Rules to Rock By

by Josh Farrar

  “Sure.”

  “Excellent. Thank you so much, Cr— Oops, sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Christine said. “You can call me Crackers once in a while. Just don’t do it in the halls. And leave off the ‘ ’n’ cheese,’ please.”

  I returned from school, and yet again there was no party in honor of my coming home. My parents barely looked up from the soundboard, where supposedly they were in the final stages of mixing. But they’d been saying that for weeks. X wasn’t there. My mom said Jake had taken him over to Don’s, so apparently his violent outburst hadn’t gotten him banned for life.

  I found Ronaldo on IM.

  Bassinyrface: so do u think everyone in a band has to be cool?

  EggMtnRckr: what do you mean?

  Bassinyrface: I mean, I found a girl today who’s a pretty amazing musician. But she’s kind of strange.

  EggMtnRckr: Strange how? Funny looking?

  Bassinyrface: No, more … funny acting.

  EggMtnRckr: yeah?

  Bassinyrface: Like, she eats constantly, and she’s always got crumbs all over her shirt, and people call her Crackers n Cheese!

  EggMtnRckr: no way, seriously?

  Bassinyrface: word.

  EggMtnRckr: Well first of all, image is definitely a big deal. People arent just listening to you. Theyre WATCHING you.

  Bassinyrface: I know. That kinda freaks me out.

  EggMtnRckr: like at SummerStage that time.

  Bassinyrface: yeah, exactly!

  EggMtnRckr: But you got over that. And you always had good stage presence.

  Bassinyrface: Thanks … but does my whole band need to have that? Stage presence?

  EggMtnRckr: Well it does help. But it’s not everything. As long as at least you and one other person in the band have it, you’ll be all right.

  Bassinyrface: And do they need to dress all rock? Because Jonny kind of does, but this girl dresses like a super dork.

  EggMtnRckr: Mmmm, well maybe THAT will be your image.

  Bassinyrface:?

  EggMtnRckr: like, maybe NOT having an image is your image.

  Bassinyrface: Not following you. At all.

  EggMtnRckr: Here’s what I mean. It’s back to the “Be Yourself” thing. Some bands who have a really intense image look really cool, and other bands look like theyre trying way too hard. Animal Collective had their animal mask thing going for a while, but now they just get up and play in T-shirts and jeans. You know?

  Bassinyrface: yep.

  EggMtnRckr: And take somebody like Bono. He’s got the crazy big sunglasses that he wears like all the time.

  Bassinyrface: Seriously, ALL the time! Weird.

  EggMtnRckr: But it fits somehow. He’s a big, loud guy and he wears big, loud shades.

  Bassinyrface: And he’s saving the world. One child at a time.

  EggMtnRckr: Heh.

  Bassinyrface: But yeah, I do get it. So we just have to sort of figure out who we are as a band, ya?

  EggMtnRckr: Right. Then the image stuff can come later. And it’ll make sense.

  Bassinyrface: Gotcha. Thx.

  “Hey, Abuela, it’s me, Annabelle, again.” Here I was, leaving another message. “I’m sure you’re busy as usual, but can you give me a call sometime?”

  Did I sound mean? I didn’t want to sound mean. I just really wanted her to call me back!

  I went for more of an upbeat tone: “Today I think I found the first member of my new band. Or I might have two band members, if this one boy would just get it together and join already.

  “He’s a little nerdy, and she’s addicted to snack food. But they’re cool.” Sort of. Cool enough to want to be in a band, anyway.

  “X is still acting weird and begging for attention. But I’m the only one who’ll give any to him, and I’ve got my own stuff to worry about, too. I don’t mean to make you feel guilty, but will you call us? We miss you, Abuela … Bye.”

  Sometimes rock stars just need to hear from their grandmothers.

