InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Garage Band Mondays ❯ Mistaken Identity ( Chapter 1 )

I don't own Inuyasha or any of the songs. They are owned by Rumiko Takahashi and their respective owners, respectively. I also don't own anything I happen to mention in passing, the only thing I do own is the plot. That's it.

 

 

Soundtrack: Here with Me by Plumb

Collide by Anarchy Club

 

 

Chapter 1: Mistaken Identity

 

The first time I won any kind of contest was the day this all started.

 

About a week beforehand, I was driving in my car with my best friend Sango when one of those dumb radio quizzes popped up asking some pointless question about some song by some band. They played a short clip from the song and if you knew the clip, you called in and answered the question.

 

The prize for today's quiz was time in the nearby recording studio. I wasn't really paying attention, because in all honesty, I hate the radio. I mean come on! Five minutes of music and then ten of commercials? What is that? There is enough advertising everywhere else, so there is no need to waste my ear's time with ridiculous nonsense like bowel obstruction medicine or a hot tub that sings to you when the jets turn on.

 

Sango on the other hand, loves the radio. Let me rephrase that. Sango does not love the radio. According to her, there are only two loves in this life. One is martial arts-that's understandable I suppose-her father won some kind of award or something like that, and it's the only thing Sango and her father have in common. Like this one time, Sango stuck her tongue out at her dad-she was making fun of him I think. The girl does this to everyone mind you. It's second nature to her. Well, her father didn't like this to much, so he grabbed her tongue and squirted a whole bunch of hand sanitizer on it. Sango just stood there wide eyed and watched the stuff evaporate. She told me later that her tongue was numb for hours. She hasn't used hand sanitizer since.

 

Her other love is Dane Cook. You know him right? Comedian, dark hair, in a couple movies? Yeah, she's in love with him. She's see every one of his acts and all of his movies. She got everything from DVDs to CDs to t-shirts. If he looked at it, she has it.

 

He does this one skit about car alarms. He makes a song out of the car alarms, and Sango memorized it, and every time we get in my car, she sings it. It gets annoying after awhile.

 

“Hello? I'm a car! Gasoline makes me run. Hello? Let's go for a ride! Oil is my blood. Backseat…Radio knobs….”

 

………

 

See what I mean? Every single time.

 

So Sango and I were driving down the road listening to the radio (much to my chagrin) when that stupid quiz came up playing a clip from Anarchy Club's Collide.

 

“I love this song!” I yelled as I turned up the volume. When the radio plays something I actually like I crank it as high as my ears allow. It doesn't work very well for conversation but boy does my car bounce.

 

The song abruptly stopped so my volume turning was wasted, and I cringed as the nasally voice of the DJ came up.

 

“…If you know the title of this song and the artist call in and if you're the ninth caller you-“it was at that point that Sango screeched at me while slamming the volume button down.

 

“You should call in Kagome! You might actually win!” she screamed at me while handing me her phone.

 

I hate phones. I hate talking on phones so I just stared at the black monstrosity before turning my attention back to the road.

 

My silence was all the hint Sango needed, so to spite me, she dialed and let it ring.

 

I don't know how it happened but the next thing I hear is Sango saying

“My name is Kagome. Kagome Higurashi!”

 

…………..

 

…WHAT?!?! My head whipped around so fast I heard my neck pop a bit. My hands jerked along with my head so the car decided to join the fun and swerve with of me. If I had to pick a word to describe myself, it would be uniquely coordinated. Well, that's two words, but that's not the point. I'm convinced my neurons are wired in strange ways so my spasticness is not my fault. Just so you know.

 

So that's how I ended up here, in front of the Major/Minor Recording Studio, home to almost every famous musical production ever. If you're famous, then there is a ninety nine point nine nine nine nine nine nine (you get the picture) chance that you have come in contact with MM Productions. They own a piece in well…every thing.

 

All I had with me today was my electric guitar, which I carried on my back and my amp which was held tightly in my right hand. I was going to bring some more stuff, but of course, I woke up late today.

 

I set my alarm to get me up in plenty of time, but I'm a paranoid sleeper. I tend to wake up when I think something is going to happen to me, and at some point in the night, the caustic glaring of those red numbers scared me. From the pieces lying on the floor of my room this morning, I assumed I kicked it, but that's only speculation. I usually end up kicking it, but sometimes I've thrown it, dropped it out my second story window, attempted to flush it down the toilet, and a whole slew of other things.

 

So I'm late.

 

I roled out of bed, and after checking my watch and realizing how late I was I entered panic mode. When I enter panic mode, blood doesn't get to the thinking parts of my brain, so important things, like deodorant, tend to be forgotten. I had also been meaning to do some laundry but that didn't happen.

 

I ran into my brother's room and grabbed some of his clothes. He's a couple of years younger than me, but he's a big kid so when I wear his clothes I end swimming in them. My hair kept flying in my face and I realized I hadn't showered, so on my way out, I grabbed one of his baseball hats and tucked my hair in it so it didn't show. As I passed the mirror in the hallway, I couldn't help but glance at it and realize how boy like I looked. My brother's black hoodie successfully "degenderized" my front, and his pants well, they're boy's pants people! What was I supposed to do with those?

 

I grabbed my keys and flew out the door to my car.

 

Then I flew back in, ran up the stairs to my room, and picked up my guitar and amp. Next I had to fight with them the entire way back to the car before manhandling them into my backseat. Then I was finally on my way.

 

Which was how I ended up here, in my brother's grungy, baggy clothes with a Yankee baseball hat placed rather haphazardly on my head covering up my greasy unruly mass of blue-black hair.

