Angels Wear Blue Jumpsuits

Part 8

The year that passes from that evening is both new and frightening. College is like the older sister of high school– no longer a child but not quite an adult– and still prone to tantrums. For music, I had a 'performance' class. We were split up into groups of five, consisting of a vocalist, guitarist, bassist, drummer and keys/piano player. My group had six because we had a surplus of people majoring in vocals, so I shared the microphone-spotlight with another girl– Charmaine.

The Latin origin of her name means 'a singer' but she never lived up to it. Not for any lack of talent, but our group was always last to practice because we spent fifty per cent of our time waiting for Charmaine to show up. Her excuses were always interesting to hear:

'Sorry, I got into a fight.' 'Sorry, I lost my sock.' 'Sorry, mum hid my marijuana.' 'Sorry, I was pegging a guy.'

That last one was my favourite. But I knew what she was actually doing– painting. I caught her with a brush in her hand more than I did a microphone. And as amusing as her excuses were to begin with, her malcontent soon began affecting our grades. Not only were we individually marked for our performances, but we had a group grade to be mindful of. 'Teamwork makes the dream work', and Charmaine made it a nightmare. Soon, she not only didn't show up to practice but actual live performances. I had to learn her parts last minute to cover for her, but the group grade was still the same at the end– a D.

Charmaine was known for her fiery temperament and had about the same reaction to being scolded as a two-year-old would. The other four in my group didn't have the stones to look her in the eye, let alone berate her for letting the team down.

There was Marc– the bassist, the eldest, a later-in-life college student at age thirty-five, and a big softie that went with the flow, even if that meant getting stood on.

Mickie– the drummer, another older student, couldn't hold a beat on the drums to save himself but he had passion, at least. He saw Charmaine as a little sister and as often as he did try to make her see her ways, flawlessly failed.

Keiran– guitarist, Mickie's younger brother, cute, very cute, but had anger problems and when he exploded at Charmaine she exploded right back. Nothing ever came of it.

Michael, or as we all called him, Hawkeye– piano player, the youngest, barely seventeen, quiet guy, incredibly deep thinker and very talented at his instrument. We called him Hawkeye because Hawks was his surname, and saying 'Michael' and 'Mickie' often made both of them look up. Like me, Hawkeye enjoyed a wide range of music and was open to most genres. But the complicated one of Charmaine? He couldn't wrap his mind around her.

Which left me– the middle child.

I did the logical thing first– approached one of our performance tutors about the situation. He could empathize with our issue, but at the end of the day, it was our problem. Disagreements within music groups are a very real, very common thing and often cannot be sorted out via management. He sent me away, encouraging me to think of our own approach to fixing it.

I was so pissed off that week. Why the hell was it my problem? Why was I responsible for patching up a hole that I had no part in creating?

"It's bullshit," I grumbled, slouching in a seat inside the practice room, "she should just be failed."

"Maybe," Marc said, tuning his bass, "but I don't think this is the result the tutor wants for Charmaine or us."

"Then why don't you talk to her?! You're the oldest, she'll listen to you!"

"I think being the oldest is exactly the reason she doesn't listen to me," Marc smiles his three decades of wisdom, "I'm too close to her dad's age– she doesn't take me seriously."