The Van Pact

3: Valerie

"I don't see what your problem is with Gus," I changed the reed in my clarinet. "He's just a van. Sure, you can't do donuts in him, but-"

"It. It's a van. From the 1990s," Stevie twisted the mouthpiece of her trombone onto its receiver. "You used to have a Wrangler. It's a downgrade."

"In your opinion," I said.

Stevie's gaze fell on Mr. Lang's fluffy sideburns across the band room. Mr. Lang and his assistant band director, Ms. Wetzel, were scurrying around, taking attendance. There's about three hundred kids in our school's marching band. Attendance takes at least the first twenty minutes of band practice. I've figured out about five different ways of streamlining the attendance-taking process. I've never shared any of my ideas with Lang or Wetzel, though they'd be open to them. I like the fact attendance is horribly inefficient. Gives us more time to goof around. And since our band tends to win nationwide awards and gets invited to all kinds of parades and such, we don't have all that much time to goof around when Lang gets down to "serious business." And he takes any band-related business crazy serious. In fact, the whole school does. Not only do we have early morning band practice three times a week, but band itself is allowed to cut into our academic schedule. Every other day we have band practice instead of a first period class. On the days we don't have band, we have either gym, or health, or, depending on the semester and grade level, a study hall or some bullshit elective – I chose Yearbook.

It's a shame that Lang doesn't see the value in goofing around. You can learn a lot from goofing around. And from watching other people goof around. And do we have the opportunity. Our entire school is filled with four-thousand shitheads. Sure, we generally fail every standardized assessment the Pennsylvania school board tosses at us, and the more gentrified schools in our football league look at Linden Valley Central High as something between an inner city no-go-zone and a charity project. The reality is it's neither. Sure, nobody here is hugely rich, and some people have real-world struggles, but for the most part we do okay. We got air conditioning, and the last school building in our district to have asbestos in the walls and a rat-infestation was torn down and rebuilt last year. It isn't Flint, but it still gives you perspective. Every day -if you choose to pay attention- you get to see four thousand different ways life manifests itself here on our planet, and let me tell you from personal experience: life is deliciously weird.

Then again, not everybody chooses to pay attention.

Like Stevie.

"Are you ever gonna get the Wrangler back?" she asked.

"You should loosen up on Gus, he never did anything to you-"

I noticed that Stevie's face looked suddenly very pink. Her gaze dropped to her lap and she fiddled with her fingers. Then I saw Jesse Niemczyk slide into the empty seat in front of us and everything made sense. Jesse Niemczyk. 5'8. Drummer. Golden hair. Green eyes. Cool glasses. Not exactly my type (tall, dark, and handsome is more my speed), but Stevie's obsessed.

"Yo. Stevie, Valerie," Jesse nodded, "Carla and Jan were telling me you flipped your jeep." He set his elbow onto the back of his chair, put his chin on his palm, and looked fascinated at us.

"Can't confirm, nor deny," I said.

"My brother did that once," Jesse winced. "How'd you get out without a scratch?"

"Dumb luck for me, like always, but," I tilted my head in the direction of Stevie, "I owe Stevie something. I bruised up her forearm bad."

Stevie had pulled out her phone from her pocket and was very engrossed in a text message conversation we had last night. Christ. I was trying to give her an opening to talk to Jesse and she's reviewing our debate on whether it's better to be a Hufflepuff or a Slytherin. Better go nuclear.

"Steve," I enunciated slowly, "how's your arm?"

Stevie's eyes bounced up real fast and locked with mine. She did not look happy.

"What?"

"How's yo' arm?" I repeated.

"Fine." She peeked at Jesse for half a second and she was back to her phone.

"They didn't find anything at the hospital?" I asked.

"You went to the hospital?" Jesse lifted his eyebrows.

"Uhh," Stevie looked at Jesse, then at the ceiling, and then on to me.

Confident that Jesse's eyes were fixed on Stevie, I decided to give her directions. Take off your hoodie, I mouthed at her, show off your tits. I waved my hands over my bosom. For being as skinny as she is, Stevie's got great tits. Or great taste in push-up bras, I dunno. I haven't actually seen her tits in the wild.

"No!" Stevie said, louder than what made sense for an ostensible conversation about her trip to the hospital. She looked at Jesse, "I mean nah, I didn't have to go to the hospital. I mean, I did anyway, but it was fine. Nothing serious."

And the hoodie was still on.

Jesse smiled. Bless the boy. He turned to me and asked, "So, did you get a ride into school, or-"

"Padre and Madre are making me drive our sketchy old van until I learn responsibility. He's got curtains."

Stevie gave me the classic "shut-up" face. The one when her she tilts her forehead down and forward so that shadows form beneath her brows. The idea I got then almost gave me the giggles.

"I named him Gus," I continued. "Stevie thinks he looks like a child molester's van." I felt momentarily like a very bad person, as Stevie's pink cheeks turned red. But then I thought, nothing about what I've said is embarrassing. Gus is not embarrassing. Stevie needs to cultivate some damn confidence. So I added: "He does kinda makes me want to drive around town and offer strangers candy, though, so maybe she's got a point."

"Sounds like a hipster food truck," Jesse chortled. "You could sell artisanal salted toffees out of a child molester van, and call the business Sweet Irony." He held up his hands and spread out his fingers as he spoke.

Okay, I decided, he and Stevie would have beautiful babies. Much approval.

Just as I was about to throw Stevie back into the conversation by suggesting that she and Jesse be my sales lackeys, Lang flipped on and off the band room lights.

"Percussion! PERCUSSION!" He shouted, and a blue vein rose in his forehead. "I need percussion!"

"He's starting early this year," Jesse said as he stood up. "About to have a conniption on day one."

"Conniption," Stevie said out of nowhere, and chuckled. I think she'd finally worked up enough courage to attempt to flirt. Or what she thought constituted flirting. Jesse seemed confused. Smooooothhhhhh Stevie.

"Yeah," Jesse nodded at Stevie. "Well, gotta go." He pointed his blonde head toward Lang and the gathering percussion section across the room, "bye bro."

He shifted his gaze from Stevie to me, and threw up his hand in a little wave.

"Peace." I gave him a chin nod and then looked back at Stevie. Sweet Irony, I mouthed. You're gonna have beautiful babies.

Stevie stared mortified at me.

"He called me bro."

***

A/N: I'm baaaaaaaacccck :) for real this time. Updates on Fridays (and sometimes Tuesdays, because today is Tuesday). To make up for going AWOL, I've made today a bonus update: check out the next two chapters immediately following this one!