 

With a deep sigh of exaggeration I managed to drag myself up the stairs and into the front door. I came to a large waiting room connected to all kinds of doors and hallways, so if I went down there, I knew I would be hopelessly lost, and knowing my luck, I'd be lost forever and turn into a bitter old maid cursing everyone and whining about the good ol' days.

 

I sank down into a chair, causing a puff of air to escape my lungs and waited for the secretary to come back from wherever she went. And so I waited.

 

And waited.

 

And waited.

 

In reality, all this waiting was probably only ten minutes or so, but I'm not the most patient person, and asking for help from anyone makes me want to curl up in a corner and die. I'm not suicidal or anything, I just don't like people. Remember how I said I was a paranoid sleeper? That stems from the fact that I believe people are constantly judging me.

 

So…yeah…

 

So me, being the wonderful independent eighteen year old I was I picked a hallway and was on my way. The one I picked was on the right side of the room, and the floor was shiny. It might have been waxed recently. Did I mention I like shiny things? Hold one up to the light and I'll completely lose my train of thought. Like a raccoon. Or a demented prospector looking for gold in a salt mine.

 

I kept walking down the shiny hallway (it glowed like a new penny-and that's another thing I can't stand. Pennies. I mean, who thought up that idea? All the other ones are silver. Why use copper? It's a misfit!) until I heard voices. They all sounded exasperated and tired. They need coffee, because that's the adult's fix all. Like that guy from My Big Fat Greek Wedding who was obsessed with Windex. It's like that, except for everyone.

 

Thinking they could help me find my studio, I strolled in and put my things on the floor. Carting those bad boys around for so long so a number on my muscles. I stretched them out, doing arms circles and massaging my neck.

 

There were five people in the room and they were all sitting at a table on the other side of the room. A couple of them were rubbing their temples-one of them had her head down and was banging it on the table-while the other two had whipped out their cell phones and proceeded to scream various expletives into them which I don't fell comfortable repeating.

 

I cleared my throat which announced my presence. My mouth started to form a question, but was cut off by the man on the end. He gave me the creeps. His eyes which were brown, seemed a kind of dull red, and they looked dead. Emotionless. No higher brain function. Nobody's home. Poor guy.

 

He just sighed and managed to strangle out something along the lines of “Unpack your stuff and play your solo.” I think that's what he said anyway. So, not wanting to offend the nice man, I did what he said. All of the people looked like they could snap at any moment. Would you want to offend people who are possibly going through a mid life crisis? It's like the great Dane Cook says in another one of his skits.

 

When you're at work, there's always this one creepy guy. But this is the guy that will end up going crazy and killing people, so make sure you give the guy some candy. That way, when he goes on a rampage, he'll stop by your cubicle, whisper “Thanks for the Snickers” and proceed to shoot everyone else around you.

 

See what I mean?

 

So if playing my music can be a Snickers for them and save my life, I'm all for it.

 

I got all set up with my guitar hanging down from the strap. My fingers fluttered across the fret board as my mind went blank and I entered panic mode. I grasped for anything, but I have never thought well under pressure. So I grabbed the last thing I remember.

 

Out from my guitar came the opening chords of Collide by Anarchy Club. The song that got me in this mess is the only stinking thing that my stupid mind could come up with! Jeez.

 

But a funny thing happens. As I keep playing, those crazy people started to perk up. When I got to the solo in the middle (my favorite part by the way) all of them are at attention. No rubbing heads or vulgar expletives. They're all focused on me.

 

Did I mention I'm paranoid and scared of people, and judgment etc? I could feel the sweat starting, but I couldn't stop. So instead, I stared at my hands as I played one of my favorite songs.

 

When the song came to a close they were all staring at me, and I'm blushing, just standing there stupidly. I started to shuffle my feet, scoffing my toes against the shiny floor. Did I mention the shiny hallway extended into the room? It made the shiny floor. That was a pick me at least.

 

The creepy man stared at me. Then he said “Boy. What's your name?”

 

I don't do well in social situations with strangers. As my parents always say “Stranger Danger”. I actually had that phrase made into a bumper sticker and stuck it on my locker. I am so cool sometimes I astound even myself.

 

Anyway, I'm going into panic mode. Blood rushing everywhere, my mind grasping at straws. I didn't register that he called me boy. I was having problems with the name part. If my guitar can regurgitate an entire song, you'd think my brain would be smart enough to come up with some kind of answer, but I'm pretty sure all that's going to come out of my mouth is a noncommittal grunt of some kind. But, much to my surprise, I stutter out:

 

“Go.” They all looked up at me sharply. I'm pretty convinced that they're convinced I have Turrets or something.

 

But Go was an actual acceptable answer. I surprised myself. When my brother was little he was a…how to say this…well, my mom called him an atomic pooer. Meaning he went often and a lot. So my parents ended up saying the word “go” a lot around him. So his first word was “go”. Made my parents proud that boy. When he realized there was a “go” in my name (Ka-GO-me, just so you know) he started calling me “Go”. Not the most dignified name and he stopped when he discovered other words like appetizer. But that's a whole other story.

 

So Creepy Red Man was still staring at me as I wandered around Day Dream Land. A subtle cough got my attention.

 

“Go. Go Higurashi.”

 

After a brief and quiet huddle in the corner with the other people he walked over to me and grasped my hand, shaking it with enthusiasm.

 

I wanted to cringe, not only because his hands felt like sand paper, but because he was a stranger and I don't like being touched.

 

His next words changed my life forever.

 

“Well Go Higurashi, welcome to Garage Band. You have been chosen to proceed to the next round of the competition. If you win, you will become part of a band created solely by the American public. You could undoubtedly become one the most famous guitarists ever.”