Everything We Are

by Janci Patterson

  I nod.

  “Yeah, hey!” Jenna says. “I know this is kind of last minute, but the band’s getting together tomorrow and I wondered if you wanted to come to the studio to audition.”

  “Sure,” I say, before I can think about it. “I mean, I’ll have to check with Johnny, of course. He schedules me pretty tight.”

  She pauses. “Oh, is Johnny your agent?”

  “No,” I say. “Johnny Cash. I’m booked for his star for the rest of the week.”

  “Ah,” Jenna says, getting it now. “Well, if Johnny can spare you, we’d love to see you around three o’clock. I’ll text you the address.”

  “I’ll be there,” I say. And I expect her to say bye and hang up, but she hesitates. Gabby’s leaning toward me, as if she’s torn between giving me space and coming over to press her ear to the phone.

  “So how’d you get into busking?” Jenna asks.

  “Oh, you know. Between tours with Springsteen and returning Clapton’s calls—”

  She laughs. “All right, fair enough. If that’s my competition, maybe we’d better audition for you.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I think I can squeeze you in.”

  Gabby stares at me wide-eyed. I’ve been unconsciously smiling while I’m talking and I turn around so she won’t see.

  “Good,” Jenna says. “Can I ask where your last job was?”

  “You mean in music? It’s been a little while, but I’ve played Carnegie Hall and with the LA opera—” I cringe. Not exactly the most exciting credits for an audition with a pop band.

  “That’s awesome. Don’t worry if you haven’t worked in music lately. I used to work as a roller-skating waitress. And I was horrible at it.”

  I smile, picturing her wobbling around on roller-skates in one of those god-awful diner uniforms. And looking cute as hell doing so. “But I bet you got a lot of tips.”

  She laughs. “Mostly from people who felt sorry for me, though there was the occasional guy I spilled on and had to help wipe down.”

  “No,” I say.

  “Ha. Sadly, yes.”

  I wait for her to gracefully make her exit, but she pauses again. I turn around and find Gabby leaning against the counter, her curiosity apparently overcoming her good manners.

  “I’m really looking forward to playing for you,” I say.

  “Me too, Felix,” she says, and the sound of my name from her mouth gives me chills. “See you tomorrow.”

  I hang up and try to shake off the goosebumps, but Gabby is staring at me.

  “You’re going to audition for AJ,” she says.

  “Yes,” I say. “Tomorrow.”

  She lets out a squeal higher-pitched than any note ever played on a cello, and throws her arms around me again.

  I need this job. I know I do.

  But what makes my heart hammer is the thought of seeing Jenna Rollins again.

  Three

  Felix

  Alec and Jenna’s practice space is in a flat-topped building in West Los Angeles, across the street from a Sprouts and a yoga place. I recognize the neighborhood—my last dealer liked it for its many small alleys, and I force myself not to look for his car.

  Somewhere around two AM last night, when I was lying awake trying not to think about using, it occurred to me that joining a band might be hell on my sobriety. Not the music or the job, both of which I need, but the associations. So many people in music use that it’s better than even odds someone playing for AJ is an addict—bonus points because their last cellist left them when his own addiction took him off the rails.

  The idea of playing, traveling, staying at hotels with someone who’s using was enough to break me out in a cold sweat. The long nights on the road or catching red-eye flights, the backstage parties, the appearances at clubs with people using in the corners—

  I couldn’t do this. I knew that I couldn’t. Give me a week and I’d be flying high again, and I knew exactly where that led.

  God only knew who I’d get killed this time.

  It was only thoughts of Jenna that got me out of bed this morning—or, more accurately, hauled my ass off of my dad’s fold-out couch. I’d showered and dressed and driven out here—listening to Kurt Cobain’s rendition of the Vaselines’ “Jesus Doesn’t Want Me for a Sunbeam” and humming along to Lori Goldstein’s cello part—all the while telling myself it isn’t hopeless. I’m not trapped in a world with dealers on every corner. I can stay safe and stay clean.

