Confusion Is Nothing New Page 5

  “Translation?” says Charlotte.

  “Ellie’s mom was in a rock band,” offers Anya Flowers, who has accepted an invitation from Daniel and me to join our lunch table.

  “You understood him?” asks Charlotte.

  Anya nods. “I speak four languages.”

  Josh turns to me. “Was your mom in the Go-Go’s?”

  I shake my head. “The Go-Go’s came and went before my mom got to high school, but she sang their songs with her band.”

  Sinbad looks up. “Was she in an oldies group?”

  “Sort of,” I say.

  “Nowzhy dead,” adds Daniel, who’s stuffed more French fries into his face.

  Anya reaches across the table and gives him a whack.

  Charlotte sits up. “What did he say?”

  “Now she’s dead,” says Anya.

  Charlotte turns to me. “Your mother is dead?”

  “She is,” I admit.

  Charlotte reaches over and smacks Daniel again.

  “What was that for?” he asks.

  “Speaking about somebody’s dead mom with your mouth full is rude.” Charlotte turns back to her history text, reads a few lines, then closes the book. “You know what?” she says. “The history of the Go-Go’s is much more interesting than the history of a bunch of dead white guys.”

  “The Go-Go’s made history,” says Sinbad. “They were the first all-girl band to become big stars while playing their own instruments and writing their own songs.”

  “Really?” says Charlotte.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “I mean they’re old, but they’re not that old.”

  “It was 1982,” says Sinbad, who is apparently some kind of rock and roll encyclopedia, “and nobody did it before the Go-Go’s.”

  “Why not?” asks Josh.

  “Because boys,” says Charlotte.

  Sinbad nods. “That has a lot to do with it.”

  Daniel leans forward and interrupts the Go-Go’s history lesson. “Do you guys want to help track down Ellie’s mom?”

  Josh looks confused. “I thought she was dead?”

  “She is,” I tell him. “But I never met her. She could be standing in the cafeteria right now, and I wouldn’t recognize her.”

  “She’d be the dead one,” offers Daniel.

  Charlotte and Anya both whack him again.

  “You don’t know anything about her at all?” Josh asks me.

  I shake my head. “I used to ask my dad, but he never said much.”

  Sinbad looks up from his math book. “So you just stopped asking?”

  I think back to the few conversations I tried having with my father over the years. He was never mean or angry when I asked about my mom. Mostly, he just changed the subject. “Talking about it was kind of pointless,” I say.

  Charlotte surprises me by reaching across the table and taking my hand. “Listen, sweetie,” she says. “Having a dead mom is a big deal. You’ve got to talk about it.”

  “How do you know?” Josh asks his sister. “Our mother isn’t dead.”

  Charlotte shoots her brother an angry look. “A girl can dream.”

  Josh takes another piece of pizza. “You want our mother dead just because she yelled at you about your room this morning?”

  Charlotte sighs. “No, I just want her to yell at you sometimes.”

  Josh bites into his pizza slice. “My room isn’t a pigsty.”

  “It’s not a pigsty if she knows where everything is,” says Anya.

  “Thank you,” says Charlotte.

  “Ellie,” Sinbad says to me, “if I were you, I’d talk to him.” He points toward the end of the cafeteria, where our new music teacher has just entered the room.

  “Why would Mr. Leary know about my mother?” I ask.

  “They’re both musicians,” Sinbad points out. “They’re both from around here. They’re both connected to St. Francis of Assisi High School. The odds of them knowing each other are better than zero.”

  Daniel turns to Sinbad. “I like the way you think.”

  “That does make sense,” says Anya.

  Sinbad waves across the room. “Mr. Leary,” he calls. “Can we ask you a question?”

  “What can I do for you?” our new teacher asks when he gets to our table.

  “Was Sister Stephanie in the Go-Go’s?” asks Josh.

  Mr. Leary takes one of Daniel’s French fries. “Yes,” he says. “She was.”

  Charlotte picks up her banana and points it at the man. “Are you lying?”

  “Yes,” says Mr. Leary. “I am.”

  My stomach growls, reminding me of the lunch I left behind this morning. I steal a French fry for myself. “That’s not really what we wanted to ask you.”

  Mr. Leary smiles. “I can handle more than one request.”

  “Did you know Ellie’s mother?” asks Anya.

