August and Everything After

by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski

  “Maybe.” Auntsie winks. Anyone else would have let it go, but Auntsie?

  Malcolm laughs. “It just so happens, I have a cowbell in my truck.”

  “Get out! Don’t sit there. Finish your linguine, and bring it in.”

  I’m pretty sure this thing with Malcolm is happening.

  FOURTEEN

  After dinner, Auntsie holds the door open as Malcolm and I carry in the drums. She tells him to set up the equipment in the living room.

  “Are you sure, Auntsie? They’re going to take up a lot of space,” I say.

  “And they’re loud,” Malcolm offers.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Makes up for the baby toys and portable cribs I missed out on.” She laughs, but there’s a wistfulness behind her smile.

  Malcolm moves quickly and methodically, setting up the kick drum and pedal, the snare, three toms, the hi-hat, and crash cymbals. He even brought a drum mat to put them on and his own sticks.

  I stand back and stare at the finished product, like there’s a bison in the middle of the living room.

  “This is too much drum for me,” I say.

  Malcolm stands beside me and strokes his bearded chin.

  “Probably. Ignore the toms and crash cymbals for now. Concentrate on the kick, the snare, and the hi-hat. Let me show you a basic groove.”

  He sits down behind the drums and starts tapping the hi-hat with one stick.

  “These are your eighth notes,” he says. “One and two and three and four and…add in the snare on the two and the four, like this, and the kick drum—”

  “On the one and the three,” I finish for him. You don’t spend four years in the drumline without understanding the role of each drum and drummer.

  “Right. I’m sure you’ve internalized all this. You know more than you think you know. You just have to get used to doing all three at once. This groove is perfect practice. It’s hi-hat bass, hi-hat. Hi-hat snare, hi-hat. Just practice this over and over again with a metronome, keeping your tempo as even as possible.”

  It’s not a totally foreign concept. I’ve already played combinations like this on my electronic drums, but I’m itching to try out the kit. Auntsie and I watch Malcolm keep an even, steady beat, and I repeat the rhythm in my head. Hi-hat bass, hi-hat. Hi-hat snare, hi-hat. Cymbals-drum, cymbals. Cymbals-drum, cymbals. Eventually Malcolm breaks away from the simplistic rhythm and gets fancy, throwing in fills using the toms and crash cymbals, speeding up his tempo and hitting harder before bringing it back down to the basic groove.

  “Show off,” I tease when he finally stops and stands up.

  “Can’t help it.”

  “I still say you should record your own drum parts.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Unlike Prince, I’m not a perfectionist and I don’t do ‘alone.’ I want to be in the studio with a band. End of story.” He hands off his sticks to me like the baton in a relay. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  The drumsticks are warm from his touch. I sit behind the kit and adjust the stool to my height. Before allowing myself to test the limits of my coordination and screw up in front of an audience, I launch into a marching band rhythm on only the snare before segueing into the part from “Sunday Bloody Sunday,” the U2 song Malcolm told me to learn. I know I’m the one showing off now, and I keep expecting Malcolm or Auntsie to call me on it, but I can’t stop myself. It’s been too long since I’ve played a real snare, and before I know it, I’m taking it to the next level, performing one of the more mind-boggling solos in my repertoire. My hands snap up and down without me having to tell them what to do until finally, I wrap it up with a superfast roll and rim shot.

  Auntsie starts clapping. “Quinn, baby. I didn’t know you could that.”

  Malcolm smiles. “I kinda did.”

  One corner of my mouth turns up. “Don’t be too impressed. I’m going to suck at the rhythm you just showed me.”

  “Don’t overthink it.”

  I touch one stick to the hi-hat cymbals, press the pedal to open them a bit, and begin tapping out the eighth notes while counting in my head. One and two and three and four and… When I feel comfortable, I close my eyes and add in the snare. Hi-hat snare, hi-hat. Hi-hat snare, hi-hat.

  “That’s it, nice and steady,” Malcolm encourages. “Now see if you can drop that bass on the one and the three.”

