“You guys are really good,” Edie says. “Right, Cherise?”
Treat sets down the bullhorn and moves the boxes a little, like maybe the acoustics were off because they were angled wrong.
“We really were good?” Keith says.
“Yes.” Edie stands up. “Even Reece.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Cherise stands up. “Treat too.”
Treat turns around then and looks at Cherise. “You like punk?”
She nods real serious like she’s always liked punk.
“Who do you like?” he says.
“The Sex Pistols.”
“Yeah?” Treat steps over to her. “And who else?”
It’s so quiet all you can hear is the hiss of the amps. Cherise looks at Edie, pushes some hair behind her ear, and says, “DikNixon.”
Treat goes all grins, the Mohawk bobbing up and down. “Bitchin’.”
As we walk the girls out of the studio, Edie gets this goofy smile and tells Keith she’ll call him later when he gets back from San Diego.
“San Diego?” he says. “Oh, right. The SDSU gig.”
Treat’s bouncing all over the place after they leave, punching boxes, talking a hundred miles an hour about how we should work all night the way real bands do. “That’s when the great stuff happens. When you’re exhausted and pissed at each other and the sun’s coming up. The air’s different then. It’s quieter and all the songs that haven’t been written yet are easier to hear.”
We get to work on a new song and get it down pretty good before Mrs. Dumovitch sticks her head out and asks who’s staying for dinner.
“Everyone,” Treat says.
“Okay,” she says. “Then it’s taquitos.”
Treat turns around like a little kid who just found out he’s having ice cream and cake for dinner. “You know what you should do, Reece? You should write a new song during dinner and then we can play it after.”
“That’s a lot of pressure,” I say.
“You can do it,” Keith says. “Your lyrics are so cool.”
I take off the guitar. “Thanks, but I have to go home for dinner.”
Treat grabs the guitar from me and sets it on its stand. “Have to?”
“Well, it’s Friday. I’m just not supposed to eat meat unless it’s fish.”
Treat’s looking at me like he’s waiting for the punch line.
“It’s a Catholic thing,” Keith says. “They’re weird about fish.”
Treat nods like he totally gets it now. “But you can eat other stuff, right?”
“Yeah. Non-meat stuff.”
“Then you can stay,” Treat says. “My mom’s making tofu taquitos.”
“What the hell’s tofu?” Keith says.
“I don’t know. But it’s not meat.” Treat picks up the guitar and hands it to me. “Come on, we’ve probably got half an hour until it’s ready.”
.
If you came walking into Treat’s house at dinner, at first you’d think the Dumovitches were normal. There’s bowls of food spread across this long, dark table and everyone sits down real polite and pleasant. But there aren’t any plates, just these wicker trays with paper plates in the middle so we can compost them after we eat. And there aren’t any chairs. They’ve got two long benches and everyone sits where they want because Mr. Dumovitch says there’s no head at their table; everyone sits down as equals. Everyone except me. Treat puts a pencil and notepad in one spot and gives me a little shove: “You’re there.”
The taquitos are flaky and brown and stacked like a pyramid. The vegetables glisten with some sauce and there’s at least three kinds in there I’ve never seen before. Still, it all looks and smells better than everything my mom has cooked ever. Even the glass pitcher of water looks good the way droplets are pinstriping their way down to the checkered towel Mrs. Dumovitch has wrapped around it like a skirt.
Mr. Dumovitch has us all join hands and tells us we should each say what we’re thankful for. He starts by saying he’s thankful for fall and his family. Treat’s little sister, Jewell, says stuffed animals. Treat says, “The goddamned First Amendment,” and Mr. D says Treat made his point in a clever way but he didn’t need to show off in front of his friends. Mrs. D says she’s thankful for me and Keith because we’re such good friends to Treat. Keith says he’s thankful for his dad, which probably looks sweet to Mr. and Mrs. D, but what he really means is money. I should say Neil Diamond, since he’s probably cowriting the song I’m about to miraculously come up with. But Mr. and Mrs. D might know who that is, so without thinking, I say, “Uncle Ryan.”
“Uncle Ryan?” Treat says.
“Treat!” Mrs. D says. “We don’t question what people are thankful for.”
“Sorry,” Treat says. “I’m sure he’s real cool. You should bring him over some time.”
“Thanks,” I say. “He’s not around here.”
“When’s he coming to visit?” Keith says. “You talk about the guy all the time.”
“He can’t,” I say, and the bottoms of my eyes start dancing. The corners of my mouth are reaching up to join them, so I take a drink of water, only my mouth isn’t working right and I slurp in half a gulp and spill the rest.
“Why?” Keith says.
I can’t talk or look at Keith. I’m dabbing the water on the table with my napkin and now writing a song doesn’t seem so bad. It’s been too quiet for too long.
“Because he can’t,” Treat says. “That’s why.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do,” Treat says.
“Let’s all dig in,” Mr. D says, soft like he’s introducing the next song at your little sister’s recital.
