Chater 9: Ricky

It’s almost Halloween, and the hallways of East Shore High are practically vibrating with a frantic energy. Everywhere I look, people are buzzing about elaborate costume ideas, expensive parties, and who is inviting whom to the various bashes happening around town. Even though it’s been two months since we moved into this house, I still feel like a ghost—an outsider looking in through a window at a party I wasn’t invited to.

I’ve been spending every spare second trying to assemble a new rock band, something that will make Rocket Starz look like a middle school talent show act. But some nights, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, I wonder if I’m just trying too hard. Maybe I’m forcing the "rockstar" thing instead of just going with the flow. However, being the new guy has its advantages. When you don't belong anywhere, you see everything. I’ve spent my lunch breaks observing the ecosystem: the popular elite, the jocks who think they own the grass, the art freaks, the science nerds, the band geeks, and the losers.

At the very top of the food chain is Roxie. She isn't just popular; she’s an institution. She’s known for this razor-sharp, trendy fashion sense that makes everyone else look like they dressed in the dark. She doesn’t just walk; she commands the floor, exuding a level of confidence and self-assurance that is honestly intimidating. She knows exactly who she is, and she owns every room she enters. That just makes me crush on her even more, which is pathetic considering she seems to view my existence as a personal insult. Roxie is always flanked by her inner circle: Catherine, Ember, and Fran. Occasionally, I see her talking to a girl named Julie, but she’s clearly much closer to the other three. They move like a single unit, a polished, terrifying wall of pink and lip gloss.

"What's up, ladies?" I asked, trying to channel every ounce of swagger I had left as I walked toward Roxie's car in the parking lot. The four of them looked up in unison, their expressions shifting from boredom to varying degrees of "why is he talking to us?"

"What do you want, Ricky?" Roxie replied, her voice as cold as a winter morning. She didn't even look up from her phone at first.

"I'm starting a new band, a real project this time," I said, leaning—perhaps a bit too heavily—against the car next to hers. I flashed what I hoped was a winning smile. "When we start playing shows, you should definitely come check us out. You'd get the VIP treatment."

Roxie finally looked at me, her blue eyes narrowing. "Is it a one-man band? Because I haven't seen you with any actual instruments."

"No, it's not a one-man band," I countered, though my "band" currently consisted of me and a bunch of half-written lyrics in a notebook.

"I thought you were in that other band... what was it? The one with the stars name?" she inquired, her tone mocking.

"Rocket Starz," I corrected, feeling that familiar sting. "And they replaced me. I found out on Facebook. Loyalty isn't really their thing, I guess."

"So you actually have a band together already?" she asked, raising an arched eyebrow.

"Yes," I lied, nodding my head with way too much enthusiasm. I needed a name. Fast. I looked up at the sky, where a pale moon was just starting to show in the afternoon light. "It's called... Rising Moon."

Roxie furrowed her brows, repeating the name slowly as if she were tasting something sour. "Rising Moon? That sounds like a brand of organic tea."

"It's a metaphor," I said quickly, digging the hole deeper. "Anyway, it's going to be huge. You should check us out when we start posting concert dates."

"Will you let me think about it?" she asked, her voice suddenly sweet in a way that should have been a red flag.

"Yeah, sure! I'd love to have you there, I could even—"

Before I could finish my sentence, Roxie shifted the car into gear and floored it. She didn't just drive off; she veered slightly to the right, and the heavy tire rolled directly over my big left toe.

I didn't just scream; I made a sound that probably only dogs could hear. I hopped back on one leg, clutching my foot, as her car roared out of the parking lot, the sound of her and the other girls' laughter drifting back to me like a taunt.

Ten minutes later, I found myself in the nurse's office, sitting on a crinkly paper-covered exam table and waiting for someone to bandage my throbbing foot. The nurse had already told me I’d likely need an X-ray to make sure nothing was shattered. Every single pulse of blood in my toe felt like a tiny hammer hitting a nail.

"The old 'car-to-the-toe' trick, huh?"

I turned toward the doorway and saw a guy leaning against the frame, looking amused.

"Yeah," I chuckled, trying to play it off like I wasn't in searing pain. "I'm sure it was an accident. The sun was in her eyes or something."

The guy laughed, shaking his head. "Roxie George makes no mistakes, man. If she hit your toe, she meant to hit your toe."

"Ricky Henderson," I replied, extending a hand. "Nice to meet you, even if it's under these circumstances."

"Nice to meet you too," he said, walking in.

"Be honest with me, Kevin," I said, looking down at my swelling foot. "Am I trying too hard to impress her?"

"Yeah," he chuckled, nodding without a second of hesitation. "You're doing way too much, bro. You need to be more subtle, more 'I don't care if you live or die' cool. She’s into that mystery vibe. Right now, you’re giving off 'please notice me' energy."

"Have you two—" I started to ask.

"No, no way," Kevin laughed, waving his hands. "She's definitely not my type. But she definitely has a type, and desperate try-hards are definitely not it. If you want her to actually look at you, you gotta stop looking at her so much."