  I fail at my first few attempts as I try to get used to three different body parts moving independently of each other. Malcolm made it look easy. I struggle, trying to force my body to execute the rhythm in my head.

  Eventually, I do what he said. I don’t overthink. I don’t think at all. I stop worrying about whether or not the water is cold and dive in. My stomach flutters like I’ve found my next crush as my mind and body fall into this basic groove.

  “Right on,” Malcolm says after a few minutes of watching me master it. “You’re ready to play ‘Back in Black.’”

  “What? No way.”

  “Yes, way. That’s the groove right there minus some fills.”

  “Ohh, I’m so putting it on!” Auntsie says.

  “You’re so not,” I say, craning my neck toward her and throwing off my timing with my panic.

  Too late. Auntsie’s already retrieving the AC/DC album from the “A” section of her collection and dropping the needle on the record. Much to my horror, Auntsie begins singing the guitar intro while playing air guitar, and before I can accurately calculate this moment’s mortification level, Malcolm chimes in with the opening lyrics, using his best, raspy metal voice.

  I assume the karaoke routine is over after the intro, but apparently Malcolm and Auntsie are just getting started. They plow into the next verse with Malcolm on vocals and Auntsie on “guitar.” I try to keep the beat steady, but it’s nearly impossible to concentrate. It gets worse. I watch them exchange a knowing look, one that must give my aunt permission to launch into an air guitar solo, because that’s exactly what she does.

  Oh. My. God. I nearly drop both sticks.

  I close my eyes and focus on the beat. When it’s time for the next verse, Malcolm and Auntsie sing it together. It’s so absurd that I start to giggle, which is also absurd because I’m so not a giggler. By the time the song reaches its climax, when the word “Baacck” gets repeated over and over, my need to join the fun outweighs any inhibitions or negative feelings I have about absurdity. I start singing with them and improv this crazy fill with crashing cymbals and a series of rolls that are totally out of time and don’t come close to fitting the song, but I don’t care. My arms are flailing like Animal from the Muppets, and I’m laughing so hard I’m afraid I might pee my pants.

  Of course it’s at that exact moment my sister and Kate walk in.

  FIFTEEN

  “We could hear you all the way up the block!” my sister proclaims. “The neighbors across the street are on their front porch. Do you know what they must be thinking?”

  “That I’ve quit my job to become an air guitarist and backing vocalist in a rock band?” Auntsie says.

  The three of us start to laugh. Evie tssks. Her already pinkish skin reddens. She hates to be teased.

  “It’s not funny.”

  She crosses her arms and stares at us. Auntsie snorts. I bite my lower lip to stop myself from laughing. I wonder if Evie knows she’s turned into our mother.

  “Evie, Kate, this is Malcolm,” I say.

  Malcolm shakes Kate’s hand first. “Nice to meet you.”

  Evie’s determined to stay angry, but Malcolm smoothly takes her hand in both of his, offering a sweet smile and extended eye contact, which coaxes a half grin out of my sister. Once a front man, always a front man. Not even Evie is immune to rock-star charm.

  “Sorry if we upset the neighbors. After today we’ll be moving to a rehearsal space.”

  Evie looks from Ma
lcolm to Auntsie. “Wait. Did you really quit your job to join the band too?”

  Poor Evie. It’s hard to be so literal. Her IQ approaches genius level, but she doesn’t always recognize a joke when she hears one.

  “Yes, and to supplement my income, I’m going to be doing some runway modeling,” Auntsie says.

  I jump in. “No one quit their job, Evie. And by ‘we,’ Malcolm meant me and him.”

  “Although your aunt may sit in on cowbell or tambourine.” Malcolm winks.

  Auntsie gets excited. “That’s right! Didn’t you say you had that cowbell in your truck?”

  Evie looks at me. “Did she have too much wine with dinner?”

  “No, she’s right. I do have a cowbell in my truck.” Malcolm looks at me. “Want to come out with me to get it? I think I’m going to take off soon.”

  My eyes thank Malcolm for opening an escape hatch. I stand up from behind the drums and walk toward the door.

