Then I turn back at Mom. For a moment, I think she’s going to hug me. And for a moment, I really want her to hug me. But she stands abruptly.
“On two conditions. One, you cannot get involved with this boy romantically. Rockers make bad boyfriends. And two, when summer ends, so does your stint in the band.” She points a finger at me. “Come September, don’t let me hear that you’re packing your bags and going on tour.”
Or what?! I want to say, but I’m mostly getting what I want, so I keep my mouth shut. That’s why I’m surprised when Auntsie pipes up.
“Like that would be so bad? Dating a musician and going on tour?”
“I don’t know, Annie. You tell me. Would it?” What’s Auntsie thinking? We just calmed the angry hornet. And what is Mom talking about?
“I want more for Quinn too,” Auntsie concedes.
“Good,” Mom says. “Then we’re all on the same page.”
I don’t know about the same page, or even the same book. Same library, maybe. But the glacier that’s been keeping Mom and I apart? It may have begun to thaw. I can’t wait to tell Malcolm I’ll be at rehearsal on Thursday.
SEVENTEEN
The rehearsal space turns out to be a house—a palatial house on the opposite side of the bay from where Auntsie lives.
“Holy fucking McMansion,” Liam says when we pull up. He offered to give me a ride when I complained how the drums Malcolm loaned me wouldn’t fit in my car. Liam drives his dad’s old Cherokee.
“Looks like it’s for sale,” I say, nodding toward the sign.
I get out of Liam’s Jeep and walk around back to start loading in. Malcolm says it’s important to get used to hauling and setting up my own kit. I don’t see why. The studio where we’re going to be recording in two weeks has a sweet set of drums for me to use, and we’re only doing one gig. Plus, Mom made it pretty clear that my time in a rock band comes with an expiration date. If Malcolm ever becomes famous, I’ll be like Pete Best, the first Beatles drummer who faded into obscurity. Not Ringo Starr.
Malcolm’s smiling and holding the door for us as I lug the bass drum up the pink brick walkway and maneuver sideways and awkwardly over the threshold.
“Nice house,” I say, trying not to sound as out of breath as I am. The open floor plan features slate gray hardwood floors, high ceilings, and bay views from every window. It’s pretty, but it lacks hominess and charm.
“My parents own it.”
“They’re here?” I wasn’t expecting to meet them tonight.
He shakes his head. “They’re flipping it. My mom’s a real estate agent and my dad’s a contractor.” He opens his arms and gestures around the house. “And this? This is the glue that keeps them together. They’re letting me stay here until it’s sold.”
“Sweet,” Liam says as he offers his hand in some kind of bro shake, fist-bump combo.
I put down my drum and walk into the kitchen to the sliding glass doors, which lead out to a deck and in-ground pool.
“Let me open that,” Malcolm says. He reaches around me to unlock the door, brushing my hip and making my heart double pump. I hadn’t realized he was behind me. I step out onto the deck. The air smells like summer—fresh-cut grass, chlorine, and…
“Mmm, honeysuckle,” I say out loud.
“It runs the length of the property.”
“Best smell ever.” Ever since Lynn’s funeral, I’ve preferred fragrant living flowers to dead floral arrangements. Good thing I’ve never had to worry about a boyfriend sending me bouquets for Valentine’s Day or my birthday.
I walk to the far side of the deck, where I can look beyond the pool and small lawn to the dock and Barnegat Bay. I can see the water tower near Auntsie’s house and know exactly where I am. With a high-powered telescope, I might be able to see into my bedroom window from here.
Malcolm leans on the deck rail beside me.
“We’re at about the same latitude.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” I can watch the sunset over the water from Auntsie’s house. Malcolm can watch it rise.
Liam joins us and nudges my shoulder. “By boat we could be here in ten minutes, Q. Hey, maybe next time we borrow the Clark’s Bayliner!” I hear about Andrew’s parents almost as much as I hear about Andrew.
“And load my drums on and off the boat? I’ll pass.” I flick a thumb over my shoulder. “I’m going to head out to the Jeep and get my toms and cymbals.”
