August and Everything After

by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski

  We take out our phones and come up with a schedule that has us jamming almost every day or night leading up to our recording session.

  Malcolm looks at me. “Quinn, you still need to write the drum part for ‘That Last Night.’”

  “Yeah, about that. I was thinking maybe you could write and play on that one?”

  Malcolm shakes his head. “I want you to write a part that you’ll be comfortable with playing live. We still have the gig, remember?”

  How can I tell these guys I can’t listen to that song, let alone write a drum part for it? And playing it live? Forget it. But I don’t want to get into it right now. One tale of woe from Quinn is enough for one night.

  “Okay, I’ll come up with something.”

  “Good,” Malcolm says.

  “I’m going to take off,” Liam says. “Keeks is waiting. She’s not going to be happy about this rehearsal schedule.”

  “Invite her to the recording session,” Malcolm says. “Maybe it’ll help if she feels part of it.”

  “Yeah?” Liam asks.

  “Of course.” Malcolm turns to me. “Invite your aunt too. We’ll have her sit in on cowbell.”

  “She’ll love you forever,” I say.

  “That’s the plan,” Malcolm says.

  I linger for a while after Liam leaves. Malcolm wants me to stay the night, but I tell him I can’t.

  “Auntsie and I got into a thing earlier today. I should go home.”

  He takes my face in his hands and kisses me on the lips, gently at first and then with more urgency. I’m tingling.

  “You sure?”

  “No, I’m not sure. But it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Come on then. I’ll walk you to your car.”

  I’m relieved he doesn’t press me because my resolve is breaking. The two times I slept here, sure, we fooled around, but mostly we slept. We’re not “sleeping together.” We’re sleeping. Together. And I’m already used to it—waking up next to him. Auntsie’s words about not knowing what night would be our last aren’t lost on me as we walk hand in hand to my car. Malcolm opens the door for me. I hope I’m not making a mistake by leaving.

  I roll down my window after buckling myself in. Malcolm leans in and kisses me one more time. Then he stares at me for a few seconds.

  “Quinn?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I would have asked you to prom.”

  I smile at him even though we both have no way of knowing if that would have happened.

  “I would have said yes.”

  I watch him in the rearview mirror as I pull away. He’s standing in the street with one hand in his pocket, the other raised in goodbye. It takes everything I have not to put the car in reverse.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  As it turns out, that Sunday night, when Malcolm said he would have asked me to prom, was the last time we slept apart. I’ve been sleeping over at Malcolm’s ever since, and it’s all still very PG-13. What we have is better than sex. I like watching movies and kissing on the couch until we fall asleep. I love the rhythm of him breathing beside me—the way he protectively drapes his arm across my belly at night and kisses my cheek before slipping out of bed to watch the sun rise.

  It’s the perfect arrangement for someone like me, who’s gone too far too fast and gotten burned, and an insomniac like Malcolm. He says he hasn’t slept this well since before the accident.

  The only one who’s not happy is Auntsie.

  “I was talking to your bed the other day. It misses you.”

  That’s what she said yesterday when I stopped home to have dinner with her between work at the Ben Franklin and band practice. Point taken.

  “I’ll be home more once we’re done recording,” I told her.

  So far, Malcolm’s been awesome about respecting my unspoken boundaries. But on Friday night, while we were kissing in the shallow end of his heated, in-ground pool, he indirectly brings up the subject of wanting more. I’m not surprised. The sensation of his lips on my neck, his skin against mine, it’s almost got me second-guessing my reborn chastity.

  “I think we may need to renegotiate the terms of our original deal,” Malcolm whispers in my ear. The brush of his beard against my neck gives me shivers.

  “You mean the part about you sleeping naked in my bed?” I tease.

  He kisses me softly on the lips. “I mean the part about you sleeping naked in mine.”

  “You sleep on a couch.”

  “True. But I still think we need an addendum.”