  SHAKY IN THE HOUSE

  Friday morning, I woke up with Satomi’s fret board pressed against my face, “Dear Prudence” blasting through the speakers of my Beatles radio alarm clock. I wiped the dried drool off with my shirtsleeve. Gross! I must have fallen asleep practicing again. I leaned back and slid Satomi onto my belly, closing my eyes again and playing the Paul McCartney bass line for a minute before gathering the strength to face the day. Then I opened my eyes and got up, bass still on. Satomi had dug four rusty railroad tracks into my cheek with her fat strings. I scrubbed my face with a washcloth until it stung, but I could still see one long, wormlike line where the E string had been.

  I brushed my teeth, ran water through my hair, got dressed, and walked into the kitchen, still groggy. My parents were nowhere in sight. No surprise there—they had still been mixing when I passed out, so now they were probably sleeping it off. X walked in, rubbing his eyes and carrying a periwinkle blue clapping monkey. He seemed to be going backward in time. Soon he’d be sucking his thumb and wearing Transformers underpants again.

  “What’s up, dude?” I said.

  “You missed a spot, Belle,” he said. “Been slobbering in your sleep again?”

  “Very funny. How’s your grounding going?”

  “Okay, I guess.” He looked down at his untied shoe, but made no move to tie it. “I don’t see what I did wrong, anyway.”

  “You threw a cymbal at Dad’s shin. That’s a serious weapon, dude.”

  “Yeah, I guess. But grounded for two weeks? Come on.”

  “Well, it’s not like you were doing anything ungrounded that you can’t do now. You don’t have any friends yet.”

  “Well, I can’t skate. Inside or out.”

  I put out cereal and juice for both of us. X just sloshed the milk around in his bowl, not eating a bite.

  “Would you please eat, X?” I said. “Mom must have forgotten to set her alarm, because I’ve been up for fifteen minutes and I haven’t heard a peep from her.”

  “She’s supposed to drive me to school today. We need to get some stuff for my log cabin.”

  “Your log cabin?”

  “I have to make a log cabin out of clay.” What? That made zero sense.

  “Okay, I’ll go get them.”

  “Shake ’em up to wake ’em up.” My brother, the poet.

  I climbed the ladder to the loft, and heard radio talk show sounds coming from my parents’ alarm clock. That was strange, because my mom was a light sleeper. She never slept through that thing. Something was up.

  The comforter was draped perfectly across the bed, and a blanket was folded neatly across the bottom. The pillows had even been fluffed. My parents hadn’t been there all night! I called out to my mom and dad, but I already knew there was no way they could be in the apartment.

  This was a new one. I’d been left alone with X for a few hours before, but not without at least knowing where my parents were. X and I needed to be at school in a half hour, our parents had completely bailed on us without leaving a note, and I had no clue where they were or why they had left. Great!

  I pulled out my phone and dialed my parents’ numbers, and both went straight to voice mail. I checked my mom’s bedside drawer for loose change. Bingo! Nine quarters and a whole bunch of nickels and dimes. I totaled it up and put the change—over four dollars’ worth—in my pocket. That was enough for bus fare for both of us. If we left right now, I could drop X off at his school and probably still make it for half of Mr. V’s class. I shimmied down the ladder, my heart thumping against my chest, telling myself to stay calm.

  It made me realize I had almost never been alone before, truly alone. Even though my parents had spent most of their time away from the Sunset Park apartment, Abuela had always been there. It felt scary, but kind of exciting, too. I could already do just about everything on my own, anyway, and now I actually was on my own, independent, a grown-up.

  “X, we’re on our own today, okay?”

 
“What about my log cabin?”

  “I don’t know, buddy. I can’t help you with that right now. The best I can do is get you to school on time.”

  “But it’s supposed to be done already. Mom and Jake said they’d help me with it last night.”

  “Well, Mom or Jake can help you after school. But for now, we’ve both got to get going, okay?”

  “I’m not even finished with my cereal.”

  “X! I just don’t want to be late, okay?”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, but he wasn’t really paying attention. He was looking over my head, toward the couch on the edge of the studio area.

  “The couch just moved,” he said. I heard a rustling sound and turned around.

  “Belle? X?” said a sleepy voice. Shaky Jake, emerging from under a blanket on the studio sofa.

  “Right here!” I said. I exhaled. Of course, Jake. “What happened? Where is everybody? How could they leave us alone like that?”

