Chapter #20A Survey of Mars by: Seuzz   Yes, you're surprised to discover that Mars Renteria has this problem with girls. You would have assumed—and did assume, to the extent that you actually thought about it—that he'd be covered up in girl groupies. He's got that smoldering Latin attitude; he looks at least three years older than most seniors; and he's a musician. Shouldn't he be boffing and tossing a different girl every weekend?
But no. Mars likes girls, and Mars is hot to get laid. But he wants a girlfriend, not a succession of fuck-toys.
And what am I going to do about that? you wonder as you turn into the student parking lot.
For, it dimly occurs to you, grabbing bodies isn't just going to be a matter of fun and games. You are inhabiting the body of Marco "Mars" Renteria, and to all the world that is who you are. So do you act like him, think like him, try to carry on like nothing's changed with him? Or do you fuck around with his body, the way you fucked around with Dana's? Vaguely, you realize it's a question for everything and everyone you touch.
I'd sure like to fuck that girl who showed up at practice yesterday, you brood as you swing your pack onto your back and slam the car door shut. But a sense of caution warns you against lunging, against turning all this into a naked, grappling orgy.
* * * * *
First period is English. You slump into a desk in the back of the room and pull out your phone, glancing up only occasionally as people begin to trickle in. One of them is Zachary Dillon, and you're pretty sure it's not your imagination when he pulls up short to briefly stare at you before continuing on to his own seat. Another is Melissa Swenson, one of Dana's friends, but she pays you no mind. The third is one of your bandmates, Dylan Cho.
Funny thing about the members of Suburban Howl: They don't hang together outside of practice. Casey, for instance, is off in his own world, which consists of Casey Mendoza, theater kids, Casey Mendoza's ego, kids in the chorale, Casey Mendoza's reflection in a mirror, the score or so random people who trail along like flotsam in his wake, and the Casey Mendoza who, like a giant, inflatable version of himself, stands in front of the band and sings during their concerts. Their bass player, Eli Berman, is also off in his own world, which as far as Mars can tell consists of himself, his moods, and whatever girl he has sucked in and is sucking dry in his casual, vampire-like way. (Eli's breakups are almost as bad as Mars's, the difference being that Eli seemingly doesn't give a microscopic shit about them and just waits for a new victim to fall face-first into his lap.) As for Dylan—
Well, Mars can respect Dylan. Mars does respect Dylan.
Take that blow-up they had yesterday, when Mars started screaming at him about losing the beat. That was only half about Dylan getting off the beat with his "phrasing." Mostly it was about Dylan—who plays violin as well as guitar, and who is taking a shitload of music classes this year, including an AP Music Composition class that is him and, like, five other people—showing off. And more than that, even, it was Mars (as he himself would have to admit) being pissed not at Dylan for "getting off the beat" but at himself for not being able to keep up with.
So, unlike Casey and Eli, who are in the band for the "cool" factor, Dylan is in it for the music.
Trouble is, he's in it for a music that is his and not "the band's." And since Mars is the one who started Suburban Howl, it feels like Dylan is trying to steal it.
Which is more than just an ego thing, you reflect when you realize that you've dropped the phone and are intently but absent-mindedly drumming complex rhythms on the desktop with your long, strong fingers. Mars has to run the band because he has to run the beat, and he has to run the beat because ...
Well, because he has to run the beat. The tattoo you beat on the desk intensifies.
I gotta do something about Dylan, you think. And you know exactly what you could do about him.
And that brings back the earlier bother, just in a different form.
Why the fuck do I got to do something about Dylan? you chide yourself. Fuck him and fuck Mars too, if I want. I don't gotta do anything "for" them. I can just do things with them.
But what would those things be?
* * * * *
You're coming out of second-period math class when Dana steps right in front of you with a broad smile. "Hey," she says.
"Hey." You stop in your tracks, feeling surprised and (to your dismay) a little daunted.
"So, I wanted to say 'Sorry' again about yesterday. I didn't mean to snoop or anything in your house," she says with a meaningful light in her eye.
"That's okay. You were looking for the bathroom, right?" You start to get wood.