  I smile and pull away from him, falling backward underwater. Malcolm dives under me and in one sleek motion scoops me into his arms before I can float away. He stands up, and I wrap my arms around his neck. Then he kisses me while sinking down lower in the water, so that our shoulders are submerged. The steamy water warms my goose bumps.

  “If you’re not ready to reopen talks, just say so,” he says.

  I let one arm fall from his neck and weave it back and forth underwater as I look around. This borrowed house, this borrowed time, it’s enough for now. Sex would only complicate things, make it harder to give back what isn’t mine.

  “We can’t renegotiate. Not when our original contract is still in attorney review.”

  “It is? How long does attorney review last?”

  Until I’m sure we’re each other’s most important person.

  “It may take a while.”

  “It’s okay, Cat’s Eye. I can wait.” He kisses me one more time, then lets my legs gently fall into the water. “Come on, let’s go watch a movie. You pick tonight.”

  “I want to shower off first.”

  Malcolm raises his eyebrows.

  “Alone.” I clarify.

  “I’ll make the popcorn.”

  The next morning, I open my eyes to find Malcolm propped on one elbow staring at me.

  “What?” Instinctively I reach for my hair and smooth down my bed head. I knew I should have blown it dry before the movie.

  “Why are you afraid to write the drum part for ‘That Last Night?’”

  We’ve only got five full days before we start recording, and I know Malcolm and Liam are anxious to rehearse it.

  I sit up, defensive, and Malcolm adjusts himself so he’s sitting beside me.

  “I’m not afraid. In fact, I had an idea for a different arrangement that would require minimal drums…”

  Malcolm takes both of my hands in his and flips my palms upward. My eyes instinctively move to my cuff bracelet and Malcolm’s follow. He runs his thumb along the leather bracelet, inching toward the snap that holds my secret. I pull my hands away, and Malcolm raises his in surrender.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… Can you talk about it? Can you tell me what happened to your friend?”

  Panic rises in my chest. My scalp gets the familiar pins-and-needles feeling, and I have to close my eyes to slow my breathing. I rock back and forth a little and squeeze my wrist with my bracelet between my legs. When Malcolm’s arms encircle me, I lean back against him.

  “I’ve got you.”

  He does. His touch makes my anxiety subside. No need to fumble for my Xanax. I’m safe. Safe enough to start talking.

  “There’s this hill in my town—we called it Mount Doom. Corny, I know. Most kids can only bike about halfway up before petering out and walking their bikes the rest of the way to the top.”

  I draw a diagram in the air with my finger—one that looks like a two-humped camel or a woman’s cleavage—as I explain how getting up Mount Doom means peddling really fast down one hill, crossing a really busy intersection, and peddling up the other side.

  “You have to time the intersection just right. You don’t want to stop and lose speed, but you have to watch for oncoming cars too. I got really good at it.” I take a deep breath, still hes
itant, giving myself over to the memory. “Lynn and I were freshmen. It was the first warm day, when everyone heads outside after school with baseball mitts and skateboards. Lynn wanted to go to the library. She had a book on hold that she wanted to pick up. But I talked her into riding bikes. And so, of course, that meant tackling Mount Doom. I was so immature. And stupid.”

  I tell Malcolm how Lynn was right beside me as we crested the first hill. How I thought she stayed beside me as I sped downward, gaining speed, the chilly March air stinging my face.

  “There was a point where I had to take my feet off the pedals because they were turning too fast. I looked both ways at the intersection, making sure there were no cars. I yelled to Lynn. Urged her on. I zoomed across the street and charged up the other side. When I glanced back, Lynn had fallen farther behind than I thought…”

  I trail off, so lost in remembering that I’m unaware that I’m still talking.

  In that brief moment that I looked over my shoulder, I saw the SUV coming closer, saw Lynn racing down the hill. Saw them both like dots on a grid, about to collide. I opened my mouth to scream. I did scream, “no” or “stop!” or “wait!” or all three of them. It didn’t change what happened. No one heard me. Why didn’t anyone hear me? Maybe I never screamed at all.

