Cornered by Rhoda Belleza Page B

got up on stage and sang the lucky pup song to a crowd, Bryan. Don’t you know that confronting pain is the only way to make it go away? Don’t you know that art is the best tool in life to turn shit into gold? Mr. Clarke taught us that.”
    â€œHe did?”
    â€œWell, I’m paraphrasing.”
    â€œOkay, fine. Taylor and Amanda and them used to call me ‘the Beak.’”
    â€œWhat? Why? Because of your nose?”
    â€œIt’s sort of large, if you haven’t realized.”
    â€œNo,” she said, looking closely. “It’s just that you have a small face.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œJust kidding,” she said. “Relax. Ain’t nothing wrong with a bit of beakness.”
    â€œThanks?” I said, smiling despite myself. “But if your next album is called ‘Bit of Beakness’ I’m going to kill you.”
    She smiled and touched a finger to her chin. “Hmmmm . . .” She laughed. We stood without speaking for a moment. The silence of the suburban night crushed down on us. It was peaceful, but I felt anything but.
    â€œIt wasn’t that bad, was it?” I said. She sighed.
    â€œIt looks totally different from wherever you sit on the totem pole, my friend. And only people on the top, or at least not the bottom, would ever, EVER say it wasn’t that bad. It was terrible. There were times, many times, I wished I was dead.”
    The word “dead” sat there in the night air for a long time. I felt awful. I was the reason a kid that young wanted to kill herself? I thought about my sister, Hannah. If someone treated her that way . . . I felt a little sick.
    â€œWhat can I do to make it better?” I said.
    â€œDon’t run away just because someone throws a spoon at you. Stick around to ask why they threw it.”
    â€œI have a feeling that’s supposed to have some deeper, artistic meaning. . . .”
    â€œI guess it means don’t treat people like shit. Stand up for people who are being treated like shit. Don’t go with the crowd just because it’s easier. . . .”
    â€œIs that what you’re doing?” I asked.
    â€œYup.”
    Something inside me shifted, clicked into place. “I’m sorry,” I said. She didn’t say she forgave me, but it felt good to say it.
    Instead, she looked out over the bridge and changed the topic. “You missed the last part of the last song. After ‘Lucky Pup’ I brought back the first song.”
    â€œWe’re all ugly?” I said.
    â€œYeah,” she said. “Well that’s how it starts. But that’s not how it ends.” She started to sing. I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me. “We’re all beautiful. We’re all beautiful. We’re all beautiful anyway.” The song repeated this simple phrase over and over and over again.
    I opened my eyes, stared at Tiffany—the little frizzy-haired girl somehow now visible despite the years—and I sang along. I didn’t care that my voice was out of key. I didn’t care about anything. I just sang.
    â€œWe’re all beautiful. We’re all beautiful. We’re all beautiful anyway.”
    {Verse}
    Cm-Bm-Am-G
    They use their lies
    And their fists.
    To divide you from your friends.
    You prepare, you adapt.
    But they wound you in the end.
    As a youngster in the corridor,
    You just wish to comply.
    As a person, getting older.
    You spit into their eye.
    {Chorus}
    Am-Em-F-C
    You’re only
    As ugly
    As you let them make you feel.
    I felt ugly.
    I was ugly.
    I was ugly.
    I was ugly.
    {Second verse}
    Cm-Bm-Am-G
    So you looked my way.
    You’re not redeemed.
    Not my friend.
    Not a thought.
    We never are who we seem
    In the end.
    Start something new.
    Be uncomfortable.
    Take a chance.
    Unwrap your mind.
    Who wants to be predictable?
    Not me, that’s for sure.
    {Chorus}
    {Alternate Chorus}
    Cm-Bm-Am-G
    We’re all