Scratch Track

by Eli Lang

  I leaned back against the side of the building. It was rough rock, unfinished, like someone had hacked this side of the studio out of the hill. It was warm, though, and I closed my eyes and let the sun seep into me through my T-shirt. The studio was fascinating, but I didn’t quite know how I felt about being underground, without any windows, for so long.

  There was a slight scuffling noise from the other side of the building.

  “Don’t let the door close!” Nicky said as he came around the corner.

  “I didn’t.” I pointed at the rock that was wedged between the door and the frame. “I didn’t know you were out here.”

  He sighed and came to stand next to me. He held up his hand, showing me the cigarette he had tucked between two fingers. “Bad habit.” He glanced sideways at me. “You want one?”

  I shook my head, ready to say no. I’d stopped smoking a few months ago, but the habit of the short, private moments the cigarettes had provided was almost harder to break than the nicotine addiction. I’d been really good, though. I’d chewed gum and told myself I had willpower, and I’d done the stupid patch thing for a while. Mostly it had worked. But Nick’s cigarette smelled nice, peppery and green. And I liked the way he was holding it, so casual and comfortable.

  “Can I just . . .?” I reached out.

  He nodded and handed it over without a pause. I put it to my lips and took a drag. The paper was dry and warm, and I couldn’t help thinking, like a teenager sipping out of their crush’s soda can, that his lips had been right there. A smoky, secondhand kiss.

  I handed the cigarette back. I figured one of us would make an excuse and go in then, but neither of us moved. Nick took a drag, and I watched him. Maybe it was weird, to stare at him while he smoked. But he was standing so close. And he looked so good when he did it.

  He had tattoos all the way up his right arm. I remembered seeing those tattoos shifting with his movements, the colors muted by darkness. The feel of the skin when I ran my hand over it, slightly raised, velvety where the ink was. I gestured at his wrist.

  “Did you get a new one?”

  He turned his wrist over to stare at it, like he’d forgotten himself that it was there. I probably shouldn’t have noticed. But I’d liked looking at his tattoos, and I didn’t remember the blue bird.

  He smiled. “Yeah. Do you like it?”

  I nodded. It was pretty. A delicate thing against a well-muscled arm. Incongruous and all the more beautiful because of that.

  There was a peach next to it, inked in pale colors and a thin outline. I remembered that one. I remembered running my thumb over it while he slept, and telling myself I’d ask him about it. I’d forgotten the next morning, though, and then he’d been headed off with his band, and I’d never gotten the chance.

  I reached out and touched it now, featherlight. “I meant to ask you about this. Is it for your band?” When he nodded, I asked, “Where did you get that name, anyway?”

  He laughed. He drew his arm away too. It was a subtle movement, so it wasn’t like he was yanking away from my touch. But that’s almost what it felt like.

  “It was a typo. Some friend of a friend on Facebook. Her cat died, and in the comments on the post, someone had written ‘rest in peach.’” He laughed softly, the sound slightly melancholy, and I smiled back at him. “It was like this bit of ridiculousness.” He waved his hand through the air. “This super-sad post, and this person’s trying to be so serious, but I’m cracking up imagining this cat resting in peach.” He glanced at me, looking mischievous and a bit guilty.

  Then he sighed and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes, his head tipped back so his throat looked long. “But I thought, ‘Isn’t it awesome that in this grief, something funny happens too? Something funny actually comes out of it.’” He blinked open his eyes and stared straight ahead, but I didn’t think he was actually seeing anything. “Like, life goes on, you know? And sadness and laughter can exist at the same time.” He shrugged. “So when we were trying to come up with a band name, I said it as a joke. But it stuck. And now I have a peach tattooed on my arm.” He flipped his hand over to see it, like he couldn’t quite remember what it looked like. “Every time I see it, I think of that.”

  I nodded. I didn’t know what to say. I liked the story. I liked that their name had some meaning, at least to Nick. But what he’d said about laughter and grief, and life going on, hit me in the pit of my stomach, and for a moment, I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think past the idea.

  He dropped the last of the cigarette and stubbed it out under the toe of his sneaker. Then he turned to face me. “Look, Quinn. When I said I thought maybe I’d hear from you . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. That wasn’t what . . .”

  “You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t want me to reply to it,” I said, before I could think better of it, or stop myself. Or both.

  He blinked, like he was surprised.

  “Sorry,” I said quickly. “Sorry, sorry. That, uh. That didn’t come out right.”

  For a second, his face was completely blank. Then he laughed. “You’re right. I did want to know why you never wanted to hook up with me again. But I truly didn’t mean to ask you like that. And it’s in the past, right?” He seemed hopeful, like I’d agree with that and let the subject drop. “I didn’t want to start some awkward, accusatory thing. I want . . . We’re all here and it should be fun. Not about stuff that happened before.”

  I nodded. But apparently I wasn’t done running my mouth. “I did want to. Hook up with you again.” I swallowed. My throat was dry all of a sudden. “See you again. I did.”

  He shrugged, but the movement was tight and quick. “I called. You didn’t call back. So.”