  I ran over and gave him a slap on the shoulder, a hard one. I’m not sure what had gotten into me—it wasn’t Jake’s fault.

  “Oof, watch it with the slapping, kid. Your parents have only been gone for a few hours.” He rubbed his eyes and scratched his stomach through his long-underwear shirt. “And I’ve been here the whole time. Promise. Your dad was really excited about the recording, and he wanted to bring it straight to the mastering studio to finish up for real. He wants it online like immediately, so he was kind of jumping off the walls.”

  “Well, what about Mom? She was supposed to drive X to school and get him stuff for his project.”

  “Your dad really wanted her there with him. She said I should take X.”

  “Okay, whatever,” I said. “X, I’ll see you tonight.”

  I couldn’t believe this. Now my parents weren’t even spending the nights in the same apartment as us? Everything was turned upside down. I got my books and went out to catch the bus.

  Something oddly familiar about Mr. V had been bugging me from day one, and in class later that day, it finally came to me: Mr. V looked exactly like E.T. He probably wasn’t older than forty-five, but his brown face was as crinkly as Abuela’s. Walnut crinkly. He looked like a shrinkled old baby, and his fingers were so long they must have had an extra joint in them. Anyway, he liked my haikus, sort of.

  Forced Family Fun

  Drove us all bonkers today

  Ice cream, salty tears

  My dad loves music

  My mom loves what my dad does

  Where do kids fit in?

  It seems clear to me

  X chucked a cymbal at Dad!

  He just needs some love

  I need this rock band

  To keep from going crazy

  When will it happen?

  Ms. Cabrera,

  Good work! You are mining your family life for material, searching for universal truths.

  What’s so universal about my brother giving my father a bloody shin? That’s more like the universe spinning into chaos.

  But what exactly is this piece? Another song?

  The rare extended-haiku form? I’m still not getting the sense that this is a finished work, so please keep going with it. You have given me a couple of first drafts, but I want to see second drafts, third drafts. Give me some polished work!

  Christine whispered from the desk behind me. “You wanna hang out at lunch?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I nodded. “I just need to grab a sandwich. I’ll meet you in the hall.”

  On my way there, I saw another little kid crying in front of his locker. He had to be the tiniest kid in the school, even smaller than Bumblebee Shoes. His little-kidness was magnified by the fact that he wore his hair in a bowl cut. That should not be allowed after kindergarten under any circumstances, but I guess this kid hadn’t gotten the memo and let his mom do it anyway. He was slumped down with his head in his hands, crying so quietly that no one in the crowd of kids rushing to the cafeteria seemed to notice him. I tapped him on the shoulder.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  He didn’t say anything, but he glanced up for a split second, and it looked like he had the beginnings of a nasty black eye. Somebody had socked him good.

  “Who did it?” I asked. “A big curly-haired guy?”

  “No.” He sniffled. “The fat guy.” Ouch. Didn’t sound like Curly Burly.

  “You need anything?” I asked.

  “Well, I could use some lunch,” he said. “They took all my money.”

  “Here,” a voice said. I turned around, and it was Bumblebee Shoes. He handed the kid a sandwich, nodded to me, and said, “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”

  I got my own sandwich, then met Christine at her locker.

  “You ever had somebody take your lunch money or threaten to beat you up?” I asked.

  “No, but I’ve heard about it. That’s why I started bringing my own.” She pulled out a Ziploc and started chowing. “They just want cash, not Wheat Thins and pepper jack.”

  “They really walloped a kid I just saw. His eye’s gonna be black and blue for a week.”

  “That’s just the way things work around here,” she said with her mouth full. “Let’s go up to the practice room.”

  “I didn’t bring my bass today.”

  “That’s okay. Play your bass lines on the piano. We’ll find something to work on.”

  I wasn’t sure where Jonny was. Sick at home, maybe? This was the first time Christine and I had been alone together. She was all business. All about the music. I liked it.

  “How long have you been playing the piano?”

  “Since I was three.”

  “Three?!”

  “My mom’s a music teacher. I never really had a choice.”

  “But you like it, though, right?”

  “Sure.”

