In the Band

by Jean Haus

  “Still,” he says.

  “It’s a done deal okay?” I step back, well as much as I can with the people behind us, while fighting building tears. I’ve kept a lid on my emotions all day, but I’m about to erupt in a mess of emotion. “I’ll be right back. Going to hit the bathroom.”

  “You’re going have a bitch of a time getting back through.”

  I shrug then squeeze through the mass of people. Somehow, I keep it together all the way down the stairs. Ignoring the bathrooms, I head out the side door into the smokers area. Fenced off between buildings and once an alley the area is dark. String lights line the ground along the bottom of each brick wall. Obviously, you don’t need light to smoke just to walk. I pass smokers huddled together conversing amid their smelly haze. In the back, where it’s the darkest, I lean my head against the rough brick and let the tears flow while my stomach rolls.

  I hate this stupid shit. I hate crying. But the more I try to control it, the more tears fall.

  This is why I don’t hang with my friends very often anymore. Their concern, though touching, breaks my heart. I spent four years working toward my goal of a scholarship. To have achieved that goal, give it up, and be continually reminded of it just plain sucks. Yet I’m also aware that if Chloe and Marcus had gone off to college, I’d be a total wreck. That my friends are still here is something. Actually at the moment if feels like everything.

  I attempt reigning in my tears. I’m breathing deep, letting air out slow when what looks like a folded bandana comes into my blurred vision.

  “Looks like you need this,” someone says in a deep voice.

  Embarrassment runs through me as I glance at a tall guy holding the bandana. His mop of dark hair blends into the night. He’s wearing baggy shorts and a white t-shirt. With the lights on the ground, his face is mostly a shadow while his ragged flip-flops are the most defined thing on him.

  He jiggles the bandana in my now upright face. “It’s clean.”

  Mortified at my public breakdown, I reach for the triangle of fabric. “Um…thanks.”

  “No problem.” He falls next to me on the brick wall. One knee rises as he plants a foot behind him. While I wipe my eyes, the zip of a lighter sounds in the darkness. “Boyfriend?”

  A miserable laugh escapes before I can stop it. “Sort of…” I’m not about to explain my life to a stranger. I can’t even explain it to my friends.

  “Guys can be dicks.” I hear the grin in his words.

  “Yeah…” I finish wiping my eyes while wondering why this guy is talking to me. Why he won’t let me cry in peace.

  He lets out a stream of smoke. “Trust me, it will get better. And one day you won’t even remember what you saw in such an ass.”

  Though I wish he’d go somewhere else, the conviction in his tone has me saying, “Sounds like you have experience.”

  His teeth flash white in the darkness. A large hand sprays across his chest. “Thought my heart was shattered. Thought I was dying. Later I realized she wasn’t worth such a response.”

  I dig my vans into the cement. “Actually, I don’t want to be disrespectful. He isn’t a dick. He…just doesn’t like me enough to continue our relationship through college. I can’t hate him for that.”

  My shadowy bandana man is silent.

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “Too much stranger information.”

  He shakes his head. “No. I was just stunned. That’s some mature thinking for someone who’s…What’s the cut off for getting in here? Sixteen?”

  “Eighteen,” I mutter with irritation lacing my tone. “I’m eighteen. Nineteen in a little over two months.”

  A chuckle escapes him.

  My face warms. And the red’s probably noticeable since at five feet four inches, I’m far closer to the string lights than him. Embarrassed about crying and now my looks, I hold out the bandana. “Thanks. I should get going. I, uh, didn’t snot on it or anything.”

  He stubs his cigarette out on the brick wall before reaching for the bandana. His warm hand brushes mine, causing me to drop mine with a yank. “You going to be alright?”

  Though confused why he’d care, I nod.

  “Here, you might not need it,” he says, digging in his back pocket then holding out a card until I take it. “But just in case.”

