When school started the following Monday, I caught Jake at his locker before first period. The excitement of Homecoming wore off, and I had to clear my jumbled emotions.
“Hey, Jake. Can I talk to you about something?”
He shifted his backpack nervously on his shoulder. “Sure, Maya. What’s up?”
I kept my voice low so passing students wouldn’t hear. “It’s about Saturday. About that kiss.”
Jake swallowed. “Did I do it wrong? I mean, it was the first time for both of us, so I didn’t really know what I was doing, which is why—”
“It’s not that,” I said to him with a reassuring smile. “It’s just…I like you, Jake. And I like that everyone knows we’re together. But I feel like I need to take things slow. Like, really, really slow. I’m…not ready for physical stuff.”
I braced myself for his reaction. Frustration, disappointment, maybe even a blow to his ego. To my surprise, Jake dropped a sigh of relief.
“Oh. Wow. Yeah, that’s totally fine,” he said, his voice noticeably lighter.
“I mean, I know you said your mom is strict with church and stuff like that.”
“Church? Oh, right, church.” Jake waved it off. “But honestly, I think it’s better that way. We can just hang out, not have to worry about all that other stuff. Yeah, just keep it low and just be us.”
“Right. Just us,” I agreed, immediately feeling a burden lifted from me. “But, you know, hand-holding is still okay.”
Jake grinned, taking my hand and leading me to class. “Hand-holding is awesome,” he nodded firmly.
With my situation with Jake sorted out, my next concern was with Catherine. Homecoming had stirred up residual feelings, and I was afraid that stray hormones would flare up and ruin the equilibrium I had so carefully fostered. For a week or so afterwards I managed my distance to her; we still rode the bus and ate lunch together, but I avoided lingering hugs or any other displays of intimacy.
After a particularly icy Thursday night home game, after the squad had cheered their hearts out, there was a chaotic rush of freezing girls into the hot showers. Normally I avoided washing in a group, but I was too cold to care. I found myself in the communal showers next to Catherine; the exact sort of situation I was trying to avoid. I braced myself for the dissonance, which could only be compounded by the bodies and heat around us.
Instead, as the steam gathered around us and I glanced at Catherine rubbing a knot in her arm, I registered nothing. Maybe it was just the familiarity of my own body, but I mostly regarded her aesthetically. I knew that she was attractive, but there was no spark, no tension. No firing of hormones that I felt with Jake at Homecoming. Just another girl, along with a dozen others, washing glitter from their hair and shivering under a stream of hot water.
As my eyes returned to the wall in front of me, I had a feeling of settled acceptance. My memories were of Matthew’s wife, not of the teenage girl washing her face. The connection between me and Catherine was emotional and mental; she was my best friend and that’s all that she needed to be.
The rest of Northview’s football season wasn’t particularly strong, and ended on an unremarkable note. I was surprisingly disappointed when cheerleading wound down and boredom began to settle in since basketball wouldn’t start for another month. I was excelling academically and my trades were holding steadily upwards, but neither of these accomplishments filled me with as much pride as cheerleading. Perhaps it was because I couldn’t coast on future knowledge; cheer was all based on my hard work.
The only thing holding a fraction of my interest was my role as sophomore treasurer, to which I had been reelected without much fanfare. Shockingly, no other fifteen-year-olds wanted the thankless task of updating monthly ledgers and recordkeeping for school events. I managed to find creative ways to come up with the money for whatever student council needed. Halloween parties, harvest festivals, Christmas concerts—all of the fund-raising profits and budget requests went through me.
Christmas in the Brown household was as pleasant as ever, and I still enjoyed the novelty of eating Christmas breakfast with Mom, Dad, and Tim. Us kids received a new ornament every year, and I found it amusing that the ones I received as Maya were different from what Matthew received; guitars and pom poms instead of comic book characters. I made it a point to secretly hang a little teddy bear with a stethoscope on the back of the tree in Jane’s honor.
Still, even the bustle of the Christmas season wasn’t enough to keep me engaged. Even the Microsoft two-for-one split in December, pushing me well past half a million, barely registered. No big events were set to occur in the Butterfly Manifesto beyond Clinton’s inauguration in January, and this particular election was just a preamble to what was coming.
All things considered, not a bad way to enter 1997.
