Wabanaki Blues by Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel

feel myself stiffen, wiping off his saliva with my sleeve.
    He places his pinky on his jagged front tooth. “We are a magnificent team. No?”
    I shudder at the thought of teaming up with him and can’t respond. Luckily, Bear scoops Sponge out of the way like an extra dining room chair and muscles in to hug me.
    â€œI’m impressed, Tribal Sista!” He wraps his tree trunk arms around me.
    Somehow, Bear feels like family. Knowing him makes Indian Stream seem more like home.
    Scales marches forward to formally shake my hand. “Serious guitar chops, Mona. Nice melody. Hot lyrics. Your voice is, um, fair.”
    First-class megabitch or not, her familiar leather shorts and the fact that we both like the same sort of lyrics—not to mention the same guy—tell me we have plenty in common.
    â€œScales, I’m guessing there isn’t a musical note you can’t hit,” I say, trying on friendly.
    â€œTrue.” She wiggles her well-manicured pink fingernails high in the air and sings the clearest, cleanest, Julie Andrews’ high notes that I’ve ever heard.
    â€œSerious pipes,” I say with genuine admiration.
    Scales releases an odd hiccup-laugh that could be interpreted as snooty, sweet, sarcastic, or all three, depending.
    â€œShe goes to Baa-ston Conservatory,” Bear says in a fake Boston accent.
    Del punches Scales like a kid sister. “She’s okay.”
    I catch the way she licks her lips at him.
    â€œBear has the real talent,” says Del, hugging his buddy and ignoring Scales. “He plays drums and writes amazing melodies. I generally stick to lyrics, as you know. Neither of us do both as well as you, Mona Lisa.”
    Scales raises a well-plucked eyebrow. It makes her lemony head look like a narrow slice has been cut into it.
    There’s a painful silence following Del’s compliment. We are all standing in a circle. Sponge’s bloodshot eyes ping-pong between Del and me and Scales. The quiet becomes unbearable.
    Sponge lays a limp backhand against his forehead, pretending to faint, and imitating Del’s voice. “Oh Mo-na Lisa, you are so mu-si-cal. You are so won-der-ful. I think I love you.” He smacks his lips, making a kissy face.
    I try not to blush. A grape-colored vein bulges in the middle of Scales’ pale forehead. Del turns his back on everyone and pretends to tune Angel.
    I fail in my best attempt to relax the muscles in my face. “So Bear, about the band’s name—The Blond Bear—I get that Sponge and Scales are blond and that they incorporated your name into it. But how does Del fit in?”
    Bear hesitates. “Actually Mona, we named the band after Del. You might want to ask your great aunt why we chose that name, in his honor.”
    Before I can explain that I don’t have a great aunt, Del whirls around on his good leg and cuts me off. “It’s time for us to perform our theme song for Mona Lisa.” He picks me up by the waist and hoists me onto a nearby stool made from a leather-padded wheel hub. I grab his shoulders and feel his warm hands on me. My arms tingle worse than ever—my whole body tingles. Del wiggles a furry teepee eyebrow at me. I toss back my hair.
    He strums a chord on Angel that sounds like a woman screaming. My former glee evaporates.
    â€œThe song Scales and I are going to sing is called ‘Growl,’” he announces.
    Scales drops down on all fours in those overly short shorts and releases a half-rabid snarl, scraping her fingernails on the pine floorboards. Del bends over her with Angel, hitting another screaming chord, squatting till he’s practically sitting on top of her, grinding out the most guttural sounds I’ve ever heard. He stands straight and spins on his good leg so fast I swear the wings on his guitar start flapping. My bones ache. Del and Scales sing in such tight harmony that the room vibrates. Their lyrics describe the