by Antony John
It was past one a.m. when I composed my e-mail to Donna Stevens, requesting an invitation for Dumb to appear on her show. I wrote that she was an inspiration to the Vaughan family. I quoted the bloggers who applauded Dumb’s “wholesome” values. I provided a link to the podcast of our—okay, Kallie’s—interview on KSFT-FM. I even disabled the YouTube link on our MySpace page, just to be sure she didn’t accidentally stumble across Dumb’s punk alter egos; no need to concern her with details like the band’s true musical identity just yet—she’d find out soon enough if they appeared on her live show.
I pressed Send.
Over eighteen years, I had done so much to earn the trust and respect of my family and peers—a lifetime of noble works, you might say. And yet it took just eighteen minutes for me to perfect the art of lying, misleading, and perverting truth for personal profit.
Friday October 26, 1:23 a.m.: the moment Piper Vaughan developed a taste for being bad.
CHAPTER 27
Of everything on the Piper Manifesto, I’d thought the easiest part would be getting Finn to help. He knew he’d be stuck at school until Dumb’s rehearsal was over, so it seemed like a no-brainer, but he hemmed and hawed like it was actually a tough decision. I figured he was just playing an angle, getting me to beg, so I told him to forget it, which is when he finally said okay. But when he appeared at the rehearsal several hours later, he still looked genuinely conflicted. I wondered what was occupying his time after school ended. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.
On the bright side, Kallie showed up on time, and took her seat without glaring at me even once. Come to think of it, she didn’t look at me at all, but I couldn’t really blame her for that. With the cold war between her and Tash still ongoing, I made Finn sit between them—officially, so that he could hear them both; unofficially, so that he could keep them apart. Personally, I’d have been satisfied if all he did was prevent Tash from assaulting her playing partner, but having sacrificed whatever irresistible plans he’d previously made, Finn seemed eager to make his presence count.
I began by announcing to everyone that Dumb’s excursion into the world of soft rock had been a means to an end—and I’d already discovered 6,259 good ends—but that it was time to get back to doing what they did best. (No one begged me to reconsider.) Then I said we needed to concentrate on expanding our repertoire with mostly original songs, and maybe a couple of covers that we could get away with performing as long as we weren’t being recorded. (Everyone nodded like this sort of made sense.) Finally, I asked if anyone had written a song that Dumb could work on. Josh said that he and Will had collaborated on nine songs, and that three of them were “amazing.”
Josh’s definition of collaboration was loose, to say the least. Will had clearly composed the songs single-handedly—and even had sheet music to prove it—while Josh contributed angry, stream-of-consciousness lyrics that justified his penchant for screaming into microphones. Once Will had handed out the music, he and Josh performed their favorite “composition” as a duet, including some high-pitched wailing that I think was meant to simulate a guitar solo. When silence prevailed three minutes later, Ed was evidently raring to go, while Tash and Kallie simply looked confused, leaning forward for a better look at the chord symbols decorating the page like hieroglyphics. As for Finn, he seemed to be having trouble coming to terms with the fact that they were leaning across him, Kallie’s hair draped over his lap.
“Here,” he said, reaching for Kallie’s guitar like he didn’t trust himself to stay conscious if she remained there any longer. “It’s like this.”
Finn played the chords perfectly, looking at Tash then Kallie to show them how simple it was. And I didn’t know he’d nailed it because I could hear the chords; I knew it because, for a split second, Josh, Will, Tash, and Kallie looked up with expressions of pure awe.
By the time Finn had demonstrated the fingerings three more times, Kallie seemed reluctant to take her instrument back. Even Tash hesitated, afraid of failing Finn’s pop quiz. But Finn sat back like a proud grandparent, generous in his praise, gentle in his criticism, always coaxing more from the stage-struck duo. Meanwhile, Ed asked Josh and Will what sort of drumming they’d envisioned. Even though they clearly hadn’t thought about it until that moment, Josh naturally had very strong opinions on the matter.
As they all cranked away over the next hour, I didn’t spend my time checking MySpace hits, or trawling Google, or even posting anonymous comments to hard rock fan sites about this incredible new band I’d heard called Dumb. Instead I watched with amazement as Dumb pulled “Kiss Me Like You Mean It” into something resembling a song through Josh’s enthusiasm, Ed’s discipline, and Finn’s ever-patient guidance. My brother Finn, the wayward freshman, had serious skills, and was sharing them with my band. I wondered if I’d have done the same for him.
I should have known better than to push my luck, but there were a few minutes left and everyone was pumped up, so I convinced Dumb to attempt a full performance. They seemed so close to getting through it too, but then Kallie stopped playing and the band fizzled out around her.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’ll get it this time.”
Again the band struck up, and again they were in the middle of what I assumed must be the chorus when Kallie dropped out, staring accusingly at her fingers. Finn leaned forward and moved her fingers to the right place, but by then Tash had clearly had enough.
“Just leave that chord out,” she snapped.
Kallie peered around Finn. “No. I need to learn it.”
“No, Kallie. You need to learn the guitar.”