  “Yeah.” I’d thought, before, that if it was the two of us alone, maybe I’d be able to tell him. Explain, although it wasn’t really any kind of explanation. Tell him about Eric and everything that had happened and how messed up I’d been afterward. How seeing anyone hadn’t really been an option. But I couldn’t make myself. The words were right there, but there was no way they were coming out of my mouth. I didn’t know how Micah did it. He . . . blurted it out to people. Like he was getting it over with before it could do more damage. Like he was putting it out there for everyone to see, so they’d know exactly what hurt him the most. That scared me. It was terrifying. I didn’t want anyone to know how much pain I was in. Even though I’d had a year to get used to the idea that my brother was dead.

  “I had . . . I couldn’t,” I said instead.

  For a second, Nick went still, and I thought he might press it, ask for more of an answer. He deserved it. We’d only been together for those few weeks, had only had sex the once. But it had been . . . more than a one-night thing. We’d been friends, or on the way to being friends. He could have demanded an explanation, and he would have had every right.

  He didn’t, though. He only nodded and glanced away. The movement wasn’t as uncomfortable as the shrug had been, but I could see all the hurt and anger in it, all the things he was trying to hide from me. The stress and the uncertainty under his skin.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, because I didn’t like that expression on him. And I definitely didn’t want to be the one causing it. “It wasn’t you. It wasn’t anything like that. Anything between the two of us.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted up into a smile. “It really is fine.”

  Sometimes, when I let my mind wander—and it wandered its inevitable way to Nicky, because he was a burr in my brain—I thought about what it would have been like if I had answered those calls. Or tried to get in touch. Back then, I would have had to tell him what was going on. There wouldn’t have been any way to hide it. I’d only been able to keep it from Bellamy and Tuck and Ava because we were on break at the time—we’d finished the tour not long before that, we were all going our separate ways for rest and family time, and then they went into the studio to record. It was six months before I had to spend any l
ength of time with them. And I’d had a perfect excuse for avoiding them for all that time—I’d told them I was traveling to see family. In a way, I had. We’d put Eric in the family plot, which was in a graveyard in Nevada. I figured Eric would probably laugh about that. He’d hated going to Nevada for those family trips.

  But if I’d returned Nick’s calls, if I’d seen him, he’d have known. He’d have known about everything I was dealing with, and he’d have seen how much . . . pain and confusion and anger I was caught in. He probably would have been supportive. Kind. He was the type of person who could gather you in and make you feel held, just by putting his arm around your shoulders. He would have wanted to hold me together as best he could. Might have wanted to be there for me, as a friend if nothing else. I could never have asked that of him, when whatever was between us was so new and fragile. Letting it fade away was the better option.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m still sorry about it. It was a shitty thing to do.”

  He nodded. “Thanks.”

  I didn’t know what else to say after that. I thought it would get weird and tense, and I’d have to make an excuse to get away. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, either. We really didn’t know each other now, after more than a year had passed since the last time we’d been together, the last time we’d spoken. Nicky had always been easy to be with, though. It was the first thing that had drawn me to him. He made things simple. He made you want to stand beside him and soak up some sun. So I did.

  Escaping Indigo started to get into the swing of recording over the next day or two. They split their day into two parts: one to write new stuff and straighten out the songs they did have, and another to record. Sometimes they did the writing in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon and evening. It depended, mostly, on how they were feeling.

  There wasn’t a lot for me and Micah to do. We could sit there and listen and say we liked something, or liked this other something better, but that was pretty much it. When they were writing, the band got lost in each other, this relationship that was as intense and inclusive as any close friendship or love affair. Different, of course. But there was something that happened between the three of them when they were making music that no one else could touch or come into. As if the music wrapped around them and held everyone else out.

  Micah was used to being a musician’s partner. He’d done it for years for Eric, for all that they’d been friends and not lovers. I remembered coming into the apartment the two of them had shared and seeing them sitting side by side on the couch, Micah with his eyes on a book, Eric holding his guitar and picking out chords. It hadn’t looked like Micah was paying any attention, but if Eric paused and asked him something, he not only had a response, but thoughtful things to say about whatever music Eric was making. Micah was doing the same thing now, except he’d exchanged the book for a sketchpad and a pencil. When Escaping Indigo went into their world, he went into his, and he only came out if one of them needed him.

  I couldn’t quite do that. As much as I loved the band and knew they wanted my opinions, and took what I said seriously, I always thought of myself as very slightly separate. I worked for them. I took care of them. And they made the music. That was something I didn’t do, had never done.

  On the third day of recording, I was sitting next to Ben at the soundboard, watching him push buttons up and down, adjusting sounds and bringing vocals to the front, and generally doing a bunch of stuff I had no clue about. I’d been watching him do it for days, but I didn’t think I’d ever really understand.

  Bellamy was on his other side, and they were talking in half sentences about levels and measures. I’d wondered whether Bellamy would be okay as a producer—some bands liked to produce their own stuff, and others wanted someone to help them. But somewhere along the line, Bellamy had picked up a lot, and he seemed to know what he was doing. And Ben seemed happy to fill in the gaps too.

