At home, flopped down on the couch. Hank is barking at the mailman. I had my arm draped over my eyes earlier but removed it; my face was getting numb.
"Hank!" I yell.
He rushes over to me and sniffs vigorously. Do I still reek of weed?
Beth emailed us the details for Saturday. She has an amp at her place that I can use; I just have to bring my guitar. Her mom is going to make us all lunch and we'll be done rehearsing by around four o'clock. She presented the schedule for the rehearsal in a really organized fashion: arrival time, setup, songs she wanted to tackle, when we'd take our break, and even a period allotted for debriefing and discussing the direction this band could take. The last item in the email just read:
We need a name! If anyone has any ideas, feel free to bring them to the table.
Something to look forward to. Maybe I could come up with a name, something that impressed her: that showed some interesting, other dimension to me. Dig deep, son.
I suddenly miss the comfort of having my arm over my eyes.
Do it again. Let your face go numb. Cease to exist for a little while. It's so much easier.
YOU ARE READING
Alternative
Teen FictionTim's public high school experience thus far has been characterized by bad grades and the total absence of a social life; he's listless and needs a change. So, after grade eleven ends, his mom decides to enrol him in a bizarre, little alternative sc...