Liam begins to walk away. “Let me get my amp out first, Q.”
I turn to follow Liam, and Malcolm lightly touches my elbow.
“Q? That’s awfully cute.”
His expression tells me I should set him straight.
“It beats ‘Benny,’ which is what he used to call me, or ‘Quinny.’ That’s what his girlfriend, Kiki, calls me. Know what the funny thing is?”
“What’s that?”
“I still like Cat’s Eye best.”
I smile, and Malcolm’s face relaxes.
“Q! Hurry up!” Liam yells from inside. He’s been evolving from douchebag to impatient child. He continues to scream. “Get your shit and bring it in! We don’t have all night!” Of course evolution takes time.
“I better finish loading in.”
“I’ll help.”
“No, no. If I’m going to be a drummer, I’ve got to act like one.”
“Let’s start with the covers,” Malcolm says when we’re all set up. “How about we do ‘Seven Nation Army’ first. Ready?”
Liam nods.
“Quinn, count us in,” Malcolm says.
With sweaty hands, I clack my sticks four times, nearly dropping one. How embarrassing. I’ve been practicing in front of a full-length mirror all week, assessing and correcting the strange facial tics I’ve developed while trying to keep time and make sure my boobs don’t shake too much. I’ve resorted to lightly biting my lower lip to deal with the former problem, and a double layer of sports bras for the latter. I didn’t anticipate needing gymnastics chalk for my sticky palms.
Luckily the song begins with two measures of bass, giving me time to wipe my hands on my thighs before chiming in with the floor tom. That’s the second biggest drum with a sound not quite as low as the bass. It’s all me and Malcolm in the beginning. Bass and drum. No guitar part yet. In my head, I know my kick drum and his bass need to lock in on the fourth count, but it’s hard to do while keeping the beats on the hi-hat and the tom even and steady. Liam joins in with guitar on the chorus and bridge and then it’s back to bass and guitar.
Our first run through is a mess, on my part at least. It’s a simple enough song, but I’m fucking it up. I lose time whenever I try to get fancy. Malcolm starts off patient, locking eyes with me and nodding in time to help us get tight musically. But I keep getting overwhelmed, and he’s losing patience. I can tell.
“I need a cigarette,” he mutters after our fourth attempt at the song.
This is it, I’m thinking. I’m out of the band. Goodbye Pete Best, hello Ringo.
Liam offers me a sympathetic look as Malcolm walks out of the garage and into the attached kitchen.
“You’re trying too hard, Q. You can do this.”
“I thought I could,” I mutter. I was so much better practicing at home.
“Play the snare part for ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday.’ Warm up while Malcolm cools off.”
I could easily play that part. But Malcolm’s heard me do it before. He won’t be impressed, and I won’t redeem myself.
“Liam? Can you play the guitar part for the third track on Malcolm’s demo?”
Malcolm needs to come up with some names for these songs.
“You mean the one that begins like this?”
Liam plays the opening riff.
“Yes, that’s it. Keep going.”
I pick up my sticks and sta
rt playing the drum part I’ve been working out at home—the same part that played in my head the first time I heard the song.
Liam’s smile tells me we sound good. By the time we reach the chorus a second time, Malcolm’s back. Wordlessly, he lifts his bass from its stand and starts playing. The warm mellow bum, bum, bum mixes with Liam’s lead guitar and my simple but effective drumming. I make it to the end without losing time once.
Malcolm’s not exactly smiling, but he’s not pissed anymore either.
“Again.”
We play it twice more before Malcolm asks, “Which other songs do you have drum parts for?”
“All of them, except ‘That Last Night.’” I don’t want to tell him that ever since my freak-out at Keegan’s, it’s been hard for me to listen to that song.
We work our way through three of Malcolm’s originals, stopping and starting when Malcolm wants to change something or tweak the bass and drum parts. To his credit, Liam nails every guitar part, every time. He’s really good.