  Mr. Leary scans the table. “Remind me which one of you is Ellie.”

  I raise my hand. “That’s me. I’m Ellie Magari.”

  “Of course,” he says. “The glockenspiel killer.”

  I am committed to ignoring all glockenspiel jokes, so I press on. “My mom went to school here,” I tell him. “Her name was Wilma Korkenderfer. She graduated a couple years after Sister Stephanie. Until recently, she was the lead singer for an eighties tribute band called CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD!”

  “Seriously?” says Charlotte.

  Mr. Leary laughs. “I’ll have to share that with Cyndi Lauper.”

  “You know Cyndi Lauper?” says Sinbad.

  “She’s one of the most beautiful, kind, and caring people in the world,” Mr. Leary tells us. “Her voice is an instrument made out of God’s own breath.”

  “Did you know my mom?” I ask.

  Mr. Leary nods. “I’m four years older than Sister Stephanie, so I was already out of high school by the time your mother got here, but I needed backup singers for a demo track I was recording back then. I used a few singers from the St. Francis of Assisi High School choir to help me out. Korky Korkenderfer was one of them.”

  “Really?” I say. “You remember her?”

  “I remember everybody I have ever fired.”

  Charlotte gets to her feet. “You fired my girl’s dead mother? What’s wrong with you, Mr. Leary?”

  Mr. Leary takes a step back. “What are you talking about? Who’s dead? I had to fire her. She was a terrible backup singer.”

  “Wilma Korkenderfer died two weeks ago,” I explain.

  Our new teacher puts a hand over his heart and drops into a plastic seat beside our table. “I am so sorry.”

  I never realized how many apologies are required to talk about dead people. “It’s really okay,” I tell him. “She and my dad split up when I was just a baby. I never met her.”

  “Ellie’s trying to figure out where she comes from,” says Charlotte.

  “She’s trying to figure out her story,” adds Anya.

  That’s not how I would have explained what I’m doing. Actually, I have no idea how to explain what I’m doing. Maybe that’s why I need help from Sichuan, Puerto Rico, Rockhill, and all points in between to figure it out.

  “I didn’t know her very well,” Mr. Leary tells us. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Did you really fire her because she was a terrible singer?” I ask. Based on the fact that Wilma Korkenderfer led her own band for over a decade, I can’t imagine how this can be true.

  Mr. Leary shakes his head. “That’s not what I said. That girl had a massive, powerful voice. It shook the fillings in your teeth. But she was young, and she didn’t know how to use her instrument. Plus, I didn’t know enough back then to teach her. Frankly, I don’t know if she was teachable. But having her sing backup was like bringing in seventy-six trombones to play the lullaby at preschool nap time. It just wasn’t going to work.”

  I consider this scarecrow of a man in front me. “You really know a lot about music, don’t you?
”

  “That’s what I tell people.” Mr. Leary grins and gestures at the high school cafeteria around us. “It’s gotten me this far.”

  Charlotte raises an eyebrow. She glances around the room, which smells like grilled cheese with a hint of lip gloss. “You must really love it a lot.”

  “I do,” he admits.

  “But how do you make it your job?” Sinbad asks him. “How did you become a professional musician?”

  Mr. Leary turns to Sinbad. “Is that something you’d like to do?”

  Sinbad glances at all of us around the table, then nods. “I’m thinking about it.”

  “I don’t think there’s a big need for professional snare drummers,” says Josh.

  “You’d be surprised,” says Mr. Leary.

  “I only picked up the snare so I could join marching band,” Sinbad tells us. “My real instrument is guitar.”

  “But there’s no marching guitars,” I say.

  Sinbad nods. “Exactly.”

  “That’s how I got the glockenspiel,” I tell him. “I play the piano.”

  Mr. Leary pushes his chair away from the table and stands. “Personally, I’ve always thought there should be marching pianos.”

  “I’d like to see that,” says Josh.

  “But seriously,” Sinbad says to Mr. Leary. “How did you get here?”

  “I went to college,” Mr. Leary tells him. “I studied music. I spent several years in vans and buses with other people’s concert tours. I moved to Nashville and then Austin. I helped friends make records. I made a few of my own. I finally moved to California because a lot of music happens there. I ended up doing tons of studio work, then started writing television scores and cleaning up movie soundtracks. A few years ago, I realized I could do that stuff from anywhere, so I moved back to Rockhill. Then, yesterday, I got a call from my sister congratulating me on my promotion to high school music teacher.” He holds both hands out and gives a little shrug. “This is what it looks like when you’re living the dream.”