  Malcolm approaches my aunt with an outstretched hand. “Thank you for dinner.”

  Auntsie grabs his hand and pulls him into a hug. “Any time. Thanks for the album.”

  “It was nothing,” Malcolm says. But we all know it was more.

  “Be right back,” I say.

  Auntsie waves her phone at me. “Go! I’m going to research classic rock songs that feature a cowbell while you’re gone.”

  I’m pretty sure she’s serious.

  Outside, our feet crunch on the sand and pebble “lawn” as I follow Malcolm to the curb, where he parked his truck. The air smells delicious, like charcoal and burgers.

  “Ah, meat. My aunt’s determined to make me a vegetarian like her.”

  Malcolm laughs. “We’ll have to go for steak sandwiches. I know a place.”

  The idea of going someplace, alone, with Malcolm makes my stomach float toward my heart.

  He reaches over the side of the flatbed and lifts a heavy-duty milk crate filled with percussion instruments—tambourines, wood blocks, and a cowbell.

  “Please do not tell my aunt.”

  “About us going out for meat?”

  “About the contents of this box. One cowbell is quite enough. If fact, maybe we leave that right here too. I’ll tell her you made a mistake.”

  Malcolm puts the crate back in his truck and presses the cowbell into my hands. “No way. You saw how excited she was about finding that list.”

  He’s right. I can’t go back inside empty-handed. Malcolm places his hands on my shoulders and leans closer. Our eyes meet and we start talking at the same time.

  “So, did I pass your aunt’s test?” he asks.

  “You’re leaving in September?” I say.

  We both say “Yeah” at the same time.

  “Good, great!” Malcolm says in response to my “yeah.”

  Not good, not great, I want to say in response to his. I know we agreed this arrangement would be about recording Malcolm’s demo and playing one gig, but what about when summer ends?

  “How long will you be on the road?”

  Malcolm’s hands drop from my shoulders and he leans back against the truck.

  “Depends on how many club dates I can book, but I’d like to make it to Gainesville and back by Thanksgiving.” He scrunches his brow. “Guess you’ll be long gone by then.”

  Will I? Malcolm has the next few months mapped out, and I’m still stalled on the side of the road. Both thoughts—Malcolm’s plan and my lack thereof—make me tired.

  “I honestly have no idea where I’ll be or what I’ll be doing this fall. I want to keep living here with my aunt but my mother will never go for it if I don’t have a solid life plan. Every time I think about it, I get overwhelmed.”

  Malcolm squeezes my hand and looks me in the eye. “Do what I do then. Think about one day at a time.”

  I look up at him. “Okay. I pick…Thursday.” The night of our first band practice.

  Malcolm laughs. “Thursday is solid day. It has a lot going for it as days go.”

  Impulse overtakes me and I lean up and kiss his cheek.

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to kiss me?”

  I step back and give him a half smile. “You weren’t supposed to kiss me.”

  He shakes his head and opens the truck door. “Thursday,” he says with conviction.

  “Thursday,” I repeat.

  Of course, I can’t think about Thursday without thinking about Wednesday, when Mom arrives and I have to tell her about the band. But right now, I don’t want to think about that either. I’ve got a lot of work to do, and I’m anxious to log as many practice hours as possible on those drums.

  SIXTEEN

  “So let me get this straight,” Mom says. She’s buzzing around Auntsie’s living room like a wasp on steroids, casting dirty looks at my drum kit. I long to be behind it, practicing until my arms ache like they have for the past three days. Instead, I’m being subjected to one of Mom’s infamous tirades.

  And she’s only getting started.

  “I send her to live with you this summer so she can get her head on straight, and you let her join a band?”

  I wince, closing my blue eye—my dad’s eye. The bad one, as I’ve come to think of it. Mom and Evie are both brown-eyed.

  “It’s a band, not a satanic cult, Gemma,” Auntsie says.

  “A band you let her join!” Mom volleys back.

