by Mindi Scott
Mrs. D. went on. “Just to be clear: I’m not advocating anything illegal, dangerous, or damaging for this project. Do not rob a bank and say that it was a homework assignment. Understood? Now please mingle for the rest of the period! This is a party or something, right?”
Or something. Right.
I was closest to Jezebel/Tara and Jade/Brittany. They’d been swaying the whole class, so now that Mrs. D. had given the go-ahead, they started twirling around and laughing in that obvious way girls do when they know—or at least think— everyone’s watching them. The strobe effect made it so that I couldn’t predict where their glow bracelets were going to be from one flash of light to the next.
Brittany scooted close to me and started doing these weird dance moves while I stood totally still. “Hey, Dick,” she said, moving in and tugging on my name tag. “You got any E on you?”
“Sorry, fresh out.”
“That’s too bad.” She flashed this huge smile, and the black light made her teeth look purply white and freaky.
I’d only done ecstasy twice, and, embarrassingly enough, the first time was at a party freshman year where Brittany and I had fooled around and then pretty much never spoke again. The second was a week after that and the trip was so bad it had turned me off uppers for good.
Tara and Brittany started dancing together right beside me, and, I have to say, I probably would have thought it was super-hot if I couldn’t see Rosetta a few feet away, talking to Xander. Compared with her, they were only mildly hot.
“You know what I heard?” Brittany asked, leaning toward me again. “Cat pee glows when you shine a strobe light on it.”
Okay. Not hot at all now.
“You mean a black light!” Tara yelled. “Black lights make cat pee glow, not strobe lights!”
Then they started arguing about it. About piss, for Christ’s sake.
At an actual party I’d have been looking for an escape, so I decided to head for an empty spot on our little dance floor. Rosetta and Xander followed me over. Together.
“This has been an interesting class,” Xander called out to me.
“I must have missed the part where she went over what the point of it was,” I said.
I was talking to him, but I was looking at Rosetta—the IC class rave-party angel—who was smiling at me with glowing purplish teeth that, of course, looked anything but freaky.
“I couldn’t quite hear everything either!” Rosetta yelled. “But I got the idea that it was an extreme demonstration of the communication-as-a-simultaneous-transaction concept to show how noise—whether it’s literal or psychological—keeps people from having a perfect understanding of one another.”
“Yeah, that’s what Mrs. Dalloway was saying.” Xander nodded his head slowly. “I kind of thought she’d go into that thing about spaces themselves affecting the conversations that take place in them. The crazy stuff that goes on at parties is all wrong in the classroom. And vice versa.”
I looked back and forth between them. “Huh. You don’t say.”
They glanced at each other and then burst out laughing at the same time. I knew it was stupid, but I was kind of jealous. Not because they were both school smart in a way that I never would be—even though that was true too—but because geeking out was one of the probably many things Xander had in common with Rosetta. And, well, I didn’t have anything.
Rosetta kept smiling at me. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. Alex and I are complete dorks.”
“I, personally, think the correct term in this case is ‘nerds,’” Xander said.
Rosetta laughed again. “You’re right. Nerds it is.”
She was killing me here.
Luckily, Mrs. D. ended the music and strobe light crap and turned the lights back on, which was nice and jarring in its own way. “You can keep the glowing jewelry,” she said as she collected our name tags. “I’ll see you all tomorrow with your lists!”
Everyone grabbed their stuff and started shuffling out. But I was taking my time, hoping Rosetta would walk with me to the parking lot like she had the past two days. Instead, she gave Xander a thumbs-up and said, “Good luck!” before rushing out.
Strange. And disappointing. I started for the door too.
“Hey, Seth. Dick. Whatever,” Xander said, still planted in his same spot. “You aren’t playing with the Real McCoys anymore, right?”
I stopped. “Right.”
Did he think I’d changed my mind about quitting during the past three days? Well, he wouldn’t be the only one. Jared and Mikey were already scrambling and making phone calls to find my replacement, but Daniel was in all kinds of denial, thinking if he harassed me enough I’d give in and decide to tour.