  Thoroughly confused now, I take the card not wanting to be rude and stuff it in my front pocket, mumble a goodbye, and wander through the semidarkness. This time I stop in the bathroom. No one pays attention to me while I rinse my face and dry it with a rough paper towel. A quick look in the mirror shows slightly red, puffy eyes. In the dark of the theater, Marcus shouldn’t be able to notice. Or at least I’m hoping so. If he even suspects I’ve been crying, he won’t let it go until I spill everything.

  I do have to squeeze my way back through the crowd, repeat ‘excuse me’ multiple times, and even get a few dirty looks, but I make it back to Marcus.

  “Cool,” he says as I slide next to him. “They’re just about to get started. Long line?”

  “Very,” I say, looking ahead and pretending to have a huge interest in the stage.

  He shoulder bumps me again. “You’re going to love this band.”

  Not enough to try out for them. I keep my eyes on the stage, but give him a closed lipped smile.

  The overhead lights dim as the stage lights up and the crowd grows loud. Amid shouts and claps and people going nuts like idiots, four guys step on the stage. They don’t say anything just take their places. Of course, my eyes follow the drummer. But the singer and the guitar player start the song with low lyrics and a repeating riff. Instantly, I recognize My Chemical Romance’s Teenagers.

  With loud music roaring through the theater, the crowd goes wilder when the rest of the band enters the song. I watch the drummer. He’s good. The song sounds good too. Though they play it similar to the original, they sped it up which gives it a louder feel.

  Next to me, Marcus does a fist pump dance and sings with the song. “Good huh?” he shouts at me.

  I nod. However, the verdict is still out. I tap my fingers on the banister and watch with a critical eye, and ear, more than for fun.

  The next song, Gamma Ray by Beck, is totally different. I recall Marcus saying they played a variety. Guess this major switch proves it. After I watch the drummer for most of the song, I check out the rest of the band. They’re obviously all talented and the singer can sing, but the non-music part of me notices the muscled arms playing the instruments, the shine of the singer’s muscular bare chest under an open vest, and the tattoos on his arms. Though I can’t make out faces from this far, I have a feeling some of the girls aren’t here for just the music. Eye candy just might have something to do with the large female crowd directly in front of the stage.

  The third song is something I’ve never heard before. It’s catchy with a long repeating chorus, a fast beat, and a folk influence is evident. I nudge Marcus. “What’s this?” I mouth.

  “This is theirs,” he shouts in my ear.

  My interest goes up a notch. I don’t want it to, but the fact they don’t do just covers impresses me. I nudge Marcus again with my elbow. “What’s their name?”

  “Luminescent Juliet.”

  I give him a look and a question with it. What kind of dumb name is that?

  He shrugs and keeps up his fist pump dance. For a boy so into music he can so not dance.

  I mostly watch the drummer through the rest of the set until the thud and want in my chest has me glancing at the rest of the band, but my eyes always go back to the drummer. He really is good. While he isn’t too flashy—which I don’t mind—his rhythm is spot on. He also looks like he’s enjoying himself, especially during the fills. Between songs, the singer says some stupid shit but for the most part, the band seems to be serious about the music. I like that.

  Once the singer yells out, “Goodnight!” The band heads off the stage and Marcus turns to me as the lights come on. “What do you think?”

 
“They’re good.” I turn to leave with the rest of the crowd.

  He puts a hand on my arm. “Think you’ll try out?”

  I press my lips together.

  His fingers grip my arm tighter. “Tell me you’re thinking about it.”

  “Probably not.” He opens his mouth but I cut him off. “Can we go?”

  He nods below us to the people leaving. “Give it a minute. I want to introduce you to the band.”

  My brows rise. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew them?”

  He shrugs the ire in my tone away. “I just know the singer. He gave me the tickets. He lives in my dorm but we can meet the rest of them too.”

  I take a step back and run into the banister. “No way…I’m not in the mood.”

  “Come on, Riley.”

  I shake my head.

  His expression drops. “Okay, then just let me say hi.” After another of my looks, he adds, “I told him I was coming.”

  “Fine. Just don’t introduce me.”

  We follow the end of the crowd down the stairs then wait to get into the main theater until it’s almost empty. A few stragglers like us hang out near the stage. Well, Marcus is near the stage. I’m a few feet back resting on a rail.