  Oh boy. I hunch over in my seat. I’ve got at least four inches on Mom, but when she gets like this, I try to make myself smaller. Not that it matters. Mom and my aunt act like me, Evie, and Kate (poor Kate!) aren’t even here—like I’m not almost nineteen and legally able to make my own decisions.

  “I didn’t let her do anything. I told her you had the final say. I did the initial vetting.”

  Mom came straight from work dressed in a pantsuit and looking very lawyerly. She stops her incessant pacing and glares at Auntsie.

  “And?”

  “He seems like a good guy. Plus, she’s not joining a band per se. It’s temporary. A few practices, one recording session, and a gig. He leaves in September,” Auntsie says.

  “Leaves?”

  I clear my throat. “He’s doing a solo tour of college towns between here and Florida. It’s the tour he and his band never got to take.”

  Mom looks at Auntsie. “Hmph. Sounds familiar. Because they broke up?”

  “Because they died,” Auntsie answers for me.

  Mom looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time since she arrived twenty minutes ago. That’s when she told me I look terrible in Grammy’s glasses. Now she looks ready to pounce.

  “How?” she asks.

  “They were in a tour van accident. The drummer and guitarist were killed. The bassist moved to Georgia,” I explain.

  Mom crosses her arms. “Were drugs or alcohol involved?”

  I shake my head. No, your honor, they were not.

  “They were hit by a semi. The driver fell asleep and slammed into them. Pushed their van off the road.”

  “That’s horrible. I can’t imagine.”

  Like a hot air balloon coming to rest, Mom eases herself between Auntsie and I on the couch. Her flowery perfume wafts my way, tickling my nose. She always wears too much. It’s not enough that I can always feel Mom’s presence—I have to smell it too.

  “It is horrible. It took Malcolm two years to write new songs and attempt a comeback. He asked this guy Liam I work with to play guitar on his CD. Malcolm’s gonna play bass. He’s mostly a singer and songwriter, but he plays like every instrument.”

  “What about your life plan, Quinn? All I’m hearing about is Malcolm, not you. How does his grand comeback fit into your plan?” Mom air quotes “comeback,” which is both dated and annoying. I cross my arms over my chest and try to come up with an acceptable answer.<
br />
  My silence agitates Mom.

  She continues, “You know what? If that question is too hard, maybe it’s time for you to come home. I’m beginning to think this whole arrangement was a mistake.”

  “Wasn’t the goal of this ‘whole arrangement’ to give Quinn time to figure things out by herself?” Auntsie tries to help but winds up poking the hornet’s nest.

  “What do you know about what Quinn needs? You’re her aunt, not her mother.”

  Auntsie looks stung. “I know I’m not a mom.”

  Now I’m the one who’s pissed. “She acts like a mom though,” I say. “Auntsie waits up for me when I work late. Makes me coffee and home-cooked meals. Takes me with her to volunteer at the animal shelter. You don’t have to be a mom to care about someone.”

  “Thanks, Quinn baby,” Auntsie says softly.

  Mom straightens her shoulders. “Give me one good reason I should let you join this band.”

  The answer comes, quite unexpectedly, from Evie. “Because he makes her laugh.”

  “What?” Mom and Auntsie say at the same time.

  “He makes her laugh. Not just smile, but belly laugh. I don’t remember the last time I heard Quinn laugh that way.”

  Tears prick my eyes. Is that true?

  With Lynn, I laughed all the time. She had this completely infectious giggle and once we got started, we didn’t stop until we were holding our stomachs and gasping for air. Half the time, we had no idea what we were laughing about. It’s been three years, and I’m still discovering the parts of me that died with my best friend. There are a lot of really terrible things about losing a friend, but one of the worst is how they take pieces of you with them. No one talks about that though, because it would make you seem like a selfish asshole on account of you’re still breathing and they’re not.

  The room falls silent, and I stare at my feet. Finally Mom speaks.

  “You can’t forget to focus on you. To give some thought, real thought, to what you want.”

  I look up hopefully. “So I can do it?” Evie and I exchange a glance that says: Thank you, little sis. Anytime, big sis.