  “You live in Rockhill?” says Charlotte.

  Mr. Leary nods. “My backyard is Rockhill Memorial Cemetery.”

  “Mine too,” says Daniel. “Anya and Ellie are just as close.”

  “My house is the one with the big red barn in the back,” says Mr. Leary. “I built a recording studio there.”

  “Can we come and see it?” asks Sinbad.

  Mr. Leary considers the question. “I’ll have to ask my sister if that’s allowed.”

  Charlotte peels her banana and takes a bite. “Mr. Leary,” she says, “your life does not sound very rock and roll to me.”

  “I’ve got a tattoo,” Mr. Leary informs her. “Does that count for something?”

  “My mother is covered in tattoos,” Sinbad tells us. “She’s a dental hygienist.”

  Mr. Leary rolls up a sleeve and shows us a small black kite inked on the inside of his arm. “I got mine after a night out in Dublin with my friend David Evans.” He points at the kite’s tail, which is wrapped around the letter U and the number 2. “David is better known as the Edge.”

  Sinbad studies the tattoo. Our rock and roll encyclopedia leans back, smiles, and asks, “The edge of what?”

  Mr. Leary stares at Sinbad for a moment. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it again. Finally, he starts to walk away but stops and turns back. “What do they teach you in this school?”

  “Mr. Leary,” Charlotte replies. “That’s up to you now.”

  The next morning, we find Mr. Leary standing atop a desk in the center of the music room. “What are you doing up there?” Daniel asks him.

  Our teacher reaches up and pokes at the ceiling-mounted projector. “How do you turn this thing on?”

  I walk to the front of the room, find the remote on a shelf, and hold it up for Mr. Leary to see. “You’re supposed to use this.” I push a green button, and Mr. Leary gets blasted in the face with a million-watt bulb.

  “Shut it off! Shut it off!” he cries.

  “Sorry!” I say.

  By the time the rest of our class joins us, Mr. Leary is back on the ground and no longer blinded by the light. He’s got the projector working properly, and a photograph of four guys with bad haircuts, cheesy mustaches, and cartoon-colored sailor suits shines on the whiteboard at the front of the room. “Find your seats,” Mr. Leary announces. “We’re starting the day with a pop quiz.” He chuckles. “Because it’s about pop. And it’s a quiz.”

  Nobody else laughs.

  “Never mind.” He points at the image. “Raise your hand if you can identify these boys.”

  Less than half the class raises their hands.

  “Seriously?” says Mr. Leary.

  “It’s the Beatles!” shouts Sinbad.

  “Ten points for the kid who couldn’t identify the Edge.”

  “The edge of what?” somebody whispers.

  A black-and-white photo replaces the mustache quartet. Now we’re looking at four scraggly-looking white guys standing in front of a dead tree in the middle of a desert. Sinbad’s hand shoots up.

  “Go on,” Mr. Leary tells him.

  “From left to right,” says Sinbad. “That’s Larry Mullen, Bono Hewson, Adam Clayton, and David Evans, who is also known as the Edge. Together, they are the band called U2. The Edge is the lead guitarist. My parents took me to see them in concert. My mom freaked out when I told her about your tattoo.”

  Mr. Leary’s mouth drops open.

  Sinbad gives Mr. Leary a big grin. “I was just messing with you yesterday.”

  Mr. Leary leans back against his desk. “New rules,” he announces. “This quiz is just for Mr. Sinbad. If he gets them all right—”

  Sinbad interrupts. “Then I get to teach everybody a song.”

  “What?” says Mr. Leary.

  “If I get them all right, you let me teach a song to the class.” Sinbad turns to face everybody. “But you guys really have to do it, okay?”

  “I’ll do it,” says Josh.

  Charlotte yells, “Go for it, Sinbad!”

  “It’s a deal,” says Mr. Leary.

  “I have to warn you,” Sinbad tells our teacher. “My parents have a great record collection.”

  “Vinyl?” asks Mr. Leary.

  Sinbad nods. “I told you. You’re in it!”