  Even if I feel like I can’t.

  When I knock on the studio door, my palms are sweating. I’m greeted by a woman with cotton-candy pink hair, shaved on one side, wearing Converse sneakers and a little girl’s jumpsuit-style dress made entirely of shiny black leather. I can’t tell if the look is missing a whip or a Hello Kitty backpack. “Hey,” she says. “Judging by the size of your instrument, I’m guessing you’re Felix.”

  “Um, yeah,” I say. The size of my instrument? God, maybe Gabby was right. Maybe pop musicians do just talk that way. But the way Jenna said it . . . I force myself back to the present. “And you’re . . . Roxie?” I don’t mean to sound unsure. I Googled the band last night to learn about all of them. Roxie is the drummer, and she signed on with the band right before they recorded their second album, less than a year ago, when their original drummer quit to spend more time with his family.

  Roxie doesn’t notice my hesitation. She’s already turned around and beckons me to follow her. We head downstairs and through a set of sound-proof doors, into the basement studio. It’s a fully-equipped, professional setup with what looks to be all the latest gear—not that I know a ton about sound equipment. There’s a black leather couch and a couple matching chairs on one side of the room. Roxie’s drums are set up in the corner, and a guy with spiky blond hair and a tall pair of cowboy boots bends over an amp next to it.

  Leo. The bassist.

  “Hey!” he says. “Help yourself to some jerky.” He straightens and yells through a doorway to the back. “Jenna! Your boy’s here!”

  I lean my cello against the wall and rub my hands on my jeans, trying not to react to being called Jenna’s boy. The jerky he’s referring to is sitting on top of a speaker, long strips of pale meat, almost like bacon.

  “You might want to pass,” Roxie says. “It’s home-cured alligator. No telling what you might catch.”

  Leo shakes his head. “Just because you’re a vegan doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for the rest of us.”

  “Vegetarian,” Roxie says. “It’s different.”

  Leo picks up a strip of alligator jerky and takes a big bite. “Either way, you’re missing out.” He holds out a piece to me, and I’m trying to figure out how to politely decline—drug-laced alligator jerky might be a stretch, but it still puts me on edge—when Jenna breezes through the door. She’s wearing more makeup than yesterday, and a skirt that shows off her legs. Her t-shirt fits tight around her waist and I can’t help but stare.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” she says back.

  She’s watching me as intently as I’m watching her, and I look away, sure Leo and Roxie have noticed. But Leo is sitting in the corner next to his bass guitar, tugging off his cowboy boots. He’s not wearing socks underneath.

  “Ew, Leo!” Roxie says. “Put your boots back on. We don’t need to smell your feet.”

  Leo shakes his head. “I can’t play with my shoes on.”

  Roxie’s brow furrows. “Since when?”

  “Since I realized it ruins my acoustics.”

  There’s a pause, in which Roxie just stares at him. “Dude,” she finally says. “That’s insane. Besides, you’re not playing. You’re listening to an audition.”

  “Still. Got to get in the right frame of mind.”

  Roxie groans. “I apologize for him,” she says to me. “He�
��s the weird one.”

  “Keep LA weird, man.” Leo leans back against the wall.

  Roxie closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I’ve told you a thousand times, that is not a thing.”

  “How do you know?” Leo asked. “Ever been there?”

  Jenna turns to me with a small smile. “According to Leo, LA is Louisiana.”

  “It’s not just me,” Leo insists. “Ask the post office.”

  Roxie groans. “Just put your damn boots back on.”

  Leo wiggles his toes in her direction. “Hey, if you’d air out your toes once in a while you wouldn’t have foot fungus.”

  Roxie looks offended. “I do not have foot fungus!”

  “You do,” Leo says. “I saw it last week when you were wearing those strappy shoes. You know how your left big toenail’s lifting up? Foot fungus.”

  “Ew. No.” But Roxie eyes her sneakers warily.

  I realize I’m still standing there like an idiot. I turn back to Jenna and catch her checking me out again.

