Friend or Foe

by Patrick Jones

  “Why do you think he got into it with that guy?” I asked Desiree while Chase was outside on his phone. “I think it was Chase egging him on. Stupid. Everything was going so well. We got good paying gigs all summer—”

  “I think that was why,” Desiree said, her voice still a hoarse whisper. “I think he was feeling on top of the world, especially with the FunkFest coming up. But then the thing with the manager and the guy probably brought him down to reality—well, his reality, that no matter what, to a lot of people he was just another thug like they saw on TV.”

  “What about FunkFest?” I asked. Mrs. Moore had reported that Orlando was too angry to focus on the band.

  “Ebony said she’d ask him for me, since he at least gets to talk to her on the phone,” she said.

  “Why doesn’t he call us?”

  “Like everything, family only.” I looked at the families milling around us. To me, they were lucky. They got to see and talk to people they cared about. I guessed they probably didn’t feel lucky, though.

  I sensed Desiree was tired of talking. She turned back, stared at the door. I waited, took it all in. Thought about my mom being down here and not liking the thoughts I was having when Chase came back inside. “This is stupid,” he snapped. He was right, but so very, very wrong.

  “I wish I could bribe them with this.” Desiree pointed to the gold necklace.

  If the colors gold or green mattered, I thought, Orlando wouldn’t be here.

  5

  MAY 18 / MONDAY EVENING

  REHEARSAL STUDIO AT CHASE GREEN’S HOUSE / FRISCO, TX

  “Higher Ground!” Chase shouted the song name, but I wasn’t having it. He’d started to lay down the bassline on our normal warm-up number, but I kept my drumsticks by my side, resisting his hijacking of my rightful role.

  Hayden and Parker joined in on guitar and keyboards, but Dylan and Tyler, on tambourine and sax, kept their instruments by their side. “Come on, guys, let’s go. Big show on Saturday.”

  “Where’s Ebony?” I shouted to Desiree. Ebony, like Desiree, provided background vocals, although Chase had told me he thought Desiree should sing lead on some of the songs he composed. Orlando, who wrote most of the band’s original material, liked to do vocals on his own songs.

  Desiree didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were on her phone, no doubt filled with tweets and texts of support. I didn’t even expect her to be here, let alone rehearse.

  “She’s at home with her folks waiting for Orlando’s call,” Desiree shouted over the music as Chase, Hayden and Parker jammed away. “She said she’d call me after she talked with him.”

  Chase stopped playing and signaled for Hayden and Parker to cut off. “Ian, what’s your problem? We got a big show on Saturday. If Orlando isn’t able to make it, then—”

  “He’ll be there!” Desiree shouted, like it made a difference. Orlando was a black kid accused of assaulting a white security guard in Texas. He’s lucky he didn’t live in Florida, or he might be dead.

  “But if he’s not, Des,” Chase started, his tone way nicer than when he snapped at me. “If he’s not, we still have a show to do. I’ll need to redo all the arrangements if we don’t have Orlando’s guitar front and center. And you and I will have to share the vocals, so—”

  “Chase, who made you the boss all of a sudden?” I stood up from the drum set. I wanted to bash the cymbal over Chase’s clean-cut, never-a-blond-hair-out-of-place head.

  Chase didn’t answer; he started playing again. Everybody joined in, but me.

  6

  MAY 19 / TUESDAY EVENING

  REHEARSAL STUDIO AT CHASE GREEN’S HOUSE / FRISCO, TX

  “It’s not good news,” Ebony told the PunkFunkers. We were all set up to play, but she stood apart, by the door, with her parents behind her. Her mother rested one hand on Ebony’s shoulder; the other joined hands with Orlando’s father. They were like people on a sail boat tethered together, expecting a damaging wind.

  “At the detention hearing, the judge decided he has to stay in JDC,” Orlando’s mother said sharply. Even with her short stature, she came off as the most powerful person in the room.

  “How could they decide that?” I asked. Orlando’s father rambled, as he tended to do, about risk factors and other nonsense. It was a smoke screen and we all knew it. Any white kid would be home—Chase and I were proof. But not Orlando. We got probation, maybe an ankle bracelet; Orlando got cell bars.