  Pieces of bike flew everywhere… Lynn’s helmet, Lynn’s black Converse. Lynn. Poor broken Lynn. Why did she listen to me? I got off my bike. My fingers fumbled to dial 911. Our moms arrived while I was sitting on the curb, clutching one of Lynn’s sneakers, tears and snot streaming down my face. The guttural screams. The look on Lynn’s mother’s face…

  I shake my head.

  “I caused it. All of it. The sadness, the grief. I ruined her mother’s life. I ruined my mother’s life. There’s no way to say ‘I’m sorry’ for something like that. No way to make it right.”

  I take off my bracelet and expose the scar it hides. The whitish, pinkish skin is raised and rough and looks like a Christian cross lying on its side. Malcolm doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He knew all along. He has tears in his eyes when he takes my wrist and brings it to his lips, gently kissing the spot where life almost ran out of me.

  My chest heaves and I begin to sob uncontrollably. Malcolm holds me, lets me know he won’t let me fall apart.

  “Shhhhh, I got you,” he whispers. I’m thankful he doesn’t lie and say everything’s going to be all right. He doesn’t tell me to stop crying either, just lets it happen until I’ve exhausted myself.

  “What would you say to her if you could see her again?” Malcolm asks when I’m finally calm.

  I wipe my eyes and think about it. There’s so much. Too much. I want to tell her I’m sorry. So, so, sorry. That I wish it was me instead of her. I want to tell her I miss her, to fill her in on all that’s happened since she’s been gone, to give her back the life she missed out on. I want to tell her I love her.

  “I…” I start to tell Malcolm all of this, but he puts a finger to my lips.

  “Don’t tell me. Say it with ‘That Last Night.’ It’s yours now. Do whatever you want with it. Change the lyrics, change the guitar part, whatever it takes to say what you need to say.”

  I spend my entire shift at the Ben Franklin running the song in my head and thinking about Lynn. I almost break down when I sell a cheap friendship bracelet to some tween girl holding a quilted sunflower change purse that Lynn would’ve loved. On my break, I walk down to the gazebo by the bay where Malcolm and I shared breakfast a few weeks ago. With my earbuds in, I listen to the song that was Malcolm’s attempt to deal with a profound loss and has now become mine. It should begin with a piano or maybe an organ, and vocals. Keys and Malcolm, that’s all it needs for the first two verses. After that, I hear strings, maybe an upright bass and cello. No drums or guitar. Not yet. I wasn’t making excuses when I told Malcolm there should be minimal drums. The song will be half over before Liam chimes in with electric guitar and I start to play, only hi-hat at first, then toms. I’ve changed my mind about a gospel choir. It’s impractical and would probably be overbearing. But it needs backing vocals. Female backing vocals or maybe a few choirboys.

  At practice that night, I run through my ideas with Liam and Malcolm, singing my way through the parts. My hands shake a little and I’m self-conscious about my pitchy voice, nervous about exposing so much of myself to Liam and Malcolm, but their faces exude warmth and understanding, and somehow I get through. When I’m done, I find it hard to look at them, but Liam breaks the silence and puts me at ease.

  “So…for the female backing vocals. Who were you thinking?” Liam asks.

  I laugh because Liam is trying so hard to be delicate and tactful, and neither is in his DNA.

  “Don’t worry, not me. I was thinking my sister and her friends from choir.”

  Liam clutches his chest in mock relief. “Oh, thank God, because there’s no amount of auto-tuning that could fix that.”

  I kind of love him right now, but instead of telling him that, I throw a drumstick at his head. He ducks and it misses. I need to keep up my front.

  “Q, watch it. I almost lost an eye!”

  I turn to Malcolm, who hasn’t said anything yet. “So what do you think?”

  Malcolm stays silent. He’s stroking his beard and has this faraway look on his face.

  “Malcolm? If you hate my ideas, I totally understand—”

  He snaps out of it. “No, no. I like your ideas. Really like them, actually. It’s just the recording session is so tight. The only way we’d be able to record all the instruments and vocals is live.”

