A Potpourri of Freaks

Potpourri of Freaks was the name I suggested for our band. It’s what kids at school whispered about our trio of misfits as we walked past in the corridors.

When I mentioned it to Taylor and Otis during our Thursday band practice, Taylor glared at me with pinched eyebrows, hands planted on slender hips, while Otis stifled a chuckle behind his drum set.

Brushing my dark fringe out of my eyes, I tried to explain what I meant.

“We’d be reclaiming the narrative, you know, like in the Scarl—”

“Abby,” Taylor interjected, her voice sharp. “You’re not seriously going to bring up the Scarlet Letter, are you?”

I bit my lip. Otis cleared his throat, suddenly preoccupied with a thread of cotton on the knee of his jeans.

The cogs of my neurosparkly brain worked overtime to decipher why she’d be mad at the reference to a book we’d been studying in English Lit.

Then it clicked.

The handsome young substitute teacher. The rumours that spread through the school halls like a contagious disease.

“I…uh, no, I didn’t mean, um…sorry,” I mumbled, losing the grip on my tambourine. It crashed onto the tiles with a tinkle and a clatter.

Taylor vehemently denied the accusations, but couldn't prevent the gossip. Her reputation as ‘most likely to be voted prom queen’ did not survive.

I bent over to pick up my instrument, trying to swallow the foot lodged in my mouth. Luckily, Taylor understood that social ineptitude was part of my DNA, and with an exaggerated eye roll, changed the topic.

“We need to discuss outfits for Saturday.” She scanned Otis up and down as she spoke.

“What?” Otis said, tugging at his faded black hoodie—cinched tight around his face to keep his exposed scalp hidden from the world. Creepy, they called him, with his unblemished, milky white skin and total lack of facial hair—even eyebrows. But they’d never watched him on those drums. And to me, he had an alluring, almost celestial quality that I found exquisite.

Not that it mattered; Otis only had eyes for Taylor.

After some discussion, we settled on a name: The Misfits (a compromise) and agreed to wear bright colours, no hoodies—Taylor insisted. In the same way she insisted we perform an original song at the school’s end-of-year talent contest. I had proposed something more festive and seasonal, easier to memorise.

“Ugh, come on, Abby. You really think I’m going to get up there and sing Jingle Bell Rock like some cringe Christmas movie special?” She flicked her long blonde curls over her shoulder. Taylor had been blessed with one of those silky-smooth voices made for the spotlight. She’d never admit it, but I knew the contest was less about winning and more about redemption.

Arguing was pointless, which was how I ended up part of the band, despite being tone-deaf and lacking rhythm. Taylor wanted me on stage for moral support; my instrument was just for show.

The night of the contest snuck up on us faster than a shake of my tambourine. I stood in a corner backstage, box breathing to calm my tremulous hands while Taylor made low motorboat sounds and opened and closed her mouth in pretend yawns.

Otis arrived late, wearing a bright green polo shirt, buttoned up to his chin and tucked into black skinny jeans. He was mesmerising now that his face was no longer held captive by that hoodie. He shifted around self-consciously, repeatedly touching his smooth scalp.

“Here, I brought these,” I said timidly, peering at him through a curtain of hair as I handed him a red felt Santa hat. “She didn’t say no hats.”

Otis’s face lit up as he secured it on his head, flipping the white pompom to the side. “Cool! Thanks, Abby.” He flashed me a lopsided grin, and I quickly turned away to adjust my own pompom before he noticed my pink cheeks.

Taylor eyed our festive hats with a raised eyebrow, but before she could protest, we were called on stage. I noticed her usual rosy complexion had a yellowish-green tinge.

“Are you okay?” I whispered as she adjusted the microphone. She gave a small nod before the curtains opened, and a hushed silence fell through the auditorium.

The stage lights blinded me, but I could make out the ocean of faces staring at us expectantly. Otis kicked off the drum intro. Taylor waited for her cue. Her hands were shaking as she leaned into the mic and attempted the first line. What came out was not her usual perfect pitch, but a shrill and strangled assault on the ears.

Someone in the audience yelled “freaks,” sending a ripple of snickers and giggles among the crowd. Taylor stared blankly and froze, like someone had hit the pause button.

I glanced at Otis; his eyes were wide.

My mind jammed with panic; neither of us had memorised her song.

Do something, Otis mouthed at me.

My legs wobbled like jelly as I shuffled closer to Taylor. Her complexion had changed from green to white, leaving her almost as pale as Otis.

I took hold of the mic and cleared my throat.

“What a bright time, it’s the right time..."

My thin, wispy voice floated out, flat and hollow.

“...To rock the night away,” I croaked, my tongue like sandpaper, catching on my palate.

There was a long pause as people stared. For a moment, I imagined one of those cheesy movie scenes where someone in the audience starts singing along, then another, until everyone is on their feet and joining in—not in harmony but united.

My fantasy was shattered when a roar of laughter surged through the crowd like a Mexican wave.

Paralysed, humiliated, I prayed the curtains would fall and end the nightmare, when a rumbling, thunderous sound rolled through the venue. It hummed louder until it drowned out the cruel cackling in my ears.

I turned to see Otis, drumsticks rising and falling, the snap and thump of each beat reverberating through the floor and into my chest like a second heartbeat.

Under the spotlights, his pale skin glistened while his pompom bobbed as he struck the drums with frenetic speed until the sticks blurred in his hand, almost invisible. I watched as he hypnotised the crowd with pops and cracks, each shriek of the cymbal landing with precision, filling every crevice of the auditorium with his sound.

He pounded with controlled fury, building to a crescendo that felt transcendental. The last strike landed, sharp and final, snapping us back to earth.

After a collective pause, the room erupted with wild cheers and applause. I felt the energy course through me; its power gave Taylor the courage she needed. She stepped forward and sang, her voice steady and strong. This time, there was no booing, only a roar of support that gave me goosebumps for a week.

After that night, we remained outcasts, and they still called us freaks.

Not in hushed whispers like before, but to our faces, with smiles instead of snickers.

A Potpourri of brave, talented freaks.