“My band doesn’t have a bass player,” Xander said, looking at the floor and talking in a rush. “So I was wondering if you’d be interested in playing with us. We’re doing a pop-punk sound—heavier on the punk—but if you’re looking for a change, maybe you’d be into jamming with us sometime?”
Oh, yeah, this would go over great with Jared, Daniel, and Mikey. Still, it wasn’t the worst idea in the world. I’d wanted to try something new for a while. And now, for the first time, there wasn’t anything holding me back. You know, except Jared, Daniel, and Mikey.
“Who else is in your band?” I asked.
“Taku Endo. And also Brody Lancaster,” Xander said, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “I already talked to them, and they’re down with having you come out.”
Taku was my math tutor, and he seemed like a cool guy in that same dorky/friendly way as Xander. Brody, however, happened to be Vicki’s twin brother.
“I don’t know,” I said, trying to think of an excuse so I could get out of it without sounding like a dick. “I’ve been on upright bass for a year now, and I haven’t even picked up an electric in that time. In fact, mine’s in storage.”
All our equipment was in storage because that’s where practice was held, but Xander wouldn’t know that.
“You don’t have to worry about gear,” he said, waving his hand. “We rehearse at Brody’s. His dad set him up a studio downstairs that has everything. Seriously. You can use his bass and amp if you want. In fact, you could steal them and he wouldn’t notice.”
Xander was sort of smiling and shaking his head in a “damn those rich kids” kind of way, and I didn’t know what to say. It was the first time I’d ever realized he wasn’t one of them.
“Think about it,” he said, handing me a sheet of paper he’d been holding. “This has my phone number and Brody’s address. I’m heading over right now, and we’ll be at it for a few hours. So if you want to stop by, feel free. Or if today isn’t good, we can shoot for some other day. We’re there all the time, so it’s up to you.”
“Cool, thanks.” I folded the paper and shoved it in my back pocket, but there was no way I was going to need it. I mean, me in a band with Brody? Please.
3:20 P.M.
When I got out to the parking lot, Rosetta was waiting by the Mustang, still wearing her neon halo. Amazing. The one person I’d hoped would turn up, and here she was. I could get used to this.
“Let me guess, you’re cured and you want a ride somewhere?” I asked.
She laughed. “That’s a big no. I wanted to hear how it went with Xander. He was nervous all day about asking you to meet his band. It was pretty cute.”
Xander. Cute. Ugh.
“Yeah, he talked to me about it, but I don’t think it’s going to work out,” I said, dropping my bag next to the car.
“Why not? You need a band, right? And they really need a bassist.” She set her backpack next to mine. “They’ve been playing together for almost a year. Two guitars, drums, vocals. No bass. Xander says it’s ridiculous.”
She sure knew a lot about Xander and his band’s goings-on.
“It’s not that simple,” I said.
“Well, Xander told me that you’re good—better than they are—so you don’t need to worry ab
out that. Or are you thinking that you’ll be wasting your time because they aren’t good enough?”
Strangely, it had never occurred to me to wonder about either of those things. “It’s not that.”
“Then, what?”
If she wanted the truth, I’d give it to her. Whatever. “I just don’t see myself spending time with an asshole like Brody Lancaster.”
She frowned and lines formed between her eyebrows. “Brody? He’s nice. Quiet and moody sometimes, but not an asshole.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, rolling my eyes. “This coming from someone who hangs out with his evil sister.”
Rosetta squinted at me like she was trying to figure out if I was serious. “What are you talking about? Vicki’s snobby sometimes, sure, but she isn’t evil. And anyway, Vicki and Brody are nothing alike.”
“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “At that party at Pete’s, Vicki said what happened to Isaac was a ‘nontragedy.’”
Rosetta opened her eyes wide, all surprised. “She said that?”
“Yeah, she said that. She also said she hoped the same would happen to me. If that isn’t evil, I sure don’t know what is.”
