comfortable with the red spiral curls that kept falling into her eyes. Now that the backing track was off, the room was eerily silent.
The lead guitarist of Flinch Noggins rubbed his lips together for a moment and shook some lint from his flannel shirt. “Huh. What did you say the name of that song was again?”
“The song is titled ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.’ It was originally performed by The Band, but was made most famous by the talented Joan Baez,” she answered energetically. “You may have heard some of the Baez style in my performance, but I did try to put my own character into it.” She brushed her hair from her face and waited for a reaction. “I thought it smart to showcase my abilities in a song that conveyed strong political and emotional themes because many bands are driven by raw passions. It is a song about the Civil War. When the southern states were experiencing defeat. We have all experienced defeat and suffering, have we not?” In fact, Celeste knew that she was experiencing both right at that moment because not only was it clear that she was not about to be the next member of Flinch Noggins, but this catsuit had embedded itself between her butt cheeks in a truly uncomfortable manner. “I did not realize that the term ‘garage band’ was so literal and that bands do, in fact, rehearse their performances in actual garages. How… inspiring.” She glanced at the trash bins and the workbench piled with tools.
The drummer hit his sticks together and tapped his combat boots on the concrete floor of the garage. “Here’s the thing, Cecile…”
“Celeste,” she corrected him. “Celeste Watkins.”
“Okay, right, right. You’ve got a smokin’ look. I mean, you’re, like, seriously hot. But we’re hardcore, man, and that was all Joni Mitchell and stuff.”
She sighed. “Joan Baez. I do not know any of the popular skate punk songs, but I am a diligent worker and assure you that I could pick up your style very quickly.”
The guitarist shook his head. “It wasn’t even good Joni Mitchell, dude.”
“Joan Baez!” she said with frustration. But it didn’t matter. She walked stiffly to the dusty table by the door to gather her things. “Would one of you gentlemen mind lifting my bag for me? I have concerns about attempting to bend over in this outfit, lest I tear the seams. Or break a rib.”
All three band members shot out of their seats and rushed to her side. The bass player reached her first and gently put her bag over her shoulder. “You don’t seem like much of a skater chick. You know, with the weird song and the talking and all. You don’t really fit in here.”
“I just thought… maybe I could.” She took a few perilous steps forward on her spiked-heel vinyl boots. “I do want to thank you for allowing me this opportunity. Goodbye. I wish the Flinch Noggins great success. I am sure you will find a suitable lead singer in no time. I am terrifically sorry for having wasted your time today. This was indeed an egregious error on my part.”
Celeste hobbled out of the garage and made her way to the car. She fumbled with her keys in the cold November air. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, yet she was not feeling very thankful right now.
“Hey, Celeste! Wait up!” The drummer bounded over and leaned against the car. “You all right?”
“Did I leave something behind?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You looked kinda bummed back there.”
“I am just fine. I must apologize again. I should not have come.”
“Nah, don’t say that. You did your own thing. I admire that. I’m sorry this didn’t work out. I’m Zeke, by the way. I don’t know if we even told you our names.” The drummer finished securing his long hair into an elastic and held out a hand. She put hers into his and met his look. His brown eyes were friendly, and she found this disarming, especially since the band was clearly unhappy with her performance. “Don’t be discouraged,” he said.
“The audition process is just a process. It is not, I know, a guarantee of acceptance.”
“Look, you did a nice job, although this Joan Baez is not really our thing. She must be a cool chick, though, since you like her.” His breath was white in the night air. “I’m not sure what’s going on with this outfit, ‘cause it doesn’t seem very you—Hey, wait a minute! I know you!”
“You do?”
“You’re in my chem class! Oh my God, I didn’t even recognize you!” He laughed and clapped his hands together. “Cool switchover, man!”
“You are in my class?” Oh no, this was not good. “I thought you were all in college?”
“Aww, the other guys are, and they don’t like to advertise that one of us isn’t, you know? They don’t want a high school kid in their sick band.” He winked.
“Oh,” she said nodding. “Sick. Very much so. Yes, of course.”
“At the rate I’m going, I don’t even know if I’ll get into college, but whatever. I’ll just hope the band takes off.”
“I see. I am sure you will do just fine. The good news is that anyone who auditions after me will look even better than they might have otherwise.” She forced a smile.