  I’m wearing jeans that are just tight enough without being trendy, and a t-shirt with a fit to match. I almost always wear slacks and collared shirts to audition—I’m a big believer in dressing for the job you want. But when that job is with a pop band, I figure dressing down is the look, and Leo’s t-shirt and jeans tell me I’m not wrong.

  Still, it’s nice to be appreciated.

  “Sorry,” Jenna says. “We’re a little scattered today. And Alec is late. This is . . . pretty much normal for us.”

  I smile. “No problem. Mind if I tune up?”

  She smiles back. “Of course,” she says. “Have a seat.”

  She gestures to a chair against the wall that I’m guessing used to be Mason’s. It’s covered in stickers, most of them from metal bands. I pull June out of her case and get her ready to play. Jenna sits on the couch across the room, her legs folded to the side, and I feel her watching me as I play a few notes, my nerves vibrating like the strings.

  Fingering.

  Focus, I tell myself. I am going to jack up this audition before it even gets started.

  That’s when Alec walks in.

  I’ve seen pictures of him online, of course—I stayed up past midnight again last night torturing myself with every image of him and Jenna the internet had to offer. Gabby was right. They looked like soul mates.

  Meeting him in person is something else. Alec is tall, a good six inches taller than me. His dark hair is slicked back into a low ponytail, and he looks up from his phone and fixes his blue eyes on me.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Alec!” Jenna says, sounding like Gabby’s cheerleader twin. “This is Felix, the cellist I told you about.”

  “Yeah, I guessed that,” Alec says. “What with the cello.”

  I give him a half-wave. “Hi,” I say, when what I want to say is closer to “I swear I wasn’t hitting on your girlfriend except I really was please don’t hit me.”

  “He was playing Hollywood Boulevard when I was out with Ty,” Jenna says. “Ty ran off and I found him telling Felix here all about Mason and his douchery.”

  I smile. “He’s a cute kid. Did you guys try out Life yet?”

  Jenna laughs. “Yes, and you were right. I was a childless mortuary assistant. And you make money for having kids. What the hell is that?”

  “Right?” I say. “So did Ty win?”

  “Of course,” she says. “He was an accountant with four kids who became a musician after a mid-life crisis and this somehow all worked to his benefit financially.”

  I laugh. “I warned you.”

  “Yeah,” Jenna says. “After I bought it.”

  Alec is looking between the two of us with a concerned expression, and I wipe my hands on my jeans again.

  There it is. I’ve blown the audition before I even played. Jenna and I haven’t exactly devolved into straddling and fingering yet, but the chemistry is obvious.

  I hope he sticks with just nixing me for the job and doesn’t feel the need to kick my ass.

  “Seriously, Leo,” Roxie says, folding her arms across her chest. “Put. On. Your. Shoes.”

  “Seriously, Roxie,” Leo responds. “You need to get some cream for that fungus.”

  Roxie huffs, grabs her stool from behind the drums, and settles on it in the corner. Leo drags over a folding chair and sets it up so close he’s practically on top of her.

  Alec sighs. “Welcome,” he says to me. “Let’s hear you play.”

  He settles next to Jenna on the couch, and Alec extends his arm along the backrest, but I’m grateful Jenna doesn’t lean in. My goal now is to get out of this as quickly as possible without burning bridges.

  “Jenna asked me to play something I love,” I say. “So I’ve got a couple pieces for you.”

  I stand June up on her peg and raise my bow. I never get nervous when I audition—I can play, and I put in the time to be prepared. But playing for these guys is different, first because I’ve never auditioned outside of classical, second because playing for Jenna feels like a hell of a lot more pressure than anyone I’ve auditioned for before.

  And third because I can feel Alec’s eyes on me, and he clearly knows why I’m really here. I don’t dare look up at any of them while I play. There’s too much tension in the room, too much happening out there, and the music has to be just me and June.