When we’re finished, we sit around eating Sun Chips and drinking iced tea. Malcolm offered us beer, but we both declined. I’m wondering why he keeps alcohol in the house at all. Is that wise? Is it allowed? I need to get my hands on the NA rule book. I don’t want to invade Malcolm’s privacy about rehab, but I need to know more.
Malcolm claps his hands and rubs them together like he’s warming them over a fire.
“So, when are we going to do this again? Tomorrow?”
“Liam and I are working,” I say. “Saturday?”
“Can’t. I’m going to a wedding with Kiki,” says Liam.
“Whose?” I ask.
“First cousin, family friend? Don’t know. She told me, but I stopped listening after ‘wedding.’”
“How about Sunday night?” Malcolm suggests.
“Works for me,” I say. I’ll have time to go to the shelter and hang out with Auntsie beforehand.
“Sunday night sounds perfect,” Liam says. “I’m going to need some me time after spending the day in a suit doing the chicken dance.” He unplugs his guitar and winds his chord.
“Leave your amp, if you want,” Malcolm says. He turns to me. “You can leave the drums too.”
“But I’m going to want to practice.”
“So practice here,” Malcolm says.
“When?” What happened to rocker boot camp and learning to haul my own gear?
Malcolm shrugs. “Whenever.”
“Uh, okay.”
Malcolm walks toward the wall to smack the garage door opener.
“Here, I’ll give you the security code for the keypad so you can practice whenever you want. I don’t have to be here.”
Liam grins and waggles his eyebrows as he steps under the still-opening garage door. I shoot him a look that screams quit it, but I can tell he’s smiling like a cat with a canary in its mouth as he walks down the driveway to his Jeep.
“I knew it,” Malcolm says as we step, side by side, into a wall of humid air. The crickets are chirping and the streetlights cast a yellow glow over everything.
“Knew what?” I’m still distracted by Liam, who keeps tossing glances over his shoulder.
“That this was the right band for my songs. Not the right one for a White Stripes tribute band maybe, but the right band for my songs.”
He walks me toward the car. The flowers lining the driveway and lawn remind me of summer nights back home. Simpler summers, before life got so fucked up. I smile and breathe deep. I practiced so, so hard this week, working on my rudiments and trying to get those drum parts down. I’m enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of doing something right.
Malcolm closes the gap between us. Our shoulders touch, and he brushes my fingertips with his.
“What are you doing tomorrow before work?” he asks.
“Practicing here,” I say without hesitation.
He squeezes my hand and smiles. “Right answer.”
We both know I wouldn’t be able to stay away.
EIGHTEEN
I punch in the four-digit code Malcolm gave me, and the garage door rises. This is too weird, a tiny voice echoes from some deep brain canyon. Not because I’m here without Malcolm. He told me he’d be at the gas station when I arrived and that I should let myself in. But because he gave me access to this house, his space… There’s an intimacy there, right? I’m not saying it’s the romantic kind. But it’s the kind of closeness I’ve been without for a while now. The kind I’m not really sure I deserve.
I glance both ways over my shoulders before stepping into the garage. Two girls on beach cruisers pedal down the street. The one on the purple bike rings her bell, and the other turns her helmeted head toward me and grins. She’s at the awkward age where her grown-up teeth look too big for her mouth. I smile back, or at least I think I do—I’m hit so hard with a memory of who I used to be that it’s hard to tell. Lynn, watch this, no hands! Come on, pedal faster, we got this!
Somewhat lightheaded, I step inside the mostly empty garage and walk past my drums toward the kitchen door where the garage controls are. With a shaky hand, I slam the button and watch the shadow descend as the door closes behind me. I take a deep breath and put down my drawstring tote and plastic Wawa bag with salty snacks and iced tea on an empty workbench. I move toward my drums, anxious to pound away the cocktail of weirdness and melancholy churning in my gut.
There’s a note taped to the hi-hat.
Open the kitchen door to let in the AC. It gets hot in here.—M
It’s a cloudy day and already close to four, so despite the full-body flush brought on by my brief encounter with my former self, the garage is cool and comfortable. That may change after I’ve been playing for a while, but I need to break through the nagging feeling that I shouldn’t be here. Here being more than this garage.
