Oreo Ice Cream

Chapter 28| No means no

We were thirteen, in the first year of our junior high school,  when Tristan and a few others recently discovered that they had musical talents after winning first prize in a music competition in our town. It didn't take them long to start taking music classes from various teachers. There was a sudden buzz in our school from then on. Some were into violin, some into the piano (including me), but most students were interested in playing the bass and drumsticks and improving their vocals. Suddenly it felt like we were jumping on a trampoline like there was a carnival held with much pomp and zeal, and we were the mad hormonal teenagers screaming and jumping the life out of us.

Soon after, there was another revolution after discovering musical talents in our school. Literature. Definitely, my type. Stories, essays, plays, and poems flew around like colorful confetti on someone's twentieth birthday. Not the random things to write and throw, but something more profound and reflective. Our literary club wrote stuff and published it in the school magazine. Moondust and Metaphors. Rose, Gina, and I wrote the draft; Amy and James (the twins) edited our writing, and Kyla, George, David, and I gave the finishing touch and revised the whole thing. It was so fun; we spent hours — discussing several plots, writing, scratching and rewriting dialogues, arguing over tiny details, and finally submitting them to our Magazine editor. Teachers praised, students got inspired, kindergarteners admired, and we were proud, even though our parents never showed much interest in it.

Not long after that, The Yellow Sunflowers was formed at the end of that year. The typical boy band of our school — Blake, Luke, Earl, and of course, Tristan, our hot boy. They had excellent vocals and talent for playing several instruments, and their toe-curling looks and charming megawatt smiles were enough to melt everyone's heart away. Girls turned into their oh-my-freakin'-god-i-am-gonna-die-now state whenever the band boys passed past them. I loved their songs, though. All of us did. They started by doing covers of Elvis Presley, Goo Goo Dolls, Madonna, Nirvana, but mostly, The Beatles. I still remember how fantastic they sounded when they sang "Sun, sun, sun, here it comes," together in the summer camp and how loudly everyone cheered and clapped at them.

But they didn't remain a "boy band" long after I started writing songs for them. Mainly Blake and Earl composed the songs and made the melodies along with Tristan. After they realized they couldn't write powerful lyrics, Tristan approached me (because we were so close back then), and I was requested to work as their lyricist. Not a composer (for I did not know much about music, except for piano), but a lyricist. We had a long argument about it; I never wanted the two art groups to intervene with each other, but somehow it happened. I never wanted to be the center of attraction (or envy) for working in the boy band. Tristan promised to keep me a secret. They released their first song on YouTube, Count The Dreams. My first-written song and everybody loved it. Soon, with my permission, they announced that I was their official lyricist. 

Things had changed. Once everyone knew that Tris and I kissed when Tris was with Tara, the latter started rumors that I stole Tristan from her. Keyword: Stole. Unable to bear the constant glares, gossip, and whispers, I took myself off the literary club and the boy band. Surprisingly, not once did the idea of self-harm strike my mind. Not that it was a mere thing, but because it was unbearable and plain crazy. And since then, I never took into writing anything again. 

The only thing I knew was memories are too distant. I needed to bottle and keep them with me forever.

~*~

"And what d'you mean by 'join us again'?" 

My eyes flickered from one guy to another. I was sitting at The Steam Beans with the four guys. The cafe was a breathtaking riot of purple and magenta flowers; pink velvet seats were spaced around the beautifully carved tables, and the letters hanging on the walls and stuck to the flower vases spelled out creative "I love you, brew" quotes. The air held a heavy aroma of cupcakes and creams. The glass display counters had berry-filling cream cakes, ganache-covered cupcakes, blueberry tarts, and frilly cakes with roses on top of them — all showcased beautifully. This was the last place I wanted to be for a serious discussion.