Auburn: Outcasts and Underdogs

by Valerie Thomas

  Chapter 7

  Once I was back in the main office, I tried to get a hold of Mom, but she had a hard time getting off work. That was probably for the best… I’d told her that I needed her to come sign off on something for school without mentioning that we’d done something wrong. Since she couldn’t come, I didn’t get in any trouble for it.

  I had to wait around for the final few hours of school though, while Charlie and Joey got picked up by their parents. It was a high price to pay in order to have our first performance, but afterward I figured we could pretty much handle anything. Other venues would probably let us play a complete song, at least.

  We were ready to start playing real gigs, if we could have found a place willing to host us. Between Charlie, Joey, and me, I swear we checked out every single building in LA. But still, I got flat-out rejected more times than I could count… Places just weren’t interested in a high school garage band.

  At least it gave me something to focus on. Jessica seemed to have forgotten about me, and with the search for a gig to take up my time I was—not happy, but content. As if I had been granted a temporary reprieve from my worries.

  The weather was cool on Wednesday evening of our third week of searching, and the sky kept letting out short bouts of rain. The good news was that school was out for Thanksgiving Break; the bad news was that I didn’t feel like we were any closer to finding a location to play at than when we’d started. Forget worrying about playing in front of people, I’d begun to worry that we’d never even get the chance.

  “Is there anywhere we haven’t checked?” Joey asked as we walked, fiddling with one of the metal hinges of his guitar case. We kept bringing our instruments, on the off chance that someone would ask us to play before they rejected us. But we hadn’t even gotten that lucky.

  The three of us had done our best to look like a single band, picking out navy shirts and black jeans that would have burned awfully in any season except winter. I couldn’t help feeling like that was part of why no one was willing to give us a chance: we didn’t look like rock stars, we looked like three strange kids who’d gotten off at the wrong train stop.

  “We haven’t checked Cat’s Cradle,” I said. “But it’s not worth it. They never have live shows, and the guy who owns it is… Well, I don’t think he’d be open to anything.” Cat’s Cradle was one of those places that felt like a holdover from the past that simply hadn’t figured out how outdated it was yet. It was a record store, with only four shelves devoted to CDs. Even if the whole place had been filled with CDs though, I probably wouldn’t have thought about it differently. People just didn’t buy their music in person anymore.

  I leaned against a wooden telephone pole behind me and stared out on the road in front of us. The passing cars were oddly soothing, moving with a predictable ebb and flow that helped distract me from the lingering scent of cigarette smoke.

  Charlie paced across the small patch of grass separating the three of us from the sidewalk. “Maybe you’re right. But we have to try, don’t we? Who knows, maybe we’ll be their first live band ever. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

  “Yeah.” It would be, but I already knew what the answer was going to be. Cat’s Cradle was about a mile’s walk from the sidewalk we were loitering on, and I couldn’t help feeling like the walk would be nothing more than a waste of energy.

  “Fine, let’s just go,” Joey said, with about as much enthusiasm as I was feeling.

  “Yeah, let’s go!” Charlie bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, a giddy smile coming to his face. “This is it! I can feel it! He’s gonna say yes and we’ll have our first real gig!”

  I pushed off from the wooden pole and followed the two boys toward Cat’s Cradle. At least we were heading in the direction of home… Kinda. I decided that once the owner said no we could head over to my apartment and hang out for a while. Mom was working, or she was on a date, or she would just be out of the house. Wednesday nights without my mom were a safe bet.

  For a while, the only sound was our footsteps against the pavement. I started to say something once or twice, about how we could play in a parking lot if we couldn’t get a gig, but I didn’t want to ruin Charlie’s excitement. As unfounded as it was.

  “When he says no, we should beat him with our guitars,” Joey joked. “Or we could threaten him, Godfather style.” He lapsed into a strange, throaty voice. “We’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse, see?”

  Charlie sniggered. “Yeah, we’ll have to keep that in mind.” He held out a hand as we stopped beneath a traffic light. “But I don’t wanna think anything along those lines. He’ll say yes because he has to. Because if we get a gig then we’re a real band, and not just three losers with guitars.”

  I nodded, knowing exactly how he felt. I wasn’t the only one who’d attached a lot to making this work. “I’m with Charlie. Hopefully he’ll say yes.”

  We kept walking once the light turned, passing by row after row of town houses. 17A, 16D… They all looked the same to me. About twenty feet wide, made from brown brick with a single white door looking out on the street. The town homes gave way to a small mall; Cat’s Cradle was hidden at the very back, behind the giant Safeway. Night was beginning to fall as we crossed the black parking lot, but my mind was focused on what was to come.

  I shifted my grip on the mic Mom had gotten me, suddenly wondering whether bringing it had been a bad decision. Will it look unprofessional to use a mic to sing for one person? I wondered.

  When we reached the music store’s door, Joey held it open and ushered me inside. The place was almost entirely empty, as usual. Dim fluorescent lights illuminated rows of brown cases; records to my left and right, CDs in the middle. The space was so small that I doubted it could fit twenty people without feeling cramped, but I guess we would have been lucky to draw even that many.

  A few feet away, the grizzled store owner cleared his throat. I knew from experience that he had a voice like a chain-smoker, and his face matched: creased and crumpled like yesterday’s homework, with a scar running along his cheekbone from God-knows-what. “Are you three looking for anything?” the man asked.