My eyes and mouth slow down a little as the sounds of people eating start to rise, and I look up to see Treat is looking at me, but not all weird or angry or anything, just kind of waiting for me. Then he nods like we’ve agreed to something, you know, and it’s pretty clear he’ll keep a secret even if he doesn’t know exactly what the secret is.
Mrs. D gets this excited tone in her voice and says she wants to know about everything we’ve been up to: school, the band, who the girls were, and why there’s a pad and pencil at the table.
Treat says, “Good; good; friends; and Reece is working on a new song.”
I look at Mrs. D. “I don’t have to if you think it’s rude.”
“No,” Mr. D says through a mouthful of taquito. “You keep working, Reece. Art is food for the soul.” Mrs. D nods.
I can’t think of any decent Neil Diamond songs while everyone else is eating and talking. I’m writing down anything that might get me going, the anarchy A with the circle around it, “God save the queen,” “God save the children,” “God bless Amerika,” and “God has left the building.” It’s a bunch of nothing, but I keep going so it’ll at least look like something’s happening.
After dinner, Mrs. D gives us fig bars for dessert and we go back to the Two-Car Studio. Treat’s munching away but I wait until Keith takes a bite of his. “What’s it taste like?”
He looks at it. “It doesn’t taste like a Fig Newton.”
“It’s a fig bar,” Treat says.
Keith shrugs. “I thought that meant it was a big Fig Newton.”
“Do they play country music in Soviet Georgia?”
“I don’t know what that means,” Keith says. He holds the fig bar out to Treat. “But whatever this is, I don’t want it.”
Treat snatches it from Keith like a manager taking the ball from a pitcher who just blew a two-run lead. He stuffs the whole thing in his mouth and asks me about the new song.
“There isn’t one.” I toss the pad onto a folding chair.
Treat picks it up and looks everything over. He taps one of my doodles. “What’s this? The ‘Terrorize Your Neighbor Tour’?”
<
br /> “Nothing.”
“It’s like a concert poster.” Treat holds it up for Keith to see and adds, “‘Coming Soon to a Backyard Near You.’” He nods and looks at me. “This is what we’ll do. A backyard party. Right here.”
“Like Ted Three?” Keith says.
“No,” Treat says. “Not like anything else. It can’t be a secret. DikNixon is coming to your block. What could be scarier than that?”
“No one showing up,” I say.
“Everybody will show up,” Treat says. “Petrakis will bring his ‘boys’—”
“And you can invite Astrid,” Keith says. “If she comes, everyone will.”
If I had stupid friends, I could say something like I don’t see how one person can make such a difference. But everybody knows that if the captain of varsity cheer says she’s going to your party, everyone who matters goes to your party. “Why do I have to invite her?”
Keith is pacing and grinning. “You talk to her all the time. You told me you said hi to her today and she smiled at you.”
Treat slaps me on the shoulder. “It has to be you.”
“It’s not that easy.”
Mr. D comes out to the studio, apologizing because he has to grab one of the boxes from our sound wall and take it inside.
Treat holds up the notepad. “We’re having a party.”
Instead of picking up the box, Mr. D lets his hands rest on it and looks at Treat. “Here? What kind of a party?”
Treat throws his hands out real wide. “A huge party in the backyard.”
“People from your classes?”
“People from the whole school,” Keith says.
Mr. D nods. “Uh-huh. And how can three freshmen throw a party and have the whole school actually show up?”
“The band,” Treat says. “They’ll come to hear our band.”
Mr. D looks up at the rafters, really going over it in his mind, undoing and redoing his ponytail. “I really want this to happen for you, son.” His face is all concentration, like he’s trying to get the ponytail just right. “But I don’t see it working out that easy.”
Treat throws his arms up this time. “Jesus, Lyle. You’re such a fascist.”
“I didn’t say no, Treat. I just want to make sure it works.”
“It’ll work.”
“Your dad might be right,” I say.
“You know what, guys?” Mr. D smacks one of the boxes like, Here it is: “Free beer. If you’ve got beer, it’s a party. Even people who don’t like beer, people who have never even drank beer, will come because they know if there’s beer, there’s a party. All those seniors will know that, and they’ll come. And once you get the seniors, it’s a chain reaction.”
“We can put it on the flyer,” Keith says.
“No, you don’t,” Mr. D says. “You tell people there’s going to be free beer. But you don’t write it down.”
“Can we do that?” I say.
“I’ll take care of it,” Mr. D says. “I’ll buy enough so everybody gets one.”
Keith’s smiling and even Treat’s starting to. But not me. “No. I mean, can’t you get in trouble for that?”
Mr. D picks up a box and shakes his head. “Oh, not if it’s nonalcoholic.”
“Won’t people know it’s fake?”
Mr. D walks to the door of the house and opens it. “Only if they can read German.”
“I thought you drank real beer,” Treat says.
“I used to,” Mr. D says, stepping into the house. “Not anymore.” He nods a See ya later and the door closes.