I pull my sticks from my back pocket and run through some warm-ups before putting in my earbuds and cueing up Malcolm’s songs. I don’t waste any time. Malcolm said he’d be home after five, and I have to be at Keegan’s by seven.
I close my eyes and let the melodies and rhythms pour into me like hot wax. The songs become part of me, and I lose all sense of time and place, pausing only long enough to stretch my cramping fingers. I practice the drum part for each track over and over again and don’t move on to the next until I’m certain I’ve got it right. When I reach the last track, the song I can’t bring myself to write a drum part for, I skip it and start back at the beginning.
After more than an hour, thirst and hunger finally get the better of me. My iced tea and Fritos call from inside the Wawa bag. When I lay my drumsticks on my snare and pull out my earbuds, it’s like I’m emerging from swimming underwater. I blink my eyes.
Malcolm is standing in the kitchen doorway. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I look down, suddenly self-conscious about the skimpy tank top I’m wearing, the sweat dripping down my chest, and my glasses that are forever sliding down my nose.
Malcolm holds up a white paper bag and grins. “I brought meat.”
He’s wearing dark gray work pants and a light gray tee with the Kwik Fill logo where the designer’s mark would be on fancier shirts. He looks better than any country club guy, if you ask me.
“I’m dripping with sweat,” I say. Ugh! When am I going to realize that sometimes it’s better to say nothing?
His brow furrows with concern. “You should have opened the kitchen door. I’ll bet you didn’t bring a bikini either.”
Malcolm texted me earlier and said to bring a swimsuit. Specifically a string bikini. I walk toward him.
“I brought a perfectly acceptable one-piece.”
“Your choice. You’re gonna feel overdressed when I skinny-dip though.”
The thought of Malcolm in the buff makes me blush all over, but I don’t give him a chance to see he’s r
attled me.
“Ha, ha.” I nudge past him into the cool kitchen. “Ahh, the air feels nice.”
“The pool will feel even better. There’s a bathroom in the foyer if you want to change.”
I take a deep breath and inhale the aroma of peppers and onions.
“Mmm. Are those steak sandwiches?”
Malcolm nods.
“Okay if we eat, then swim?”
“I offer you my naked self and all you want is food?”
“I’ve already seen your naked self, and yes, I’m starving.”
“Ouch.”
“Nudity was not in the plan. Remember?”
“As per our agreement, you said I couldn’t be naked in your bed, implying all other locations are fair game.”
“Believe what you want. Can I have my sandwich now?”
We eat poolside, on a wrought iron table under an umbrella. Malcolm talks about the extensive renovation his parents did on the house in order to flip it. Music plays through the fake rocks that house the outdoor sound system, and the pool filter hums.
“I feel like I’m at a fancy resort. A resort that serves the best cheesesteaks I’ve ever eaten.” I tilt my chin toward Malcolm. “Is there anything on my face?”
He smiles. “Besides cheese and ketchup, you mean? Come ’ere.” He puts one hand on my forehead and licks his thumb like he’s about to “mommy wash” my face.
I scooch back and laugh. “Don’t you dare!”
He throws up his hands. “I tried. The pool water will have to take care of it. Ready to swim?”
I glance at my phone. I only have about forty-five minutes until I have to be at Keegan’s, but if I French braid my wet hair I can make it.
“My stuff’s still in the garage. I’ll be right back.”
“Go. I’ll clean up.”
While I’m in the garage gathering my bags, I hear Malcolm in the kitchen crumpling our trash and opening and closing cabinets. It feels like we’re playing house and I hate to admit it, but I like it. I put my drumsticks in my drawstring tote and I’m about to go back inside, when the garage door starts to open. At first I think I hit some switch accidentally or that Malcolm triggered it from inside so he can take out the trash. But as the door opens, I see pink polished toes in high-heeled sandals, long tanned legs, a Lycra miniskirt, and the face of a curly-haired girl who looks as surprised to see me as I am to see her.
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