***
Student government started right back up when we got back to school after winter break, and the council pushed for a gauntlet of activities for the winter months. There were fundraisers, socials, and events they wanted to schedule, and it was my responsibility as treasurer to make them happen. It meant that I was able to exercise my uncanny ability to move around money to pay for it all.
Our biggest event came in late February: a talent show for the student body. It was a pretty low-cost event, since all we needed was the auditorium and a few posters, so my responsibilities were mostly organizing the participants. I made sure that any costumes, gear, or props that any of the acts needed were stored backstage and ready to go.
I got permission to be absent from my afternoon classes so that I could help the acts set up. No one else was in the auditorium, so it was just me and the piles of items that students needed for their performances. I went down the line with my clipboard making sure everything was organized and ready to go. While most of it was all junk, there was one notable item that caught my eye as I was sorting.
It was a cherry red Epiphone Les Paul for one of the bands performing. It was more massive than my white Strat, and it happened to be very similar to the guitar Matthew had in his timeline. As I went back and forth through the boxes, my eyes kept returning to this machine. It had been a couple of weeks since I was able to have any amount of time to practice in my room, and I was curious how the Les Paul would feel in my hands. I didn’t even know if I’d be able to lift it!
You know, since they were playing in the show, it would be nice of me to make sure it's tuned and ready to play this afternoon, I justified to myself.
I did a quick scan, confirming that I was still the only one backstage, and sidled over to the guitar. It felt familiar in my hands, and memories of Matthew playing in his apartment for hours floated in my head. I slung it over my shoulder, noting how heavy this thing was. Or rather, how small I was. I quickly tuned it, and plucked a few strings to hear its sound. It was a nice instrument.
As I sat down on a nearby chair, I mused over what I should play on this. I had a penchant for playing songs that hadn’t been written yet from memory, and “Seven Nation Army” would sound great on this thing. I smirked thinking that it wasn’t going to be released for another six years, and this was the first time it would ever be played outside of my bedroom. I started going with the familiar deep thumping rhythm of the intro, and by the time I hit the raw riff I was lost in the sound.
I played through the measures as I remembered them, but then decided to go a bit crazy with it and improvise a little bit. I brought it right back to the rumbling tone, and tried to make the distortions as vibrant as I could. The last notes hung in the air as I caught my breath. That was always a fun song to play. I just wish I could tell if I was doing it properly, because I had no way of checking until 2003.
“Holy shit, that was tight,” gasped a voice behind me.
I turned around, seeing a tall boy with shaggy blonde hair standing there. He was dressed in a gray flannel shirt with a Nirvana t-shirt underneath. I recognized him as Barry Smith, who I had seen around but didn’t know at all. While not unpopular, he wasn’t in my circles.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know anyone was coming in here. Is fourth period over?”
“Nah, but I snuck out of class early. That’s, ah, my guitar you’ve got there.”
I squeaked. “Oh god, I’m sorry! I was just helping set up the talent show props, and I was just fooling around!”
Barry waved me off. “Don’t worry about it. That was a sick song! I’ve never heard it before, what is it?”
I scratched the back of my neck. “It’s, erm, just something I heard somewhere. I thought it would sound good on your Les Paul.”
“What do you usually play?”
“I’ve got a Strat. I do a lot of classic rock, but a lot of the cleaner punk stuff too. I like the finger work.”
“You into alternative?”
I nodded. “I can’t resist a little grunge.”
Barry leaned against a pillar to my left. “You don’t look like someone who’s into grunge.”
I glanced down at my plaid skirt and blouse. “I guess not,” I replied. “I mostly just play on my own, just for fun.”
“You play like that just for fun?” Barry gawked. “You play as if you’ve been doing it for years!”
“I’ve been playing since I was eleven, so about four years.” Technically, it was true. However, you had to add another decade on top of that number if you counted Matthew’s timeline.
Barry scratched his chin. “You looking for a band? I play bass for the Muted Oranges.”
“I remember,” I nodded. “You guys are on the set list for this afternoon.”
Barry nodded. “They’ve been letting us practice in the band room, since Roger’s garage is too cold now.” Roger was the name of the lead singer of their band. I didn’t know him either, but he was well-known at school. “We normally wouldn’t play at a school thing, but we figured why the hell not since our gear is already here. So, you interested?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Like you said, I don’t exactly look grunge.”
“If you can play like that I don’t think the guys would give a shit,” assured Barry. “Listen, we’re usually in the band room on Tuesdays after school. Come by some time. Bring your Strat, and show them what you can do.”