Instead of going back to work on our music, we make a flyer. We put the DikNixon logo across the top with a picture of Treat pasted below. It looks real fierce the way his Mohawk stands as tall as the band name. At the bottom, we paste on letters we’ve ripped out of Mr. Dumovitch’s Rolling Stone magazines: Terrorize Your Neighbor Tour. Saturday, Nov 6, 8 PM. At the very bottom, Treat puts his address and a map, and we give it to Mr. D to make copies for us.
It’s almost ten at night by the time we’re done with the flyer, and Keith’s ready to go home, probably so he can call Edie and tell her everything.
“We really need to practice more,” I say and Keith groans. “We’ve only got two weeks.”
Treat nods. “Every spare second.”
“Wait,” Keith says. “What about Halloween? It’s next week.”
Treat picks up the bass and pushes it at Keith. “What are you, five? You’re not going trick-or-treating.”
Keith looks at me. “I just meant parties and stuff.”
“We’re getting ready for a better party,” I say. “Our own party.”
Keith sighs and puts the strap over his head, mumbling something about still being here at midnight.
Treat picks up the bullhorn. “You can call your girlfriend tomorrow.”
“He doesn’t have a girlfriend.” I look at Keith. “Do you?”
“No,” Keith says. “But Edie’s our publicity person. We should tell her.”
“Tomorrow,” Treat says. “It’s not like she’s more important than Astrid.”
“What?” I say. “We’ve got beer now. That’ll suck in the best people.”
Treat looks relaxed and understanding. “Look, Reece, we still need her. Even if she says no, she’s going to find out you’re in a band. Then you won’t be the little boy next door. You’ll be the guy next door. The guy in a band.”
Keith’s nodding. “I wish Astrid knew my name. I’m just the cute friend of the guy next door who’s in the cool band.”
My head’s trying to go along with all this great stuff that happens after, but my stomach is already churning. Now I have to be the nobody freshman who says, Happy Monday—here’s a flyer for my band’s gig. “Fine,” I say, “as long as we keep practicing. I don’t want people saying they were let down by DikNixon.”
Happy Monday
Saturday morning my dad’s working an early shift and my mom’s got Colleen with her at Brendan’s football game. I get the sewing kit out of the upstairs hall closet and sit down right there on the floor. I’ve seen my mom thread a needle tons of times with my baseball uniforms in her lap, and that part goes smooth. The problem is getting the needle through a patch and then through the jacket. Pushing hard only makes the back end of the needle stab my thumb, the front end just standing there, the GBH patch repelling it like a shield.
Two bent needles and a throbbing thumb later, Colleen comes tromping up the stairs and stops, her red hair in pigtails on top of her head, making her look like a little alien. “What are you doing, Reece?”
“You guys are back?”
She nods. “Mom says you need to get Brendan’s mouth thing for me.”
“His mouthpiece?” I say, and she nods. “It’s in the bathroom.”
She runs past me down the hall.
“Reece?” My mom’s in the hallway now. Her hair is pulled back and braided the way she always does on the weekend or when she’s cleaning house. You know, all business but kind of relaxed too. “What’s the matter?”
There’s no way to hide the jacket, or even the patch. “Nothing.”
She looks at the GBH patch and waits.
“GBH is a band,” I say and stand up. “Guitar, Bass, and Harmony.”
She takes the patch and rubs it with her thumb. “These are hard to sew. I’ll do it tonight.”
“That’s okay. Just tell me what the trick is.”
Colleen comes out of the bathroom with the mouthpiece and stands next to me. “How about this?” my mom says. “I’ll let Brendan go to the pizza party after the game with his team, and we’ll come back here and have a sewing lesson.”
Colleen’s whole head turns into a smile. “Hooray!” she yells, and what can I say? How do you tell your little sister not to be happy and y
our mom no thanks for being nice?
.
As soon as she gets back, my mom sets everything up in the living room. Me and Colleen are on the couch with a couple pieces of practice cloth. My mom’s on the easy chair with my jacket and the GBH and TSOL patches. I knew the pope and JFK would be watching over us from the dining room, so I stashed the Dead Kennedys patch in my room before my mom got back. I’ll do that one later, on my own.
All the Saturday noise of people mowing their lawns or working on their cars gets hushed out as me and Colleen each sew a piece of red cloth onto a piece of white cloth. We’re real serious, paying total attention to everything Mom says. It’s amazing how a tiny little string loops through a piece of cloth, over to the other, then back again, getting stronger at each loop until it’s holding the two pieces together so tight they’re pretty much one.
Mom holds up my jacket. “I’m about done with Guitar, Bass, and . . . ?”
“Harmony.”
“Harmony.” She nods. “Do you want to try True Sounds of—”
“Liberty,” I say, and she smiles. “Sure.”
Mom starts unhooking the TSOL patch from the shoulder. “Where did you get all these safety pins?”
“They’re not yours. Treat gave them to me.”
“But why do you need so many?”
There’s like twenty for each patch because it looks more punk that way, but she’s not getting me to say that. “Emergencies,” I say.
“Emergencies,” she says like she should have known. “I see.”
My dad comes rattling through the front door just then, stone-faced until he sees all the cloth and thread. “What’s this?”
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