  “I know not of what you speak. Don’t we record everything live?” I ask.

  Liam jumps in to explain. “We track the parts, Q. One instrument at a time. We’ll record drums first. Vocals are usually last.”

  “That’s right,” Malcolm says. “You’ll play drums to my rough demo and then Liam and I will use your drum part to record our parts. But with keys, guitar, cello, backing vocals, and did you say upright bass?”

  I nod.

  “We’ll have to play all together, live, in the studio. We’ll need time to rehearse there and then after that, we’ll have to get it right with only one or two takes.” Malcolm’s pacing. “I’ll play keys, maybe a Moog organ sound, and the vocals. You think your sister and her friends can do it?”

  “I’ll ask. I can see about a cellist too. I know a girl who played in my high school’s orchestra,” I say. “Do you play upright bass?”

  Malcolm shakes his head. “Even if I did, we need another body to record. I know who I can ask. I’m not sure what he’ll say though.” He runs his fingers through his hair as he circles the garage. “There’s a lot of moving parts here. I’m still not sure—”

  “I love the idea of recording live.” Liam beams, and his grin infects Malcolm. “We can do this.”

  Malcolm stops mid-pace. “You know what? You’re right. Fuck it. Let’s do it. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  I’ve learned never to tempt the universe with that question, but I’m not going to let my silly superstitions squash his excitement.

  Liam leans over and fist-bumps me. “Nice work, Q. This is going to be awesome. As long as you don’t sing.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I can listen to Ricky Keyes talk all day. That’s what I’m thinking shortly after arriving at Atlantic Trax, this totally high-end recording studio in Asbury Park. The mixture of Nashville and cigarettes in Ricky’s voice is hypnotically charming. He could very well be The Quinn Whisperer.

  “Lay your vision on me, man,” Ricky says.

  We’re meeting with Ricky in a room that looks like NASA’s ground control meets the cockpit of the Starship Enterprise. The soundboard, with hundreds of dials and levers, is easily the length and width of a grand piano and is flanked on either side by two flat screen monitors. Behind the board, a step up
, are two high-back leather seats, which give the producer—or Captain Kirk—a better vantage point through the glass window into the main recording studio.

  Ricky nods enthusiastically, making notes on a yellow legal pad and interjecting phrases like “far out” and “right on” as Malcolm lays out our three-day recording plan. It’s like Ricky borrows all the cool from generations past, but it totally works for him.

  “It’s going to be tight, dude, but we can do this,” Ricky says.

  It’s around noon on Friday, “morning” in rocker-speak. We’re about to start recording Malcolm’s five-song demo. I’m amped up, nervous, and, okay, slightly crushing on Ricky. I see why Auntsie got so excited when Malcolm mentioned him.

  Ricky looks down at his legal pad, on which he’s drawn three stacked boxes, and made some notes.

  “So day one will be drums, scratch vocals, and bass. Day two, mostly guitar and vocals. We’ll also use day two to punch up any bass parts that need fixing.” He doodles in the margins as he thinks. “Let’s see… Sometime in the early morning hours of day three we’ll record your live track. And I’ll need the rest of Sunday for mixing.” He looks up at us and smiles. “Y’all didn’t plan on sleeping, did ya?”

  Liam and I laugh a little, but Malcolm is serious.

  “He’s not kidding.”

  “Sound like a plan?” Ricky asks.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Malcolm says.

  “Right on.” Ricky looks back and forth between Liam and Malcolm. “Who’s laying down the drum track?”

  I raise my hand tentatively, like I’m in school. “Uh, that would be me.”

  “You got a name, Me?” he jokes.

  “Quinn Gallo.” I put out my hand.

  He takes my hand in both of his. “Quinn Gallo. Very rock and roll. The drums are all mic’d and ready to go. Good move using the studio’s kit. It’s gonna save us a shit load of time.”

  Ricky explains how a different mic gets attached to each drum, with additional microphones hung overhead in the booth to capture the sound of the whole kit.