I bit my lip. “I’ll…think about it?”
“Cool. Also,” Barry grinned, “mind if I have my guitar back?”
***
The talent show went without a hitch, and when Muted Oranges went on I paid close attention. They weren’t too bad, and over the entire weekend I mulled over whether or not I should try out. Matthew had always wished he had started playing earlier in life and had been in a teenage band, and while playing in my room was a nice way to relax I was curious how I would do on stage. It did worry me that hanging out with grunge kids would do something to my reputation. A model student wouldn’t mesh well with that crowd.
By Tuesday I had decided to just give it a shot. I would need to occupy my time after the basketball season ended, and it might be a fun diversion to play with other people for once. It would also be another one of Matthew’s wishes fulfilled. When Catherine picked me up to drive us to school, I had my guitar in its case and ready to go. I stowed it in the band room in the morning before anyone saw me, and went to class as usual. The day dragged on as usual, and of course we had cheerleading practice right after school. It would be tight, but I figured I would have enough time to get showered and changed before I met up with the guys.
That proved optimistic, as there were some issues at practice today that made us run long. Being so late into the season made us a bit sloppy, and the coach took the opportunity to teach a lesson that no one wanted by making us run our routines a second time. It was 3:55 by the time we were let go, and I only had time to wipe the sweat off my face before dashing to the band room in my uniform.
The three guys were lounging in the chairs when I opened the door. “Sorry, we have this room until five,” said a bulky kid named Carl that I recognized as the drummer.
Barry stood up. “Actually, she’s the guitarist that I was telling you about. Come on in, Maya.”
The third boy, a slim black-haired guy I knew as Roger spoke up. “This is the guitar player you met? You didn’t say it was a chick, and you definitely didn’t say it was some cheerleader.”
I awkwardly went to the cabinet to pull out my case as Barry defended me. “What’s the big deal? She’s really good, I swear.”
“There’s no way she can play,” said Carl who crossed his flabby arms. “I’ve seen her before; she was in my biology class. She’s, like, a preppie.”
Roger raised his voice. “There’s no way anyone would take us seriously with a chick like that.”
I pulled out my white Strat. “I can hear everything you’re saying, you know,” I growled.
“Guys,” assured Barry, “I’m telling you, she’s really good. Just give her a chance.”
Roger glanced over at my guitar, as I plugged into the amp. “A flashy Fender doesn’t mean she can play.”
The guys started bickering with each other, utterly ignoring me as I strapped the guitar to my shoulder. To say I was offended was an understatement. Glaring at them, and after plucking a string or two to check if the sound was appropriate, I decided to slam right into a song I had played for years as Matthew and Maya; “Basket Case” by Green Day. I didn’t even wait for them to stop arguing, I just launched into the riff.
The boys stood stunned as this ferocious sound poured out of the fingers of a mere cheerleader. I had the song practically memorized, since it wasn’t too difficult to play. The execution was flawless and at a machine-gun pace. Every power chord, every strum, every transition bled energy and when it was over, the final note hung in the air as their mouths hung open dumbly.
Barry was the first to speak up. “See? What did I tell you? This girl can shred!”
The contempt from Roger had washed away, fixed into a sort of curiosity. “What else can you play?”
I shrugged. “I can do some Zeppelin.”
The guys sat down to watch as I launched into my solo guitar cover of The Immigrant Song. I had a string trick where I did the vocal screeches on the low end of the fretboard. I did a healthy amount of improvising, and my fingers were all over the place to show how precise I could be. It was Carl’s turn to ask me for another song, and I noticed that the disdain at having a cheerleader in their band’s space had melted away.
I was starting to get cocky, but I kept quiet and went into “The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World. By the time I finished, Roger was transfixed. “What is that song called?” he exclaimed.
I froze. I did it again, I cursed to myself. “The Middle” wasn’t released until 2001! “It’s nothing,” I lied, “just fooling around.”
Their minds were sufficiently blown, and the three guys whispered among themselves. I pulled off my guitar and started packing it away into my case. I really needed to shower from practice, and playing for the last twenty minutes straight really took it out of me. I was about to store the case back into the cabinet before heading to the locker room, when Roger spoke up. He cleared his throat.
“Listen, uh…Maya? I’m sorry about being a dick before. You want in?”