Musically Rebellious

Prologue

As I sailed down the street on my bike, towards Marla’s house, I contemplated three things: what I’d be doing all summer, if it was too late to buy tickets for the new Tim Burton movie that would be coming out that weekend, and what I’d buy at the music store later that day. It wasn’t very often that they had a sale, and I wanted to take full advantage of the lower prices with the amount of money I had.

That’s a sentence that could have described me. So much music, and not enough money to purchase everything I wanted to listen to. It upset me more than anything to hear of a new release, something I’d been wanting for months, but I didn’t have enough money to buy. 

One day, I was going to make music of my own, and people would look forward to my albums, line up for blocks at midnight just to be the first to buy them, like Fall Out Boy and the All-American Rejects. 

One day, I’d meet them, too. If I was lucky, I’d already have my album out, and they could listen to them and know who I was before I introduced myself. 

I didn’t really have anything else going for me. I wasn’t particularly athletic or outgoing; my social skills could be rated a zero. I didn’t have many friends and I wasn’t open to new ideas. I liked spending my time alone, unlike most of the people I knew, and I couldn’t figure my way out of a bad situation if one ever came up. I never really spoke, but whenever music came into my life, I was a totally different person. I laughed, I danced, I was the center of attention without even knowing it. I loved it when music came on, any genre. It made me feel like maybe the world wasn’t so bad after all, and maybe – just maybe – I could live through it.

* * * * *

“Why don’t you try wearing this?” Marla asked me, holding up an orange dress that looked about fifty yards too long. “You’d look good in orange. Well, maybe not. But it’d be better than all that black all the time.”

“Hey, I wore teal today.” I defended, pointing at my skirt. “And white. I’m a fucking rainbow today, okay? See, I’m even wearing gray boots. You’re lucky to see me in such a state.”

“You really do love that outfit, don’t you?” Marla pondered. “You wear it at least once a week.”

“It describes me.”

“I’ve noticed.”

I threw a sarcastic smile in Marla’s direction and glared at the dress. “I’m not sure how you even manage to stand that thing. It looks like you’re a nun who rubbed herself with Cheeto dust.”

Marla rolled her eyes and shoved the horrifying dress back in her closet. “Okay. Obviously, you aren’t a fan of that one.” She dug around a little more and pulled out another dress, this one even worse. “Don’t worry, this isn’t for you.” she remarked upon seeing my face. “Would this look okay on me?”

I contemplated, trying to ignore my own bias against the offending color. “I think it wouldn’t look bad.” I commented. “But knowing you, you’ve got something that would look better on you.”

“You know, you’re probably right. I have the closet of champions.” 

* * * * *

After a while longer of Marla complaining about how she couldn’t seem to find a dress she liked, we decided – begrudgingly, on my part – to go to a department store on the way back from the music place and pick up a dress.

“And,” Marla had said, giving me a look that warned me against arguing, “we can try to find something for you, while we’re at it.”

So I stood among racks of records and discs, trying to take as much time as possible. Marla had wandered off a while ago, probably to look through her favorite section, the pop music.