  By the time we had climbed the stairs, I could hear some noise coming from the practice room. It wasn’t music; it was the sound of a band just setting up: buzzing guitar amplifiers, rattling drumsticks, and sizzling cymbals. A sandpaper voice said “check, check” into a microphone. I gave Crackers the shh sign, and we peeked into the room.

  “Okay, gentlemen, can we look alive, please?” said the voice.

  “It’s Raising Cain,” Christine said. “They’re about to start a song.” The voice, so low it seemed to make the ground shake, belonged to Jackson Royer, the creep from the yard. We leaned against the doorjamb, safely out of view.

  “Matt, tighten up your bass line on the verses,” Jackson said. “And Darren, I want those snare hits on the chorus to be flams. We’ve got two trophies to defend, gentlemen. Show some pride.” I could almost see him snickering. He didn’t seem to really mean a single thing he said, and yet every sentence he uttered was a step away from a threat.

  The room went quiet for an instant. Then the drummer counted four fast beats with his sticks, and Raising Cain pounded out a blistering version of “Search and Destroy,” an old Stooges song. Jackson growled out the first verse.

  I have to admit, Raising Cain seemed to have mastered the Rules to Rock By. Jackson’s guitar scraped and scratched like glass against the sidewalk. The bass was a deep, evil rumble. And each crack of the snare drum sounded like the deafening pop of a firecracker. But the band’s power was in the way all the parts came together. Raising Cain was a single unit, strong and sleek, a wild beast about to bust out of its cage.

  I couldn’t help it. I had to have a better look. I stuck my head all the way inside. Jackson stood in the center of the room, his back to the door. He was wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt with the band’s named etched in Gothic lettering. Original? No. But intimidating nonetheless.

  Jackson stood with his legs spread wide and aligned under his shoulders. He slung his black Flying V guitar all the way down to his knees and barked into the microphone with a focused, controlled rage.

  Then Jackson stopped suddenly and flashed the time-out sign to the band.

  “Matty, I know you love
your Heavy Metal pedal, but didn’t we agree that you’d wait until the second verse?”

  The kid looked at him blankly.

  “Please nod your head. This is what is called an affirmation.” Jackson used big words, like a public radio DJ or a major nerd. But the way he spoke them gave a completely different feeling. He sounded angry, but very, very controlled, making sure to keep the anger just underneath the words. “It indicates that we’ve had this conversation seventeen times and that while you’ve momentarily forgotten, you intend in the future to do as I say.”

  The bassist just nodded dumbly.

  “Good boy … okay, let’s start this thing up in a— What’s that?”

  It was my cell phone! I pulled it out as fast as I could—Abuela had chosen this moment of all the moments in the world to call me back—but by the time I had silenced it, it was too late. We were busted.

  Jackson turned around calmly, grinning with satisfaction.

  “Well, if it isn’t Crackers ’n’ Cheese and Beatles Girl. If I’m not mistaken, we’re holding groupie auditions tomorrow, right, Darren? So what brings you two here today?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but all that came out were a few broken syllables.

  “We were just coming up to use the piano. We didn’t know you were here,” Christine mumbled, almost inaudibly.

  “Umm, sorry, Crackers von Crackerton, I must be hard of hearing. Were those words coming out of your piehole?” He turned to the drummer. “The child’s mouth moves, yet I hear no sound.” Laughter from the goons.

  “Hey, Jackson, we have just as much of a right to this room as you guys do. Actually, we have more of a right.” This time, Christine spoke loudly—I was surprised she had it in her—and pointed to the sign-up sheet on the wall. “See, that’s my name. I had a reservation from twelve thirty to one.”

  “Oh my, an oversight,” he mock-whimpered. “But what are the consequences? Is Principal Michaels personally going to eject us? Or perhaps the fetching new Spanish teacher? No? No one outside with a court order or a battering ram?”

  Okay, so he was daring us to go tattle on him. I’d seen his type before, and that was not a challenge I was going to take him up on. I kept my silent-as-a-mime routine going, feeling powerless, like a complete idiot. And Christine’s moment of courage seemed to have passed.