  “They cut his hair,” Ebony said, speaking to her shoes. “Cut it all off.”

  “What?” asked Desiree, who had her head down to hide her tears.

  The two girls talked to each other, but I kept one eye on Orlando’s father and another on Chase. Chase did the same, but neither of us asked the question. We waited.

  “So when will he get out?” Hayden finally asked.

  Orlando’s mom explained the next step, something called first appearance, but vowed that they intend to continue to fight both Orlando’s detention and the charges to be filed against him. The obvious answer to Hayden’s question was clear to me: Orlando wouldn’t be out for a long time. “Ian, Chase, Desiree, when the time comes, you’ll be asked to testify about what you saw,” Orlando’s mom said.

  “I need to see him!” Desiree shouted, but Orlando’s mom just shook her head. “You can write him. I’ll give you the address. We’re working to get Ebony in with us, but it’s still family only.”

  “We’re family too,” I said, and others nodded.

  Orlando’s mom whispered something to Ebony. Ebony nodded. “As for the band, Orlando thought that Chase should keep things running . . .”

  I didn’t need to hear anything else. As Chase solemnly nodded, pretending to be all modest about it, I sat at my drum kit, motionless. Orlando and I had been friends since ninth grade, when nobody else really talked to him because they were scared or jealous or something. I knew he could play the music I’d heard in my head. With Ryan and then Parker, we were the band. Then Chase came along with his weak lyrics and base-level bass playing, but more importantly, his parents’ big bankroll, including space to rehearse. In came Chase, out went Ryan.

  I felt all eyes on me, but I wouldn’t look up. I stared at the foot pedal for the bass drum and imagined beating it as loud and crashing as the feeling in my chest.

  “Ian, you good?” I heard Hayden say, sympathetically. My eyes stayed focused on the foot pedal. Similar looks followed from others, but not Chase, not Ebony, not Desiree. They’d all gone into a huddle in the corner with Orlando’s parents: the clique of the connected.

  “Ian, you down with this?” Parker asked.

  Finally I raised my head up, but still didn’t make eye contact. I moved my neck from side to side, and then took off my glasses, but stayed silent. “Ian, what are you going to do?” Parker asked.

  I stayed silent, staring past Parker toward Chase, Ebony, and Desiree. “Nothing,” I said to Parker. He nodded, smiled and walked away. I counted off a beat and started playing, slapping the sticks hard and fast building the rhythm—the rhythm of rage.

  “Nothing,” I whispered again to no one. But Chase finally caught me staring at him and responded with a goofy grin, or maybe a smirk. Nothing now, I thought. Everything tomorrow.

  7

  MAY 20 / WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

  COLLIN COUNTY JUVENILE PROBATION OFFICE

  “So, it’s your decision, Ian.” The probation officer looked quite satisfied with himself as we sat in his small office.

  “He will do the right thing,” Mom assured the guy, like she knew what the right thing was.

  “What we do depends upon what you do,” the young bearded guy said. “We can offer you a deal. Community service, but nothing on your record. If Orlando goes to trial, all you need to do is tell the truth. As we know, the truth means you’ll back Mr. Davidson’s account that Orlando swung at him, and your role was trying to protect the officer. Orlando denied his actions, but did say you did nothing.”

 
How can such a small room hold such a big lie? I wondered, but said nothing.

  “But if you don’t tell the truth, we’ll get you for perjury after the trial and put you in the system on EHM now.”

  “EHM?” Mom asked. She wasn’t saying much, to reduce the chance of arrest for public intoxication.

  “Here’s the real question, Ian.” He’s got that tone like a teacher gets when they’re trying to trick you into snitching or something. “How much does this friendship matter to you?”

  I started to speak, but Mom shut me down. “Ian knows better than to trust people who only let you down.” Mom’s the expert. She never really recovered from Dad leaving, which pushed her to rely even more on the bottle. Me, it scared me straight. I vowed I wasn’t going to allow any girl to reject me. I’d do it first. Although being short, shy, and obsessed with funk and grunge music, it wasn’t like I had to beat girls away with my drumsticks.

