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: Oz
"The Outcasts," Dave suggests.
"Um, that's an Irish punk band from the seventies," Reece tells him. He doesn't even consult Google.
"Freak Show?" I ask. I glance over at Mitzi. "That's what Shawna called us."
"Maybe," she says.
Dave nods. "Yeah, I like it."
"We'd need to match our look to a name like that," I muse. "No offense, Mitz, but you're a bit preppy to be lead singer of a band called Freak Show."
She looks down at her jeans and plain green sweater and tennis shoes.
"Yeah, you gotta wear black and leather," Reece says, gesturing to himself and me and Dave. We're all wearing black t-shirts and dark jeans. Then Reece starts dancing around with his arms held out, elbows up, like a scarecrow. "One of us, one of us, gooble-gobble, one of us!"
He stops when he realizes we are all staring at him.
"Um, it's from the classic 1932 film, Freaks," Reece snaps, like we should all know this. He sits down behind his drum kit and folds his arms across his chest.
A few more suggestions are tossed out.
"The New Kids!" Dave says. "Reece is pretty new, too."
"I moved here freshman year," Reece retorts.
"Oz and the Munchkins," Mitzi says, laughing.
"No lie, that was the name of my band in fifth grade," I tell them.
"Dorothy and the Scarecrows!" Reece says.
"Dorothy and the Wizards!" Dave says.
"The Musicians of Oz," I add.
"Five Directions!" Mitzi says, and by now we're all cracking up.
"Hey," comes a voice from the doorway. It's a clone of Reece, only less punk and more grunge. Same slick black hair hanging around his face, same pale skin of someone who doesn't venture out of the basement very often.
"Hey," Reece says. "Guys, this is my brother Ryker."
"Our new base player!" I extend a hand to the Reece-clone and we shake. His palm is cold and sweaty. Awesome. I try not to let him see when I wipe my hand off after. "Great. So, we're pretty set on what song we're doing, but we're still working on a good name."
"Cool." Ryker's voice is a monotone. He pulls his guitar from its case and plugs it in.
"What about The Hangman Collective?" I ask.
No one says anything, but the grimaces are enough.
"The Losers," Mitzi says.
"But we're not losers," I protest. "We're gonna be the best band ever."