  I glanced through the window in front of us to the main recording room. Ava was tapping away at her snare, very softly, while she talked to Tuck. She caught my eye and waved, but she was involved in her conversation. I waved back and turned to Bellamy and Ben again.

  I had to clear my throat to get their attention. On my other side, Micah stifled a laugh.

  “Would it be okay if I wandered around the studio?” I asked Ben when he finally focused on me.

  He pinched his eyebrows together and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  I shrugged, surprised. “’Cause it’s your house?” I didn’t mention that he might be justifiably worried about all the expensive equipment he had around too.

  He laughed, but it wasn’t an unkind sound. “Knock yourself out. I don’t know how interesting it’ll be. They’re empty rooms, mostly.”

  Behind him, Bellamy was peering over his shoulder at me. “I can go with you, later, when we’re done here.” I heard Micah take a breath, as if he was going to offer the same thing.

  I shook my head and stood up. “That’d be cool. But I’m fine on my own for right now.”

  Bellamy cocked his head, studying me, but then he nodded.

  “There’s a couple rooms in the back with couches and stuff, if you want to chill,” Ben said. He was already turning back to the board and Bellamy and their conversation.

  I nodded, but he wasn’t paying attention to me anymore. I wondered if Ben was choosy about what bands got to record here, and that was why he didn’t care if I poked around the place he lived. I wondered if he only picked people he liked, or thought he’d like. He was certainly well known and sought after enough to do that.

  Micah raised his eyebrows at me, but I just smiled back at him and lifted my hand in a wave before I made my way to the door.

  There were a lot of rooms down here—a warren of big and small spaces, all for different purposes. Mostly storage—musicians brought their own gear, and tended to stick with it, but if someone needed a cymbal that was slightly sandier in sound, or an effect pedal that did this particular weird thing, or that perfect guitar that they wouldn’t get to use anywhere else, Ben probably had it. There were several different rooms to record in too. Small glassed-in rooms for vocals—some wood paneled and warm, with thick, dark red carpets and lamps set on tables. Other were rougher, more raw, the walls close and painted a dark gray, so it seemed like they were built right into the rock of the hill. They were all still and silent now, microphones and flimsy stools left seemingly abandoned.

  There were bigger rooms too. Medium-sized rooms for drums, so cymbals wouldn’t bleed into guitar sounds. Rooms that faced one of the soundboards—most of the rooms faced one soundboard or another—rooms with huge glass walls, black in the darkness, until I flicked on a light. Rooms with double walls to make the sound quality better, richer. One room with an entire second room built underneath it, and a gap all the way around the floor, so the air space was doubled.

  I wandered into one empty room and flicked on the light switch, only to realize this room was attached to the one Escaping Indigo was working in. Somehow I’d walked in a circle and hadn’t realized it. Everyone turned to stare at me, and Ava waved cheerfully. It was almost a shock—I’d been so lost in the space and the muffled sound of distant music that I forgot for a minute that anyone else was down here with me. I waved back, shut the light off again, and moved on.

  After that, I went on in the dark without turning any more lights on. I wanted to explore by myself. I caught glimpses of the band as they sat around and worked or talked. Sometimes I saw them through two or three reflecting glass walls, so the image was all bouncy and skewed. But unless they stared into the darkness, they didn’t seem able to see me at all.

  I was still uncomfortable with being underground, even though it was technically really a huge basement. Some of the rooms I explored were actually above ground, in what had once been the garage. But there weren’t any windows to the outside—regular windows and recording music weren’t a good mix—and it w
as like being buried, sometimes. Trapped. Locked away in muffling walls and rock that had heard hundreds and hundreds of songs, hundreds of conversations and arguments and shared jokes between band members. That had seen history being made, and had probably seen bands fail and fall apart too. Thinking of it in that way made it more immersive than frightening, although it was still overwhelming in a lot of ways.

  Every now and then I escaped upstairs, to the bright kitchen, or to the bedroom I was sharing with Tuck, with its many windows looking out onto green lawn, or out the back door, to stand on cracked pavement and breathe in fresh air. And when I was standing in the sunlight, I’d wonder why I was letting my mind go down those paths, about music and history. I wondered what it was about this place, this process, that was making me think about things I’d never really considered before. Or about things I’d been able to push down for most of a year. Things I’d thought I was finally coming to terms with, able to live with.

  I didn’t have an answer. When it felt like too much heaviness, I’d go back to the band instead, and surrounded myself with their music and laughter. Then I could remind myself that everything was normal, even when it felt, sometimes, as if something important had clicked out of place.

  On one of my excursions the fourth day we were there, I wandered into the other half of the studio, near where Rest in Peach was recording. As it was with the rooms where Escaping Indigo was playing, there were several rooms here, loosely surrounding the room with the soundboard. The vocals booth was ready for use, the lamps on, creating a soft, almost cozy glow. Two walls of the booth were glass, and from the hallway, I could see through, into the room beyond, where Rest in Peach was in the middle of a song. The sound was slightly muffled—if I’d been standing by the mixing board, it would be crystal clear. But I could still hear it, and it was enough to make me think it was going to be an amazing album, loud and sweet and raw and tender, like all of their music. A strange mix, Ty liked to call it, and that was accurate.