"Well, I was looking for something." She giggles and draws up closer to you. "I guess I found it."
You stiffen some more.
"I guess so too. Uh— How'd things go with Casey and Logan, after they left?" That was something Mars noticed yesterday, though he pretended not to: How Casey and Logan and Dana all left together.
"I don't know. Logan dropped me off back at school so I could get my car."
"You didn't hang out with them?"
Her eyes fall, briefly. "Was I supposed to?" she asks quietly.
"No, I just thought—"
"Oh, I got a long text from Zachary Dillon last night that I think you might be interested in."
"Well, forward it to me."
"What's your contact info?"
So you and Dana duck out of the stream of students to exchange info.
"Are we going to start hanging out?" she murmurs as you tap at your phones.
"I don't know," you confess as heart, guts, and cock all seem to inflate with a gassy sense of anticipation. "I have to think about it. I mean, I'm thinking about it. Er—" You shoot her a sidelong glance. "Do you want to?"
Her smile fades a little.
"It's up to you, right?"
* * * * *
So you're distracted as you enter the gym for your third-period weightlifting class: The talk with Dana has intensified those questions you were asking yourself earlier. What the fuck am I doing? Why am I doing this?
"Hey, looks like someone's walkin' around wit' the weight of the world on his shoulders," a sly, grinning voice says. You retrieve your attention from a million miles away to find a bare-chested Tyrese Johnson winking at you.
Tyrese is one of Mars's best friends: a six-foot-three black guy who used to play on the JV basketball squad but quit because it "wasn't fun" anymore. Where Mars (and his other friends in the five-man pack that has assembled around himself) is intense, Tyrese is relaxed, wry, and possessed of a cat-like effortlessness.
"Fuckin' stats, man," you mutter as you kick off your shoes and spin the combination lock on your locker. Tyrese snickers.
"Here comes another mofo with th'same look," he says, and nods at someone behind you. Its Diego Rivas, another friend in this same weightlifting class. He's like a thicker, bluffer version of Mars—he's also got a mustache—and he looks no happier than you feel. "How's yer stats, man?" Tyrese asks him.
"Gotcher stats here," Diego retorts, and grabs his package. Tyrese laughs.
The weightlifting class is usually a high point of Mars's day: a chance to pick up and put down heavy objects in the company of a couple of good friends, without any demands on his brain. Today, though, it just gives you more time for quarrelsome thoughts.
Funny, that: You were in a good mood when you woke, feeling great about having Mars's body and the promise of being able to do things with it. But your mood has darkened as you've felt the disconnect between what you thought you'd got—sexy drummer in a popular band—and what you've actually picked up: a moody, sex-frustrated musician who's barely got a grip on a band that (truth be told) isn't going anyplace and might fragment at any moment.
What am I doing?
* * * * *
Tyrese has fifth lunch, so next period it's you and Diego in the cafeteria with the other two members of Mars's crew.
They're not gangbangers, but there's nothing soft about Mars or Tyrese or Diego or Ethan McCormick. But each of them, even bookish, glasses-wearing Jonah Klein, has thrown down against some of the toughest assholes at the school. For instance, it's Jonah now talking calmly about taking one of the football players out for a beating.
"I don't fucking care if I can't handle him," he replies with a dead-eyed intensity when Ethan asks him "which army" he'll take with him. "I'm sick of him banging me in the shoulder every time he opens his locker. He's doing it on purpose." His gaze is distantly locked on the far wall of the cafeteria as he drinks from his milk carton.
"How many more times you gonna let it happen?" Diego asks him. Ethan—who's built like a linebacker but thinks team sports are "gay"—thinks Jonah fighting Trevor Schulze is funny, but Diego looks skeptical.
"Once." Jonah doesn't even look at him.
You turn in your seat to see what Jonah is staring at—and it's Trevor. When you turn back to look at Jonah, all the skepticism you shared with Diego evaporates. Jonah will do it, you can tell.
Why am I here experiencing this? you ask yourself.
Particularly when Zachary Dillon sent you a juicy list of people he met at Catherine's house who seem ripe for adding to your string.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
| Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author