  Mr. Leary starts flashing new pictures on the board. Sinbad shouts out names to go with the photos. “Ray Charles. Bo Diddley. Roy Orbison. Bob Dylan. The Beach Boys. Aretha Franklin. The Rolling Stones. Jimi Hendrix. Tina Turner.”

  “Not bad,” says Mr. Leary. “But those were easy ones.”

  “Bring it on,” says Sinbad.

  The pictures start again. The very first one appears to stump our classmate.

  “Give up?” Mr. Leary asks him.

  Sinbad shakes his head. “The band is Cream. That’s a young Eric Clapton on the right. The other two guys are Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker. I just don’t know which one is Jack and which one is Ginger.”

  Mr. Leary rolls his eyes. “I’ll give it to you.”

  The pictures continue. “David Bowie,” says Sinbad. “Funkadelic, Bruuuuuuce, Michael Jackson.” He looks at Mr. Leary. “Seriously? You didn’t think we’d know Michael Jackson?”

  “Five more to go,” says Mr. Leary.

  “Beastie Boys, Talking Heads, Prince.” Sinbad laughs. “I bet Prince never thought he’d be on a Catholic school quiz.”

  “Two more.”

  “Nirvana.”

  The final slide appears. An intense girl with wild orange hair, ruby lipstick, a handful of flowers, and a cherry-red taffeta dress dances in fishnet stockings on a dirty sidewalk. I know this one.

  “Cyndi Lauper!” Sinbad announces.

  It feels like the entire class turns to look at me. It’s probably just Daniel, Anya, Charlotte, and Josh. Still, the next thing I know, I’m crying. I’m crying so hard that tears actually make a puddle on my desk.

  “Whoa!” says Charlotte
.

  “I’m sorry,” I choke out.

  “What happened?” somebody asks.

  “Her mom died,” Daniel whispers.

  “Your mom was Cyndi Lauper?” Hannah Shupe asks me.

  I shake my head. “Cyndi Lauper’s not dead.” I don’t add the exclamation point.

  After school, I sit alone in my room with the contents of Mom’s shoe box spread across the bed. I’d considered inviting Anya or Charlotte to come over and go through it with me, but then I worried about what they might think of my bedroom. Beneath a window that looks down on the front yard, my desk is perfectly clean. Actually, I keep the windows spotless too. Framed posters from symphony orchestras and music conservatories cover my walls. I organize titles on my bookshelves by topic and author. From what I know of Anya and Charlotte, they’d probably find this kind of orderliness a little disturbing.

  When it comes to staying organized, I guess I take after Dad, who believes in mise en place, a French term that describes how a chef is supposed to maintain a kitchen. Basically, mise en place means putting everything in its place. Ingredients, tools, menus, even your state of mind, should be arranged as cleanly, clearly, and efficiently as possible. For a lot of chefs, including Dad, mise en place goes way beyond the kitchen. It’s a way of life.

  Looking at the random collection in front of me, I suspect that Wilma Korkenderfer was more mess en place than mise en place. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to what she sent me. In fact, it would be easy to believe that this is nothing but a bunch of haphazard junk. But a set of handwritten lines scrawled inside the shoe box lid makes me believe that it’s something more.

  Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick,

  And think of you

  Caught up in circles

  Confusion is nothing new

  Flashback—warm nights—

  Almost left behind

  Suitcases of memories,

  Time after—

  It’s the first verse from a Cyndi Lauper song called “Time after Time.” But what is it supposed to mean? Did my mother lie in bed thinking of me? Is the shoe box supposed to be a suitcase of memories? Either way, I’m glad to hear that confusion is nothing new. At least there’s something I can say I share with my mother, because I am seriously confused.

  I pick up a Flock of Seagulls CD. The lead singer’s hair reminds me of the hat on Sister Stephanie’s flying nun poster. I don’t have a cassette or CD player, so I use my phone to listen to songs from the bands that Korky stuffed in the box. A Flock of Seagulls sounds like a couple of guys singing harmony on top of a sci-fi soundtrack. The Cure and Dead or Alive both scare me. I’m falling in love with Adam Ant, and a sickly sweet ballad by Spandau Ballet couldn’t be more stuck in my head if the sheet music had been attached to a spear and shoved through my brain. Meanwhile, somebody named Boy George sounds like he wants to laugh and cry at the exact same time, and Cyndi Lauper might be even more amazing than Mr. Leary described.