Two high school misfits who hate each other. One music competition where they have to work together. Can their love of classic 80s rock unite them?
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High...
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Side A: Mitzi
I don't know what I was expecting Oz's dad to look like. Ozzy Osbourne? An aging hippie with a tie-dye shirt and long gray hair? A motorcycle gang biker? I was not expecting a man in a very worn college sweatshirt and pajama pants, with a full head of hair the color of hay—Oz's hair color—and wire-frame glasses.
"Dad, this is Mitzi," Oz says after opening the back passenger side door.
It takes me a minute to realize he's holding the door open for me. "Oh, thanks," I say. Oz moves around to the trunk to stow his guitar and amp. "Nice to meet you, Mr. um... Mr..." I've blanked on Oz's last name. I know it starts with an H.
"Mr. Um. I like that," he says.
"Oh my god, Dad," Oz mutters, hurling himself into the front passenger seat. He clicks on his seatbelt and twists around. "You know my last name is Harrison, right?"
"Yeah, of course."
"You can call me Mr. Um," Mr. Harrison says.
"You can call him Richard, Dick for short," Oz says.
My eyebrows shoot up. I can't imagine making a joke like that with my parents.
"My name is John. You couldn't come up with a toilet joke?" Mr. Harrison winks at me in the rearview as he pulls away from the curb.
I can't help it, I'm laughing. "Don't encourage him," Oz tells me. "His dad-joke game is strong. It will crush you."
"So are you in the Flying Pickles, too?" Mr. Harrison asks.
"No," I say, at the same time Oz says, "Flaming Pickles, Dad." Then he adds, "God, why am I correcting you? The Flaming Pickles are no more. I'm picking a new name. A way cool name."
"Anything would be better, frankly." Mr. Harrison makes a turn that throws me against the door. "I take it Mr. Pickles is out of the band?"
"Yup. And everyone else, basically."
"Hmmm."
I don't mention Shawna. Oz doesn't know that she has no intention of being a lead singer. I wonder if that would have helped things back there, or if Oz was looking to break away from his band. From what I saw, they weren't exactly on the same page. About anything.
"I have a lead singer," Oz says next, and I cringe. "I'm sure I can find a few more band kids to fill it out. All I need is a drummer, really."
"Ah, like the White Stripes," Mr. Harrison says.
A dad who knows who the White Stripes are? I can't even begin to imagine what Oz's mom is like.
"Exactly."
A few more turns and we're at Oz's house. Oz insists on carrying in the amp, so I shove my hands in my pockets and follow him inside. The TV is blaring an episode of "Game of Thrones" and Mrs. Harrison is on the couch under an afghan, sewing. She also has wire-rim glasses, and her light brown hair is piled up on top of her head with a pencil stuck through the knot.