  Charlie stepped forward, striding confidently toward the granite counter. “No. Well, yes, I guess. We’re looking for a venue for our band. We’re new and we’d like to get some experience and we’d be thrilled if—“

  “I don’t think so,” the owner said flatly.

  “Please, sir. We really want to get some experience, but nowhere will have us.” Charlie’s voice had a slight pleading tone to it, but I couldn’t blame him. “I promise, we’re good. If you let us play here, I can guarantee at least… Fifty people. When was the last time you had that many customers in here at the same time?”

  Judging by the way the man’s lip curled, that last question had struck a chord. And not a pleasant one. I stepped forward, putting a hand on Charlie’s shoulder to let him know I was there. “This is a really cool store. I bought my first CD here. It would mean so much if you just let us play for even a few minutes.”

  The grizzled man looked from me to Charlie, then to Joey behind us. His expression softened slightly. “Okay, we’ll have an audition. Right here. Play one of your songs for me.”

  “R-right now?” My body felt suddenly cold, but I did my best to ignore it. Joey and Charlie seemed just as shocked, but they pulled out their guitars and the owner pointed them toward an outlet. I was the only one standing there, dumbfounded.

  “Battle or Jaded?” Charlie whispered once he’d finished setting up.

  It took me a moment to respond. “Jaded.” Battle wasn’t my favorite song; the lyrics weren’t there and no amount of vocal tweaking I did seemed to be able to save it. But I was confident that we could play Jaded well.

  Before I knew it, the first notes were echoing through the store. I held the mic up to my lips. “Feeling lost, twisted and confused. Abused like a puppet, caught up in a winter tempest. I’m feeling like a kite, torn up by the wind. My colors onc
e so bright, now I just can’t stand…”

  It felt almost silly singing with the mic, since I hadn’t bothered to plug it in anywhere. That was far from the only problem, though; I could tell that my voice was unsteady, but I did my best to ignore it. “One, two, three! Do you see, what you’ve done to me? And can you hear, my whining plea? Oh, please just let me be. Let me be.”

  There was time enough for a deep breath before the second verse. Time enough to notice how much my left hand—the one not holding the mic—was shaking down by my side. “Feeling hated, rejected and affected. By all of the cold shoulders, by all of your hostile stares. Where once I was a kite, now I can no longer fly. I’m stuck here on the ground, and I just keep falling down.” To my surprise, I saw the old man nod. It wasn’t much, just enough that I noticed it.

  “One two, three!” Launching into the second chorus, I felt as if I was finally gaining control of myself. I’d stood as stiff as a board at first, but I allowed my arms and legs to relax. “Do you see, what you’ve done to me? And can you hear, my whining plea? Oh, please just let me be. Let me be.”

  Over my shoulder, I could hear Charlie and Joey playing faster in anticipation for the end of the song, as if they were rushing to get it all over with. “I want this feeling to end. Please mend my broken colors, and let me sing again. Hear my plea, and let me be. Oh, don’t make me feel lost, and don’t make me feel hated. The sadness will pass. Don’t leave me feeling jaded.” The final notes on Charlie’s guitar faded slowly, and in a moment the store was quiet. The old man nodded again after it was clear we were done; I was sure that we’d turned him.

  “That was decent,” he said, leaning against the countertop.

  I smiled at him. “Thanks! Does that mean we can play here?”

  “Oh, no. Sorry.”

  I’d known it was coming. That should have made the rejection easier to swallow, but it didn’t. “That’s okay. Thanks for listening.” I turned to leave the store.

  The store owner sighed. “Look, how old are you kids?”

  “We’re freshmen in high school,” Joey said, half-answering his question.

  “Yeah, that sounds about right. You did good, especially for your age. As a vocalist, you have to get control of your nerves. You were all over the place at the beginning. And you two guitarists need to decide whether the bass or six-string should lead. It sounded like you were fighting for the spotlight, which was distracting.” He stood still for a few seconds, no doubt waiting for some kind of response.

  I didn’t know what to say. He was probably right, but I thought he was a jerk for saying it so plainly.

  “Thanks for the, um, feedback,” Charlie said. “We’ll see you later.” He and Joey unplugged their guitars and began to stow them away.

  With their attention elsewhere, I decided to try convincing him one last time. “What if we make those changes that you talked about? Would you let us play here then?”

  The store owner raised an eyebrow at me. “Probably not. There are other, smaller problems too. Things that will get ironed out with work. It’ll probably be four or five years before you’re good enough to play here.”

  “What?” I asked, feeling a sudden surge of anger. “In some crummy music store? You’ve gotta be kidding me!”

  “No, I’m not. While you’re at it, let’s add respecting others to the list of things for you to work on. Yelling at me won’t get you anywhere.” He raised an eyebrow, as if waiting for some further argument. When I didn’t give any, he visibly relaxed. “Alright, how about this? If you and your friends come back a year from now and play for me—and if you’ve fixed your guitar and vocal problems—then I’ll consider letting you play here.”

  As hurt as I was, I still noticed a softness to his expression that made it hard to stay angry. Besides, I wasn’t angry at him. I was angry at our situation, angry that the one person who hadn’t rejected us straight out still thought we needed to get better. I’d spent four months singing into a mop handle, getting crap from Jessica, crap from the principal…

  To one trial, we add another, I thought, remembering the phrase even though I couldn’t recall the source. It certainly summed up how I felt: just when I thought I was getting a grasp on my life, new wrinkles arose.

  “Well, see you in a year then,” I said, pushing my anger down and forcing a grateful smile.