Beautiful Music for Ugly Children by Kirstin Cronn-Mills Page A

loud enough that I’ll hear about it tomorrow morning, I’m sure. Then I pound on John’s door. “They’ll let me do it! Open up! You gotta see this!”
    Finally the door opens, and John’s standing there in a rumpled bathrobe. He doesn’t look thrilled to see me. “Make it snappy.”
    “You’re already in bed?”
    “I know it’s strange, but I’m tired. Make it snappy.”
    “The Vibe. They said I could compete as Gabe. Read.” I shove the paper into his hand.
    As he reads, his grin gets wider by the second. “I knew they’d take you. Congratulations!” He grabs me and hugs me, rough, like a man would hug a man. Neither of us are the hugging type. “We’ll start work tomorrow. But now you gotta go.” The Southern accent is sliding in.
    “I’m gone. Go back to sleep.” He shuts the door and I practically float back to my house. July 12. July 12. July 12. It’s engraved on my brain.
    Guest spot, here I come. As soon as I get back to my room, I turn on the Vibe and start writing down every song they play. I haven’t done that before. Then I write a list of possible secret songs, and it’s two pages long.
    At 2:30, I put the pen down, turn off the radio, and try to crash. Right. About 3:30, I get up and dust my 45. Maybe Elvis really does know the truth, and it really is all right. Or maybe he’s full of shit. Either way, things are all right for this minute, and that’s fine with me.
    As I’m drifting off, I hear a faint comment: Do you doubt me?
    Elvis sounds testy.

    The next morning I check the UCB’s fan page, hoping
they’ll post pictures of whatever adventure they took
themselves on. Of course it’s magnificent: the words OH SHIT are chalked about a hundred times over the face of both Maxfield East and Maxfield West, covering the front of each school. Down at the bottom of the front wall, on each school, it says HAPPY FREEDOM, SENIORS!
    I print off the pictures, then rummage around in a hall closet. When I find an empty photo album, I put last night’s OH SHIT photos in there and write the date on them. On another page I put the pictures of the mops and brooms, then move that page ahead of the OH SHIT pictures so everything’s in order. I find the clipping of the garden party at the grocery store and tuck it in the book, too.
    God, I’m strange. But I can’t help it. They make me feel like a rock star. Like I have something decent to say.
    They make me feel like I matter.

Katy Perry is the new Elvis
because She Likes Kissing Girls, Too

    Wednesday evening. When I get to the Coffee Hag, I sit by the wall so I can see both doors. I made sure to bind my chest extra-tight and iron my shirt, just for that put-together look. My hair is carefully combed, of course, and I chose glasses today for that studious look. James Franco, right? Normally it takes me about forty-five minutes to be sure I’m guy-ish enough—binder, clothes, shoes, hair, checked over and over and over again—but tonight it was ninety. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I feel good, but I feel like I’m going to explode. With fear or excitement, I don’t know.
    I think about leaving, and I actually stand up. But I sit back down and stick my red feet out from under the table. The casual look is a little more convincing. I should lean back, put my arms behind my head, and put my crotch front and center just like bio guys do, but I couldn’t be that macho if I channeled John Wayne.
    Mara comes in, a big white daisy pinned to her book bag. She looks light, almost wispy, like the air could carry her away. I never noticed it at school. She’s Bj ö rk without the swan dress, if Bj ö rk was about seventeen. I let her order coffee. When she turns around, mug in hand and licking the froth, I stand up and smile.
    “Mara?”
    “Gabe!” She brings her coffee mug away from her face, and I see a spot of foam on her lip. Sexy. She licks it off without a thought. Or maybe she’s a tease. How the hell am I supposed to know? If