  He’s talking to some guy about the performance when I remember bandana man from outside and the card in my pocket. I give the room a quick peek for a guy in a white t-shirt and shorts. No bandana guy in sight. I dig the card out. Since I thought the guy gave me his number—not that I’d call him—I blink at the black and green ink. One words stands out the most. Suicide. Then free and help. Slowly, like at the pace of a waltz, I realize he gave me a card to the Suicide Hotline.

  My face warms. Looking around and still not finding the guy from outside, I stuff the card in my pocket.

  Just because a girl’s in a dark alley crying doesn’t mean she’s suicidal. Yet beyond the embarrassment burning inside of me, I’m touched someone would try to help me, even if he got it wrong.

  Like way wrong.

  Still, I can see where bandanna man was coming from. I probably looked pretty pathetic out there crying alone. Major loser. The weight of my life just pulled me down for a moment. That’s all. I’m okay. My hand presses over the card in my pocket. I’ve never thought about that. However, crying in a dark alley alone does point to the fact I may need a change in my life.

  So adrift in thought, I’m startled to notice the band has come out. The singer stands with an arm around some girl’s waist and a beer in his other hand while talking to Marcus. This close, I can see that his body matches his face. He’s quite good looking with dark blond hair, deep dimples, and a crooked, white smile. Though he has a shirt on now, tattoos cover his arms and an eyebrow ring catches the light. Chloe would be whispering smoking hot in my ear if she were here. More guys come out on stage and start packing up while they talk. The tall drummer starts tearing apart his set. The bass player talks within another group a few feet away. Stocky and energetic he exudes fun with his buzzed hair and wide grin. He’s all boy cuteness still bouncing a bit as if on stage.

  I’m watching the drummer and thinking about being able to pack up drums when the guitar player comes over to Marcus and the singer. Chloe wouldn’t whisper smoking hot. It would loudly tear out of her mouth with an F-bomb. While the singer is eye candy, the guitar player is walking lust. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Muscled body in a tight, dark tank top. Everything’s dark about him except the small, silver hoops lining his ears. The girls waiting behind him practically pant.

  He brushes the angled flop of hair out of his eyes and looks up. Our eyes meet. Shit. He’s caught me staring. His eyes narrow. My face flushes as my gaze finds the floor. He probably thinks I’m panting after him like the other girls. Doesn’t know I’m just musically interested.

  Feeling like an idiot, I find the nerve to glance up at the stage. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see both the guitar player and singer still talking with Marcus. No one looks at me. I cross my arms, stare at the far wall of old torn wallpaper, and mentally will Marcus to shut up and come on. Behind my irritation drums beat in my head.

  I study frayed wallpaper like its displayed art until Marcus comes up to me. “You ready?”

  “No, I thought I’d stare at the wallpaper for another five minutes,” I say sarcastically, spinning away. Marcus catches up with me in the theater lobby. “Shit Riley, slow down.” But the whirl in my head has me moving fast. Maybe if I keep moving, the thought that’s entered my brain won’t come out.

  “Why is the drummer quitting?” I ask as we step onto the sidewalk.

  “He’s transferring to another university.” Marcus digs for his keys even though we’re several blocks from his car. “He’s good but you’re better.”

  I don’t respond. Rather imagine playing again. Excitement churns in my gut.

  “So?” Marcus elbows me in the side.

  I don’t want to play on stage. I’d rather be in the Marching Band. But I want to play. Bad. “You have their play list?”

  A grin breaks out on his face. “I can load it on your iPod. I already told my mom you’d be practicing in the garage.”

  My eyes narrow on his grin. This time I give him an elbow nudge. A hard one right in his ribs.

  Chapter 3

  The guitar player stares at me from across the huge dusty room, eyeing me with a bewildering contempt. Three naked bulbs hang from the high open ceiling. One above the drum kits scattered everywhere and the group of us waiting to audition. One above the instruments in the middle of the room. And one above the band standing at the far end of the room. Boxes covered with dust line the wood slatted walls and tall windows are at each end of the room. Covered with grime, that has probably been accumulating over the past one hundred years, the windows let little of the late afternoon light in. Though he’s more in the shadows, I can feel the guitar player’s gaze through the dimness.