  “Ian, I’d hate to see you destroy your future over a friend that’s not worthy of you.” I hated how he kept using my name and bad-mouthing Orlando. He could care less about my future. He didn’t fool anyone.

  “What did Chase say?” I asked the guy. He shrugged.

  “I can’t say. You should ask him yourself.”

  Mom started on about what good kid Chase was, which seemed to imply Orlando was a bad kid.

  “You can see the advantages to what I’m proposing. Don’t make it hard for yourself, son. It’s easy to do the right thing here.”

  I would be mute. I wasn’t book smart, but I knew the easy way was usually the wrong way.

  8

  MAY 21 / THURSDAY AFTERNOON

  PARKING LOT / FRISCO HIGH SCHOOL

  “Ryan, wait up!” I yelled at Ryan Tabor across the school parking lot. I dashed between the SUVs and luxury cars , and the noise from open windows blasting country or rap was hard to shout over. Ryan didn’t turn around until I caught up with him and grabbed his arm. “Ryan, I want to—”

  “Seriously, Ian, again.” Ryan stared me down. “I’m bored with hearing it.”

  “I told you I was sorry a hundred times.” Ryan, the fourth member of the original band, played bass before Chase. Orlando had ousted him for reasons nothing to do with music. Ryan had briefly been Desiree’s boyfriend before she’d met Orlando. Chase had money; Ryan had history.

  I tried once more to explain. “I argued with Orlando, but—”

  “Well, at least he didn’t punch you like he did with that guard,” Ryan replied. Orlando’s arrest and detention remained trending topic number one at school, in particular with music geeks like Ryan.

  “That’s not the story,” I said. I repeated the tale I thought I would tell on the stand—that the guard threw the first punch, but my vision was blurred. Getting punched in the face tended to cause that condition—and Chase taking over the band was a knockout shot.

  Ryan listened to my version, but I could tell he wasn’t buying it. “Look, Orlando’s cool, but anything involving Desiree—he’s just got no sense. I mean, it was like in seventh grade when she and I—”

  “I know, I know,” I said. “But look, I want you to think about coming back to the band.”

  “So you’re calling the shots? I heard from Parker that Orlando decided that Chase—”

  “Don’t worry about Chase. I’m not.” I reached into my pocket and handed him two comp tickets. “Why don’t you come hear us play at FunkFest and decide if you want back in the band?”

  Ryan frowned. “I don’t need two tickets anymore.” Ryan tried not to show it, but I knew that he’d been dumped by his girlfriend Roxanne. He was hurt and looking for healing, I guessed.

  “Come anyway. I think everyone would like to see you,” I said. “Especially Desiree.”

  “Really?” For the first time, Ryan seemed interested in what I had to say.

  “We’re getting together before the show. Join us.” Ryan couldn’t smile any wider.

  9

  MAY 23 / SATURDAY EVENING

  PARKING LOT / THE CRUSH CLUB

  “Ian, even you have to admit, Chase did a great job with rehearsals,” Parker said. He talked a lot. I guessed he was trying to work out the nervousness we felt but didn’t want to admit to in front of others.

  “I guess we’ll see how it goes tonight.” I stood next to Parker, leaning against his Chevy Tahoe, behind the club. “We’ll see if Orlando made a mistake in picking Chase over me to run the band.”

  Parker laughed. “I never thought I’d hear you say that Orlando made a mistake.”

  “His only other one might be letting Chase in and kicking Ryan out.”

  Parker nodded in agreement. “I felt the same about that. I thought we’d just started—”

  “I invited Ryan.” I check my phone. He should be here any minute. In the distance, I heard Chase, Tonya, Ebony, Desiree, and the rest of band. They’d gone down the street for coffee.

  “Why would you do that?” Parker asked.

  “Well, unlike Chase, Ryan learns quickly, so he could take over Orlando’s parts until . . .”

  “There’s still some bad blood there, you know. And Orlando won’t like it.”

  “That’s between Ryan and Chase. It has nothing to do with me or the PunkFunkers, right?”

  “I guess,” Parker muttered as we joined everybody else near Chase’s car. Parker walked in front since I was slowed down by the full backpack I brought with me.

