This Song Will Save Your Life

“No one else is willing to do that. People in the daytime see Vicky Blanchet, English major, or Vicky Blanchet, fat girl. And they’re not wrong, but they’re still somehow overlooking me. Is this silly? Does this make sense?”

“It’s not silly,” I told Vicky. And I suddenly wanted to tell her more, wanted to tell her how Amelia Kindl saw me as a crazy girl whose life needed saving, how Ms. Wu saw me as a student in trouble, how Lizzie Reardon saw me as an endless source of amusement, and how I saw myself as so much more, so much brighter. But I didn’t even know how to begin, among these used cowboy boots and vintage ball gowns, how to lay out years of my life for Vicky in a way that would make sense. I didn’t want to tell her how Amelia or Ms. Wu or Lizzie or anyone else saw me, because I didn’t want Vicky to start agreeing with them.

So all I said was, “I see you as Vicky Blanchet, rock star.”

“And I see you as Elise, DJ extraordinaire,” she said, settling a big pair of sunglasses on her nose. “So buy the rhinestone pumps.”

I wound up buying not only the shoes but also two new pairs of earrings, a set of bangles, a vest, two dresses, and a pair of leather pants.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with leather pants?” I asked Vicky as I twisted to look at my backside in the mirror.

“Wear them when you dance around your room,” she explained, and I could tell from her tone that she was trying not to add obviously.

“But I don’t dance around my room,” I objected.

“Well, you should start.”

The total bill was enormous, but I’d received checks from both sets of grandparents for my sixteenth birthday, and if DJ clothing wasn’t the perfect use for that money, I didn’t know what was. It was still less than that bill I’d racked up on my back-to-school shopping trip, and those clothes had done nothing for me at all. But these clothes did something for me. They made me feel happy.

I went home looking for someone to share my good mood with, and the first person I saw was Alex. Actually, I just saw Alex’s bare feet. The rest of her was hidden under a number of big cardboard boxes.

“Craft project?” I asked.

Alex’s response came back muffled. “It’s for the spring fair. Everyone is supposed to make their own building, and then we put them all together in the field so it looks like a town. And then we each sell things from our buildings, only we sell them for fake money, not real money. The fake money is called Berger Bucks.”

Alex’s second grade teacher is Mr. Berger.

“Doesn’t that seem a little self-absorbed?” I asked her. “That he named the money after himself?”

“That’s what I told him,” Alex’s disembodied voice replied. “But he said he was the teacher, so he makes the rules. And the money. Only he said he doesn’t actually make that much money.”

“Got it. So what’s your building going to be?”

“A castle.” Alex moved a box so her head was poking out. “A poetry castle. That’s going to be the turret, right there.”

I didn’t see any turrets. I just saw more boxes, but I said, “It’s fabulous, Alex. Very royal.”

She beamed at me. Then I went upstairs, locked myself into my bedroom, and drew my curtains. I put on those ridiculous leather pants and DJed song after song, dancing with myself until I tired myself out enough to fall asleep. I didn’t even need to walk that night.

10

On Thursday, after Mom, Steve, Alex, Neil, and the dogs went to bed for the night, I changed into one of the dresses that Vicky had helped me buy. It was short, with a tight bodice and a tutulike skirt. I put on my new bangles, too. I even ran up to the attic to get out the belt that I had painstakingly covered in multicolored sequins last year, before suffocating it in a garbage bag when I decided that I wanted to look like everybody else.

Tonight I didn’t want to look like everybody else. Tonight I wanted to look like how I felt on the inside: Elise Dembowski, DJ.

“Woo-hoo!” Mel exclaimed when I showed up at Start. “Elise, honey, look at you!”

I pulled down my skirt and tried to play it cool. “I went shopping with Vicky.”

“I always knew that girl was going places,” Mel said. “She is a mother-loving genius, Vicks is. You are only further proof of that. Twirl for me, will you?”

I blushed. “Mel…”

“What, you’d deny me this small bit of paternal pride?” Mel stuck his hands on his waist, playing mad.

I had to smile at that, since my actual father was white, had arms about one-third as muscular as Mel’s, and was probably asleep right now.

Other than right now, I had barely thought about my father all night. Yes, it felt weird to take the school bus on a Thursday afternoon to my mom’s house instead of my dad’s. But I got over it. Dad had called my phone after di

When I got inside Start, I tried to beeline to the DJ booth to let Char know that I was here and ready to play whenever he wanted me to. But that guy with the big camera got in my way. Flash Tommy. He didn’t introduce himself or ask permission or anything, he just snapped a bunch of photos of me in quick succession, then walked away again, his external flash leaving bright clouds in my vision.

When I finally reached the DJ booth, Char was just transitioning into the Pixies.

“Way to steal my songs,” I said, climbing into the booth next to him. I edged him over a little with my hip so there would be room for us both. “Now I’ll have to find something else to play tonight.”

“Bummer,” Char agreed. “How long is it going to take you to come up with a replacement song? You need an hour or so to think it through?”

“Oh, please. I’m ready anytime.”

“All right, then, let’s get this party started. Hook in.”

Char kept playing while I unpacked my laptop and plugged it into his mixer. I cued up Joan Jett, “Bad Reputation,” then slung my headphones around my neck and said to him, “Ready.”

“Over to you, my lady,” he said, gesturing grandly.

I hit play, and the room exploded.

“You seem to have things under control here.” Char spoke directly into my ear as I surveyed the dancing crowd.

“You think?” I responded.

His laughter was a warm breeze on my ear. “All right, hotshot. I’ll leave you to it. Can I get you a drink?”

“A water would be great, thanks,” I said, looking away from my dance floor to find the next song for them. Maybe something kind of punk rock …

“You sure you don’t want a beer or anything?”

I looked up from my computer for a moment, just long enough to raise an eyebrow at Char. “I am still sixteen, you know.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that.”

“I might be wearing a new dress and shoes that aren’t sneakers, but I’m still sixteen.”

Char blinked a few times, flustered. “Some sixteen-year-olds drink beer,” he said. “And all your beers would be free, since you’re the DJ. That’s one of the best reasons to become a DJ, is for the free booze.”

“I thought it was for the DJ clothes,” I said.

“What?”

“Never mind,” I said. “I only have, like, a minute left on this song. Just bring me a cup of water. But make sure it’s free. You know, ’cause I’m the DJ.”

Char rolled his eyes and left me alone in the booth, and I turned my full attention to DJing.

I know that humility is a valued trait, but there’s no way to be humble about this: I was on fire. It wasn’t just that I had mastered the technical skills, thanks to my hours and hours of practice over the past week. It was more that something had clicked, and now I understood what Char meant about reading the crowd. They will tell you what they want. They will tell you vocally sometimes, with loud requests shouted into your ear at the least convenient times, right as you are trying to transition between songs, or with Post-its stuck to you. And they will tell you silently, by dancing or not dancing, smiling or not smiling, listening or not listening.