  He needs to find something else to look at.

  My nerves are already in overdrive. Nerves are usually a good thing. My competitive streak mixed with nervousness takes my drumming to the next level. But that dark stare produces a different kind of nervousness. The kind that has my stomach in knots.

  And I can’t decide why he’s staring at me. I’m assuming he doesn’t remember me from last weekend, especially with all the other girls who panted after him. But the contempt in his stare might have to do with the fact I’m the only female in this muggy room above an antique store on the edge of downtown. Or maybe he’s staring because I look like a groupie after Chloe’s makeover. I should have rubbed off more eyeliner. I should have refused to wear the top that makes me even look like I have cleavage. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.

  I move closer to Marcus as my gaze finds the nervous tap of my shoe. He puts an arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. I attempt to ignore the stare across the room and go into my competitive zone while Marcus talks with my competition, the other three drummers. It’s kind of hard to get in that zone as Mr. Dark and Sexy stares at me while I don’t feel like myself, rather Chloe’s punk Barbie doll.

  Chloe had estimated time perfectly. It took five flipping hours. She cut and dyed my hair. Now I have a thick fringe of bangs highlighted with white-blonde and a layer of blonde underneath my dark brown hair. I’m wearing a tight black top and tight knee length shorts. Chloe’s original choice was far too short, like lift a leg and show my underwear with every beat short. Though I let her go wild on the makeup, I refused the fake eyelashes. Hello? I’m going to be moving a lot, Chloe. For footwear, we met in the middle on a pair of black ballet type looking shoes. I wanted to wear my Vans. She wanted me to wear black high-heeled boots. Um no. Drummers use their feet, Chloe. She also had a beauty school buddy tattoo my arms with henna while the blonde in my hair set since I refused the plethora of bracelets she planned on to complete her rock makeover.

  “We’re going to get started.” I look up to find the guitar player standing in front of Marcus. He’s wearing a dark t
-shirt and jeans. Nothing that screams hot. But he somehow does with that angle of hair across his face, the muscles noticeable under his shirt, and those full lips. My heart rate matches the jerking rhythm of my nerves. The guitarist nods toward me but his dark eyes stay on Marcus. “Sorry but your girlfriend can’t stay.”

  Ah, bingo. He does think I’m a groupie.

  Marcus grins and pulls me closer until the side of my face is smashed against the Pinterest across his chest. “She’s trying out, not me.”

  An eyebrow arches. Otherwise, the angles of his face remain stoic. “Then I guess you need to leave.”

  “Come on,” Marcus says. “I know Justin.”

  His placid expression doesn’t change. “I don’t give a shit if you’re his long lost brother.”

  Marcus’s lips form a tight line as the guitar player stares him down. Luckily, the singer comes over and gives Marcus a fist pump. “Dude, you trying out?”

  “I wish. But no.” He turns to me, smiling wide. “Justin, this is Riley.”

  Justin looks me up and down. His gaze pauses two seconds too long on my cleavage. “You play?”

  Marcus laughs. “She was supposed to play at—”

  I nudge him in the ribs and nod.

  “Cool.” Justin grins and dimples groove his cheeks. “We’ve never had anyone so hot audition before.”

  The guitar player’s eyes roll. “We’ve never had a girl audition so who exactly are you referring to?”

  Justin’s dimples disappear as he scowls at his band mate before looking back to me. “We’re waiting for at least one more guy, but we’re going to start without him.”

  The guitar player nails me with a narrowed look and crosses his arms over his plain t-shirt. “Why don’t you go first, Riley?” His tone is smooth but I catch the undertone of sarcasm in his voice. He doesn’t think I can play. Because I’m a girl?

  Justin raises a ringed brow at his band mate. “She doesn’t have to go first, Romeo.”

  Romeo? What kind of asinine name is that? Anger and confidence straightens my spine as the knots in my stomach untangle. “I can go first,” I say lowly.