  Everybody was talking over each other, but I got their attention. “Last time we played this show, we were one of the opening acts, now we’re one of the headliners. So, I propose a toast to our success!”

  I opened the bag and pulled out bottles of soda for the whole group. I handed them around, keeping one for me and another one I’d reserved for Chase.

  I handed it to him. “Chase,” I whispered, “you get your own, uh, celebration bottle. This is your band now.” I nodded to his drink with a smile, while I unscrewed my own.

  “Cheers!” I clinked my bottle against Chase’s and then took a swig. He followed, making a face at the taste of Wild Turkey in his Coke. One of the few good things about having a mother who was a drunk was that booze was always around, and she rarely remembered how full she left the bottle.

  Chase recovered from the surprise and raised his bottle to me again with a smirk. We went back and forth, matching each other swig for swig, since Chase couldn’t let himself be outdone.

  “So, Chase, I invited Ryan to join us. Maybe he could sit in on—”

  “What?” Chase snapped, processing. “What gives you the right?” We argued back and forth as the booze kicked in for him. In the distance, I saw Ryan coming from the parking lot. He was just a few feet behind Chase.

  “Chase, do you have problems with Ryan?” I asked, loud enough for Ryan to hear.

  “Yeah, I have problems with him!” Chase started listing them and kept on talking until Ryan spun him around.

  “You got a big mouth, Chase!” Ryan said, pushing Chase. Tonya and Desiree screamed for them to stop.

  “Ryan, I can’t believe the bad mouth he just put on you,” I said. “He thinks he’s better than you.”

  “Shut up, Ian!” Ryan yelled. “Everybody, just shut up.”

  But Ryan and Chase went back and forth, like some big UFC fight, a battle years in the making. Insults flew left and right. Words stopped when Ryan threw a punch that smashed into Chase’s nose.

  “Stop it!” Desiree shouted as she rushed toward the battle, but Ryan and Chase rolled around on the hard pavement. Parker and the rest of the band also yelled, but their voices didn’t matter.

  “Ian, do something!” Desiree yelled. Ebony silently backed away from the fight.

  Rather than stepping into the fight, I walked over toward Ebony. She shook like a tree branch in a swift wind. “Ebony, what do you think Orlando would want me to do?” I asked softly, politely.

  “Make them stop.” Her voice cracked. She was near tears, not just for this, but I knew
how much she missed Orlando. He was a strong limb in their family, and our band, that we all clung to in hard times.

  I grabbed my drumsticks and raced onto the battlefield. Chase had gotten on top of Ryan and dropped fists. I wrapped my arms around Chase’s neck and held my sticks against his throat. “That’s enough, Chase,” I hissed.

  “No, Ian, no!” Desiree screamed as I expected. I hoped Ebony would relay the scene, in particular this detail, to Orlando. Chase struggled, but my grip was too tight. Ryan crawled from underneath Chase, but nobody came to his aid.

  “Knock it off, Chase!” I yelled as he squirmed, trying to overtake me. He struggled to breathe, while it seemed everyone else was holding their breath.

  “What’s going on?” I heard a man’s voice yell from the distance. I glanced over. I knew him; it was the club manager. As he ran toward us, I released the bruised and drunken Chase. He staggered to his feet. “Who are you?” the manager asked Chase when he arrived on the scene.

  “We’re the PunkFunkers,” Chase slurred. “We’re the headliners!”

  “No, what you are,” the manager said, full of disdain, “is fired.”

  10

  MAY 24 / SUNDAY LATE AFTERNOON

  MOORE HOUSE / FRISCO, TX

  “What did he say?” I asked Ebony the second she stepped out of her Dad’s huge Yukon SUV. They had just returned from visiting Orlando. I couldn’t wait for a phone call. I needed to know what he knew.

  “I still can’t see him, but my parents’ lawyer is working on that,” was her response, which had nothing to do with my question. Her parents waved at me and Mrs. Moore invited me inside.

  “Is everything okay with you, Ebony?” I asked. “I don’t want to do anything to upset you.”

  Ebony sniffled and wiped her eyes. “Thanks, Ian. I thought what you did the other night was brave, breaking up that stupid fight.”