Beni Bands

Beni Bands - Chapter Eight

That scrap of paper spent most of the next week firmly out of sight. I wedged it straight between two books on my shelf moments after getting in the night of the concert. Things changed once the margarita daze wore off. Looking at it suddenly made me feel a bit queasy with a lethal concoction of confusion, anticipation and belittling self-doubt. I hoped to forget all about. Maybe find it again a few years down the line and gain a fun little anecdote of complete insignificance. But Justin’s text the next morning removed all chance of that happening. His text contained the same gleeful pride that I misplaced so quickly. The optimism didn’t even last me the train journey home.

I couldn’t let myself believe that my possession of that number was anything more than the product of one too many margaritas. No one ever honours commitments made in a drunken slur of words. And if I was being completely fair to him I would have chucked the mistake away immediately. That way he would be saved the effort of rejecting a delusional fan. In fact, if I was being fair to myself I would have chucked it away immediately. Save myself the unneeded humiliation.

At one point the scrap of paper even made its way as far as the waste paper bin underneath my desk along with the torn off Beni-Band. That was the lowest point in my conundrum. By the next morning the band and paper were entwined safely between two books on the shelf again. Despite all my doubts, carelessly chucking it away seemed like self-destruction on a near psychotic level. It wasn’t the sort of opportunity you just gave up hope on. It didn’t really matter how slim my chances were.

Justin was bound to absolute secrecy on the matter. I couldn’t have anyone else knowing. The thought of other people sharing the joke of my delusions burned at my cheeks with the imagined embarrassment.

And yet no matter how far I wedged the evidence in between those two books, I couldn’t silence its draws. Even in my best attempts to ignore it I could still hear it beating out a reckless serenade. Pleading me to gamble with that ill-advised chance. The exhaustion of yo-yoing between bemused pride and flattery and critical self-evaluation significantly lowered my will power. And that explains the number of empty chocolate bar wrappers that began to fill up my waste paper bin.

I saved the number into my phone at least ten times; deleting each entry within seconds. Once or twice I placed it under a surreptitious alias, most times it went under ‘Alex’ and then there was the one time I got drunk enough to put it under ‘Al’.

Justin kept telling me that I was mad to ignore it. And I suppose he was right. The longer I left it, the worse my problem became. Now I was faced with the additional dear of receiving a puzzled ‘who the fuck is this?’ in response to any attempt to rekindle communication. Justin petitioned me around the clock. Trying to trick me into gaining some self-confidence on the matter and filling my head with nonsense illusions of Alex waiting night and day by his phone for my reply. I didn’t have enough vanity or sheer stupidity to let myself believe that version of events even for a moment. All his pleading achieved was my growing suspicions that Justin could be a monumental dick when he wanted to be.

He was over now. The scrap of paper in his hands. Spewing the same tired nonsense about wasting perfectly good opportunities, being scared over nothing and the need to stop worrying over the absurdity of saying the first word. I silenced each complaint with a thoroughly unimpressed glare. But the closure of subject would only last a few minutes before a new line of fire was opened up and let loose.

“You don’t even have to ring. A text would do.”

I’d heard the same sentence five minutes earlier. It had the same lack of impact the second time round as it did the first.

“It’s not the medium of communication I’m concerned about.” I didn’t bother with eye contact. Besides my gaze was firmly fixed on the application of varnish to my nails. “Is this colour to bright?” I asked moments after. My diversion tactic was painfully obvious, but still felt worth a try.

“Its yellow of course it’s bright.”

“I mean is it garish? Too much?” My painted hand now held outstretched for his consideration. He gave me a look to suggest that he couldn’t care less about my chosen colour palette. And within moments my thinly veiled attempt to conjure a new topic of conversation fell pathetically dismantled at my feet.

“What’s the time?” Justin asked after a few passing beats of silence.

“I don’t know.”

“Check on your phone.”

“I can’t. The polish is drying. I don’t want to get it everywhere…” my sentence trailed off on witnessing the sudden change of expression of his face. I was rendered immobile by the wet nail-polish. Giving him all the opportunity he needed for sabotage. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

My warning didn’t get me anywhere. He lunged for my phone and typed in the correct passcode in moments. Sending an internal note through my mind to never trust Justin with my passcode ever again. I made a grab for the phone, but didn’t get very far with the cautious and delicate pincer movement. He was able to save the number without much effort.

“Just one text,” he said over his shoulder. All I could do was flail my hands in the air. Hoping that the polish would magically solidify.

“Justin.” My voice was terse with furious warning. “Justin!” This time raising my tone in the hopes of making a dent in his indifference. “JUSTIN!” All concern for preserving my nail varnish disappeared. This time I lunged with intent. Not caring that the yellow gloop was now smeared over both our hands and arms. I didn’t even care if it got on the carpet. My parents would get over it eventually. The tussle was growing increasingly frantic until finally Justin released the phone into my grasp.

The little speech bubble now permanently engraved in my text history solidified my fate.  

‘Hey’.

Colour flooded into my cheeks. I couldn’t work out if anger was the source or the shame of daring to take advantage of drunken over-enthusiasm. It wasn’t even clever or inspiring. I didn’t have a magic ice breaking. Just a plain, unimaginative greeting. In my rare dalliances with the idea of texting I had imagined something a little more ambitious. It was only half-two meaning I couldn’t pass it off on alcohol. But claiming to have gotten the wrong number was a viable option. It’s not like he would be able to tell it was me.

Justin and I both stared at the screen. My eyes searing with detestation at the little ‘delivered’ tick at the bottom of my text. Seconds, that felt more like minutes, dwindled by. I counted twenty before giving up and allowing myself to fall into the still silence.

“See, he isn’t going to-”

“Give him chance,” Justin said; cutting me of instantly.

I would just snatch up the phone and text back ‘sorry wrong number’ if any reply came. A quick solution to all my problems. I would then make a quick change to my phone’s passcode and find a new favourite band; maybe even a new identity. Then life could resume to normal. This was just a storm in a tea-cup and it would all blow over. The reassurances rang empty in my panicked thoughts. But I had hope they would grow more solid with time.

I was about to give up waiting and give Justin hell. My eyes even flicked away for a moment. But out of the corner they detected the change. The little speech bubble in the corner of the screen with a line of ellipsis indicating an approaching reply. My respiratory system nearly failed me out of the shock. Even Justin, despite all his earlier assurances, seemed astounded. I wasn’t given any time to adjust. It was on my screen within seconds. A real actual reply.

‘Beni- Band girl?’