“You’re being too hard on yourself.” Zeke crossed his arms. “I’m glad you tried out, and you should be, too. I didn’t know you had this side of you. You’re so studious at school. Like, totally in another league. But I guess we have something in common, huh? I feel kinda honored that you tried out, man.”
“That is a gracious attitude despite its being clear that I do not belong here. I do not have the talent that you have. This is not really who I am.”
“It must be some part of you.” He nudged her softly with his elbow. “Listen, it’s freezing out here, so I gotta go back in. But I hope you at least had a little fun?”
“It was an experience.”
“Cool. I’ll see you after break. Have a good Thanksgiving!” Zeke ran back to the garage.
It took ten minutes for the car to warm up nicely and to stop shivering. As she drove home, Celeste understood something important: Zeke had been nice to her. Really, genuinely nice. Maybe Dallas’ effort to reach out had been sincere after all. And maybe Celeste should have replied to her text. Maybe it was not too late? It was a risk she would take.
Celeste: Dallas, thank you for recommending that romantic story to me. I did read it, and I enjoyed it immensely.
A white lie was allowed on occasion.
So between Zeke and Dallas, there were now two people at her school who were speaking to her. Two was a rather small number, but it was better than none. Not enough reason to get overly giddy, but it was something. So despite her underlying sense of discouragement, she did feel slightly happy this evening.
Until she pulled up to her house off Brattle Street in Cambridge and saw her parents’ cars. And another unfamiliar car. What? The plan was to get home before her family did so that she would have time to shower and scrub her hair back to its natural color and then change into regular clothes. How was she going to explain this unexpected radical new look? Her good mood evaporated. She was, in fact, quite angry. And the catsuit wedgie had reached new depths.
Celeste got out of the car and slammed the door. Then she thought better of making any noise. If she were lucky, she might be able to sneak in the house and up the stairs to the bathroom where she could lather the shocking red out of her hair. She walked slowly up the steps to the porch. Coming home usually comforted her. It was a safe place, away from so many troubling situations. She wanted nothing more than to skirt inside undetected and reclaim some normality.
Even though the door shut relatively quietly behind her, her father must have heard something because his head popped into the hallway from the kitchen. “Ah, Celeste, you’re home. Wonderful. Someone is here—Oh, God. Celeste? Erin, come here. Something is going on.”
“What in the world is the problem, Roger?”
Celeste widened her eyes, silently begging her father to let her go up the stairs. Standing in front of him in this body-hugging catsuit was most embarrassing.
“Uh, I think Celeste wants to change first. Before she meets our guest,” he said pointedly.
A guest? What guest?
Her dad tipped his head toward the staircase and Celeste clopped across the wood floor, rushing as fast as she could in the impossibly high shoes. But just when she grabbed the railing, Erin’s voice raised another octave. “Celeste! Please come say hello.”
“As you wish,” she barked back. “I would be happy to meet this guest of ours! What a goddamn smashing delight!” With a toss of her hair, she lifted her head high and walked confidently, if not steadily, past her still-stunned father and into the kitchen.
“Language,” he warned in a whisper.
“Good evening.” Celeste waited for the reaction.
“Holy…. Ha ha!” Fantastic. Matt was here too. And not doing a smooth job of acting normally. “This is the best day ever.” He scooted his chair closer to the kitchen table and rested his chin in his hands, taking position to watch the scene unfold. “Hi, sister of mine. How was your day?”
Celeste glared at him. The smile plastered on his face was entirely unamusing.
Erin cleared her throat and swooped to Celeste’s side. If there was one thing Erin was good at, it was pretending nothing was amiss when everything was amiss. There was a slight shake in her words, but otherwise she sounded remarkably cheery. “Aren’t you colorful today?” Her fingers gripped Celeste’s arms just a little too tightly as she pivoted Celeste around to face the small love seat. “You have a visitor.”
There in front of her was a boy.
And she had seen him once before.
In front of Border Café.
Dear God, what was he doing in her kitchen? And on today of all days? She was finding it suddenly hard to breathe. Especially with his big blue eyes twinkling up at her, and his thick hair all messily pushed back from his face.
“This is Justin Milano,” Erin said.
She gathered whatever poise she could and extended her hand. “It is a pleasure to—Wait, what?” Celeste turned to her mother. “This is who?”