I flashed back to the scene outside the radio station and decided I couldn’t let things escalate. “Leave her alone, Tash. She’s trying, okay?”
Tash pretended to stifle a laugh. “Like that’ll help.”
I was braced to continue our little spat, but Finn moved the piece of paper with the chord symbols in front of Tash, added a couple of his own, and signaled for her to play. Before she’d even had a chance to sound the first chord, Finn took her left hand and meticulously repositioned her fingers. It was a subtle gesture, but it changed the balance of power in a heartbeat. Suddenly Kallie was beaming at Finn like he was her own personal hero, while Tash stared straight ahead, struggling to work out how she’d been outmaneuvered by a freshman. A day earlier I’d have assumed it was just innocence or cluelessness on Finn’s part, but now I knew it was nothing of the sort.
By the time five o’clock rolled around, Tash already seemed to have her guitar halfway into its case. I waved my hands to indicate that I had announcements, but she just ignored me, striding toward the door like I was invisible. I could have let it go, but instead I leaped up and cut her off.
“Guess you and your brother both have a crush on Kallie, huh?” she said, throwing a backward glance at the pair.
“She’s getting better,” I replied, quietly but firmly.
“Really? And how the hell would you know?”
I felt the flash of anger that always accompanied jabs at my deafness. I wanted to tell her to get over herself, but instead I gripped her arm and pulled her into the practice room around the corner, where even more of the soundproofing seemed to have been sacrificed since my last visit with Josh.
“Why do you always do that?” I asked.
“What?”
“You know . . . those snarky remarks to piss people off. Why do you want everyone to hate you?”
Tash rolled her eyes, snorted, and shifted her weight from one leg to the other, reenacting every well-worn stereotype of the girl who doesn’t give a crap. But undermining the whole choreographed routine was her face, flushed red and tense. The girl with rings in her nose, eyebrow, and lip stared at me like she’d never before been pierced so deeply, and I stared right back. I knew that today needed to be the day that everything changed. Today needed to be the day that she blinked first, that she stormed off in a gesture of defiance that was really just surrender in disguise.
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To my utter surprise, she did precisely that.
I felt exhausted as I returned to the classroom, but grateful glances from Kallie and Ed told me they knew how important it had been for me to take a stand. Josh and Will had already taken off, although Josh had apparently thanked Ed for his contribution to the rehearsal. Truly, it was a day of firsts.
As Finn prolonged his private rehearsal with Kallie for one more minute—and indulged his first and last opportunity to brush fingers with the school’s resident hottie—Ed traipsed over and sat in front of me, twirling his drumsticks.
“I can’t say our rehearsals are completely warm and fuzzy just yet,” he announced.
“No,” I agreed. “Even our fans are turning on us.”
“What? We have fans?”
I laughed. “Well, not the band. Someone wrote me a private message on our MySpace page.”
Suddenly Kallie and Finn were looking at me too. “What did it say?” she asked.
Against my better judgment I pulled up the message on my laptop and read it to them, omitting the bit about me being a “money-grabber.” Everyone was silent. “I don’t know what it means,” I admitted.
“I do,” said Kallie as she put her guitar away. “It’s an address. 171 Lake Washington Boulevard East is Kurt Cobain’s house.”
“I thought he was dead.”
“He is. Which begs the question, why does your secret admirer want you to go see him?”
Ed sat down next to me and peered at the screen.
“Actually, the only question it begs is why I read this to you in the first place.” I closed the laptop.
Kallie narrowed her eyes. “So that’s it? You get a cryptic message from a secret admirer and you just drop it?”
“Yes, obviously. It could be from a serial killer.”
Ed tapped his fingers against my laptop. “Whose username is an anagram of Baz Firkin?” he asked dubiously.
ZARKINFIB . . . BAZ FIRKIN. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it.
“Why would Baz want you to visit Kurt Cobain’s house?” asked Kallie.
I thought back to our discussion in the studio. “He said he wanted me to get acquainted with the world of rock music. I guess this is all part of my education.”
Kallie sidled up and took my arm. “Well, let’s get educated, then.” She smiled, like my explanation had been reason enough for her to buy in.
“I’ll come too,” said Ed.
I shook my head. “No way. I need to get home for dinner. Mom and Dad will be pissed if I’m late.”
“I’ll tell them you’re busy,” said Finn.
I was about to protest again. After all, I could think of at least another eighteen reasons why this was a dumb idea. But then I remembered Piper’s Manifesto, and realized that two of the people who’d spent the previous day chewing me out were being friendly to me again—really friendly, and I couldn’t say no. Not even if it meant being late home.
Besides, it beat a Vaughan family dinner hands down.
CHAPTER 28
I dropped Finn at home on our way to 171 Lake Washington Boulevard East. Kallie navigated, taking us on a snaking trail through the autumnal colors of the arboretum and on down toward Lake Washington. Flakes of cloud drifted above us, tinged by the setting sun. On the far side of the lake, the Cascade mountain range jutted through the evening haze.
Lake Washington Boulevard runs parallel to the lake but high above it, a street of large houses and austere fences. Kallie indicated that I should park across the street from a set of especially fortress-like wooden gates. There was no house number, but she seemed sure of the address.
