Alternative

September 9, 2008 at 8:17AM

Riding the streetcar again. Something great about a nice window seat, listening to music, watching the world go by, quietly observing everything going on outside from a protected, elevated spot. No one expects anything of me. I can handle that.

The song filling my earbuds: City of Devils.

Flying along, and I... feel like I don't belong... and I... can't tell right from the wrong... and why have I been here so long?

Emo, I know. I'm a loser. I don't care. I like it. The singer has this worn-out quality to his voice, like he's tired of being alone, of fighting to get through every day. But it's not completely miserable: you can tell he's going to be okay—that there's a light at the end of the tunnel or whatever. A song I wish I could live inside.

Someone calling my name. Look up.

Black-gage beauty queen. Beth. Holy shiz.

"Oh, hey," I mumble. "You're Beth, right?"

"Yep," she says.

She waits for me to say something else, but I can't think of anything, so I turn my attention towards the front of the streetcar as if there's some fascinating event unfolding before my eyes that demands my immediate attention.

"What are you listening to?" she asks.

I hesitate. Yellowcard is the truth but a very ~uncool~ answer. I definitely don't have the best taste in music. Several years behind what I should actually be listening to, stuck in a fourteen-year old's playlist, out of touch, far, far away.

"Uh... Yellowcard?" I say.

Why do I always have to be so goddamn honest?

She nods and looks away: keeps looking away, like she prefers to avoid eye contact or something—maybe just with me.

"This album Lights and Sounds," I add. "I know they're sort of pop-rock or whatever, but it's actually pretty good."

"I do know people who like them." she says.

I feel a wave of relief that she chose not to make fun of my taste in music. Though I'm sure she's quietly judging me. She's too damn cool. I can imagine her working in a vinyl record store, customers flocking for her staff picks.

"What do you listen to?" I ask.

"Hardcore, mostly. Some metal. Do you know August Burns Red or Protest the Hero...? Underoath?"

I feign trying to recall but have no idea who any of those bands are.

"Think I've heard of Underoath..."

"They are very good. Very intense. I... Yeah. They're good."

Well said. Touch awkward, I guess. Oh well. Who the hell am I to judge?

"I'll listen to them," I say.

"I love Silver Mt. Zion, too."

She turns quickly to ring the bell. I assume the interaction is over, but she adds something without looking at me:

"I like to get coffee before class—"

I interrupt her like a big ol' buffoon, "Oh cool, me too."

"Cool."

Accidental invite didn't matter. Who knew? Should try that more often.

Off the streetcar, we head into a small coffee shop called Tim's.

"Clearly, you belong here," she says.

"Yeah, guess so."

We get two steampunks to go, which she recommends—coffee made with a special machine that produces a higher quality brew. I don't normally drink coffee. I can't really see the point. It doesn't taste good, makes you feel all buzzy. Makes me think of a boring office job.

She tells me that she was homeschooled up until Grade Ten, and that she'd wanted to go to a real school for the last two years so she could have authentic high school memories. The Breakfast Club was her favourite film and she wanted some real-life exposure. I wonder if Harvest is the best choice for an authentic high school experience. Whatever that meant.

"Hey, do you play any instruments?" she asks, abruptly changing the subject AGAIN.

"Uh, yeah, I sort of fiddle around on guitar," I say.

Parents got me lessons and I joined the school's jazz band, and actually stuck with it for a little while. I'd been lazy in the last year though, rarely picking it up. God, I'm lazy.

"Really?" she says. "Because I've been trying to start a band for a while. I have a potential drummer, but we really need a guitarist. They do this talent night at Harvest in October and I've been wanting to play live for a long time."

"Oh cool," I say. "So, you do that hardcore style you were talking about?"

"Yeah, I mean, kind of. I'm not nearly as good as those bands I mentioned, obviously, but I've been writing some of my own stuff, mainly in the past few months. I play guitar too but, I'm like, not very good."

It'd be nice to spend all that rehearsal time with her.

"Well, anyway," she says, "You can think about it."

She looks like she's suddenly lost interest in the idea or something. I can't tell if she's actually indifferent or just acting that way for some reason.

"Cool, well I'd be down," I say.

"Cool," she responds.

After that, we stay quiet for a minute or so. I think. Maybe it's five minutes. I wonder if I said the wrong thing. Do people normally go this long without talking?

Then she asks: "So, what made you come to Harvest?"

I can't tell her the real reason.

"Just wanted to try something new," I say.

She nods. That seemed to land. That was too easy... And went weirdly well overall. Maybe this new school was going to be good for me. 

Maybe I was changing already.