  I start with “Head” by The Meat Puppets. It was a change in sound for them—slow and moody—and has a surprising range for a cello part in a rock song. It’s one of the only rock songs I ever performed—outside of Hollywood Boulevard, anyway—in a duet with my friend Ryan playing the piano part. As I play, the notes drown out the tension, and it’s just me, June, and the music. The vibrations calm my nerves, and I’m glad I’m here, sharing this with them, even if it’s only this once.

  It feels good to play for someone who’s here to listen to me, and not just pass by on the street.

  Toward the end of the song I steal one glance up at Jenna. She’s watching me with a smile on her face and a faraway look in her eye—

  And Alec is watching her.

  Next I play a cover of Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Under the Bridge” that I arranged my second time out of rehab, the week before I went back to the drugs. Anthony Kiedis wrote the song about trying to stay sober in Los Angeles, and it has this melancholy feel of a guy who’s trying to be clean, but it lands him utterly alone.

  I relate.

  I finish with a selection from Shostakovich’s “Cello Concerto Number Two,” which is straight up classical, but it’s dark and beautiful and crazy demanding. I love it. The sounds June and I produce during that concerto—both bright and dark—are what I’m proudest of as a cellist.

  When I finish, I find them all staring at me. Which is what they’re supposed to do while I audition for them, but still.

  Jenna speaks first. “That was beautiful. Are you sure you’d want to play with us?”

  “Come on, Jen,” Leo says. “We could play that kind of stuff if we wanted to.”

  Roxie gives a doubtful grunt.

  I clear my throat and put away my bow. I’ve probably shot too high. I should have gone with more Cash songs, or at least something a little more lowbrow than Shostakovich, who nobody outside of classical can even spell.

  Jenna leans forward, those gray eyes studying me. “Why did you pick that last piece?” she asks.

  I’m not sure how to answer. She told me to pick things that I love, so what other reason would I have? But the truth is I love a lot of music, and I’ve played hundreds of pieces.

  “Because that one sounds like I feel lately,” I say, and her face softens, like she understands something I’m not sure even I do.

  “You’re amazing,” she says, and my heart flutters a little. Then I look at Alec and see him watch
ing us both with sharp eyes.

  Yes, he definitely understands, probably better than I do. He gives an exaggerated sigh, and I wait for him to politely tell me they’ll get back to me and dismiss me so he can tell the others there’s no way in hell.

  “Can we just hire him already?” Alec says. “He’s more than good enough to play our stuff, and you’ve obviously already made up your mind.”

  I stare at him. He can’t have just said that.

  Jenna’s whole face lights up, and she turns to the others. “Leo? Roxie?”

  “I’m cool,” Roxie says.

  “Works for me,” Leo says. “If he can handle Roxie’s foot fungus.”

  “Shut up!” Roxie kicks at him, but he dodges back as if afraid to even be touched by her shoe.

  “It’s okay, Rox,” Leo adds. “I’ll get you a tube of cream. It’ll clear right up.”

  “If you do that,” Alec says, “will you shut the hell up about Roxie’s feet?”

  “Sure,” Leo says. “I’m just looking out for her hygiene.”

  “Band vote,” Alec says. “Leo buys anti-fungal cream. All in favor?”

  Alec, Jenna, and Leo all put their hands in the air. I sit absolutely still, reeling from their previous decision.

  All of them just said they want me to join their band. For the first time, I actually consider playing on stage with Alec and Jenna.

  “I’m not using his stupid cream,” Roxie says.

  “You’re outvoted,” Alec says. “You use the cream. Leo shuts up. That’s the deal.”

  Roxie folds her arms and slumps on her stool, while Leo looks thoroughly proud of himself.

  “Anyway,” Jenna says, looking at me apologetically. “Are you sure you want to join us?”

  Join a band. Based in LA. Playing new music and traveling. With Jenna. All worries fly out of my mind.

  “Okay,” I say. “Yeah, sure. I’m in.”

  Jenna smiles. “Do you have any questions for us?”

  About a million, first of which being what in the hell I’m signing on for. Alec is staring at me with this look of resignation on his face, like he’s not especially happy I’m joining the band, and I can’t say I blame him.