We emptied out of the car and approached the gates cautiously. To the left, an elaborate security system deterred us from getting too close, and all I could see of the house itself were the curved, gabled edges of the rooftop. Ed stepped up to the security system and admired its complexity, while I wondered what on earth we were doing there. I was even more puzzled by Kallie being there with us, but as I glanced over at her, I couldn’t help noticing how transfixed she seemed, like she couldn’t be anywhere else in the world.
Kallie met my eyes. “There’s a park next door,” she said, pointing to a hill beside the house. “I think you should see it.”
“How do you know about it?”
“My parents. They were big Nirvana fans back in the day. Saw some of their early performances. Mom used to brag about being the first African American to go grunge.”
“What about your dad?”
“Well, he’s not African American.”
“Oh. So what exactly is grunge, anyway?”
Kallie folded her arms, cocked an eyebrow. “You know—the Seattle sound.” She gave me a moment to express appropriate recognition, which of course didn’t happen. “It was this musical style that started in the mid-eighties. Heavy guitars, angsty lyrics, generally hardcore. You’ve heard of Nirvana? Pearl Jam? Soundgarden?”
“Nirvana, yes. Not sure about the others.”
Kallie’s eyes grew super-wide. “Just for the record, I don’t think anyone else should ever hear you say that, you being the manager of a rock band and all.”
“Point taken,” I said, and Kallie smiled.
The park was called Viretta Park, a small, grassy hillside surrounded by woods. We were alone as we traipsed up the hill, the grass lime green from the recent rain. Patches of clover shared the ground with a few stubborn dandelions, leftovers from a summer that was already a distant memory. And in the middle of the park was a Douglas fir, its trunk spray-painted with the letters “RIP.”
Beside the tree, two benches had been subjected to the same treatment, every inch of the warm red wood covered in tributes to Kurt Cobain.
“So apart from Cobain, what made Nirvana special?” I asked finally.
Ed turned around. “They took indie rock mainstream.”
“Which means?”
“They broke musical boundaries. Their music was only supposed to appeal to a niche audience. They weren’t supposed to make it big. But somehow they ended up speaking for their generation in a way that bigger bands just couldn’t seem to.”
Kallie smiled. “And they had energy. They just . . . rocked.”
I looked at Kurt Cobain’s house, clearer from the park, and gawked at the size of the place. It was a beautiful house, too, with patterns in the red brick and latticed windows looking out over the lake and mountains. It must have been worth millions of dollars. Suddenly I wanted to get away, leave all that wasted wealth and misdirected adoration behind me.
“I’m sorry, but I just don’t get it,” I said. “All these people visit this park just because he lived next door?”
Kallie looked puzzled. “No. They come here because that’s where he killed himself.”
I waited for her to laugh, to cry gotcha, but she didn’t. “What?” I mumbled. “How?”
“He shot himself,” she said. “Didn’t you know? He went alone to the greenhouse above the garage and shot himself.”
I felt my breath catch, my eyes drawn back to the house magnetically. It looked the same as before, but somehow different too.
I took in the view again, the mountains fast disappearing, the inky black lake stretching into the distance, rimmed by amber streetlights on the other side. “But it’s so beautiful here,” I said.
Kallie and Ed stood silent, regarding me.
“It’s just . . . how could you see such beauty and not find a reason to keep living?”
Kallie stepped forward and took my hand in hers. “He was depressed. He was addicted to heroin. And I think there comes a time when all the beauty in the world just isn’t enough.”
“But he had so many fans, so much money.”
“It’s not enough,” said Kallie sadly. “I don’t think anyone who’s motivated by fans or money will ever get it.”
“Get what?”
“Music. It’s not about those things. It’s about a feeling. It’s about expressing yourse
lf. It’s about letting go.”
I couldn’t help but stare at Kallie, Dumb’s weakest link—the one who couldn’t play in time or in tune, whose superficiality had left me speechless for years. Did she really believe a word she’d said?
I sat down on one of the benches, stuffed my hands inside the sleeves of my fleece jacket. On the seat, to my left, someone named Tom D. from Minneapolis wanted Kurt to know that he was gone but not forgotten. Dakota and Phil from Sydney, Australia, told Kurt that he’d live forever. Someone had even left three daisies, wilted and withered now, but a touching gesture all the same.
Ed sat down too, but he didn’t speak, just stayed with me as I studied the bench and our breaths condensed in the air. He seemed to know I needed to be quiet, but I was still grateful to feel him there beside me.
In phrases long and short, scrawled and carved, Kurt Cobain’s apostles had composed eulogies to their fallen leader. And however much I wanted to dismiss the words as simple graffiti, I couldn’t ignore the sentiment or the distances covered on the way to this place, the final destination on the Kurt Cobain pilgrimage. I could have been cynical, of course, but that would have been dishonest. Because the painful truth was that each and every person who had sat on that seat before me had experienced music in a purer, more visceral way than I could even begin to imagine. And I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t profoundly jealous of every single one of them.