Hand Clapping Band

I'm on a patio, at dusk, with a whole bunch of people. We are a hand clapping band, and make rhythm pieces up, with about fifteen of us clapping at different tempos. We do it with music in the background so that it's to people's favourite tunes, but with more pizzaz. We're scheduled to do a big public performance at an old folk's home, but when we get to the address, we realize that we're in kind of a department store. There are tons of people there to watch us. Br. is with me - we're kind of in charge I suppose. I have chosen for us to do a Gwen Stefani song, last minute, to make him happy. The principal is upset by this, saying that it's not appropriate, and that she swears too much. I assure him that we'll substitute the words, "This is my shit, this is my shit," with "This is my stuff." He is not happy, but can tell that we're going to do it anyhow. I run around, telling everyone what we have to say instead of shit, and making everyone warm up. I call Br. to let him know, and I get this weird message on his phone. "Amber... thanks for calling AGAIN Amber..." It's really rude, and totally hurts my feelings. Now I'm pissed that I've made this Gwen song happen for him. We start up, and do this marching band piece that we were slated to do, and then Gwen fires up. Sure enough, I can see Br., and he's totally stoked. He's waving his hands around in the air inbetween clapping, and waves and me, grinning. I finger him, and mouth the words "Fuck you!" to him. He rolls his eyes, and I am really upset.

The concert is over. This super cute guy that looks like a marine comes up to me. The department store kind of looks more like a hospital now, and he comes into my cubicle thingy. He puts his hand behind my head, and gives me this awesome kiss. He hands me this folder, and it's all about him, from the school district. He's from NJ, and when I ask him about this, he says that he plans on staying here. He's got my folder, and I pull it out of his hands to read it. It says that I'm mentally ill, and that I made up a story about my dad being on this firing squad thing in the IRA that isn't true. It's got all the stuff about me doing drugs, skipping school, being a nuisance, and copies of my essays in highschool... one is called "Who's womb is it anyways?" It's a rant about anti-abortion activists. They've kept all my somewhat subversive school papers in one spot. Everything is hi-lighted. I am laughing, and look up at him. "They didn't quite know what to make of me in highschool." I say to him... "Nobody did except a couple of art teachers & one Social Studies teacher... everyone else didn't get me." (This is kind of true, actually) He doesn't care, and we decide that we're going to date exclusively. We make out some more, and he leaves.