“I don’t understand why she’d be like that,” Rosetta said, biting her lip. “That’s really, really awful. She isn’t usually flat-out mean to people.”
“Yes, she is.”
Rosetta stared at the ground. “Let’s think about this. The night she said that to you. It was a party and she was drinking a lot, right? So I’m positive she didn’t mean it. Drunk people are always saying and doing terrible things they wish they could take back later. It’s just part of being a pod person. I’m sure she feels bad if she remembers.”
She was saying this to calm me down, to make me feel better, but I hated that she was making an excuse for Vicki’s bitchiness. “She doesn’t care that she said it,” I said. “That’s how she is all the time. It isn’t like there’s just one time, one thing with Vicki. She is always starting some—”
“This is getting so far away from the subject,” Rosetta said, cutting me off. “What I was saying is that maybe you should give Brody a chance. Check out the band; see if you want to do it. That’s all. I don’t want to have an argument over which of our friends is a bigger jerk or should be dead or anything like that.”
Which of our friends should be dead?
Unbelievable.
I grabbed my bag and headed to the driver’s-side door.
“Seth, hang on,” Rosetta said.
But I couldn’t. Even though I knew I was probably blowing it with her, I didn’t care; I needed to get away from this screwed-up conversation.
I opened the door. As I was about to get in, Rosetta said, “Damnit.”
She didn’t yell in frustration like most people—including me—might have. She just sort of sighed it. And yeah, it’s tame, but it was such a surprise coming from her that I stopped and turned.
“I’m sorry,” she said, meeting my gaze. “I didn’t mean that the way you think. I don’t know what I was meaning or why I said it at all. I’m just . . . sorry.”
“Okay,” I said.
And that was it. Fight over.
We leaned next to each other on my car, close enough that her shoulder was touching my upper arm. I thought about making a joke about how it was good that we’d gotten our first argument out of the way on the first day of school at the intersection, because now we were already getting to be experts at it. But I knew it would only come out lame, so I didn’t bother. Instead, I said, “Psychological noise sucks.”
“I know. Do you mind if we rewind this conversation and record over it?”
“Rewind to which part?” I asked.
“How about to whichever part where I can say, ‘I’m not an expert on these things, but maybe playing music with these guys is what you need. It’s a fresh start. What’s it going to hurt to try?’”
“So then what’s my line?”
She pulled one of the neon glow necklaces off her head and stuck it on mine. “Maybe you don’t have a line. Maybe at this point you decide not to think about it, not to try to talk yourself out of it. You get in your car, go to Brody’s house, and play bass. And then, even if you decide it’s something you don’t want to do ever again, at least you’ll have a jump start on the ‘challenge yourself to do things you find uncomfortable’ homework, right?”
That gave me an idea. “How about this: I’ll do it if you come with me. In my car.”
She laughed. “I don’t think so.”
The more I thought about it, the better it was sounding. “You’re going to put it on your list for the homework, right? Getting past your motorphobia?”
She nodded.
“Then you should take your own advice. Don’t think. Don’t talk yourself out of it. Just get in the car.”
She laughed again. A nervous laugh, but maybe it was an excited one too, like she was considering it? “I can’t,” she said after a few seconds. “I have a clinical disorder, you know.”
“Excuses, excuses. You chicks with phobias are all the same.”
I smiled a little so she’d know I was teasing.
“I know you can do this,” she said. “And no matter what happens with the band, I think you’ll be glad if you try.”
Now she was the one changing the subject. If anyone else had pressured me with the “you can do this” crap, I’d have probably been annoyed. But because it was her, it was working. I actually wanted to. Just to show her I could, I guess.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go. And then afterward we’ll get started on your challenge. Deal?”
“Deal.”
3:41 P.M.
I stood on the steps at Brody’s, waiting for someone to answer the door. It seemed quiet for a house with a band practicing inside. At Studio 43 people could hear our music from a block away.
Finally, the door swung open and Vicki was standing in the doorway, staring at me. I was so sick of running into this chick. She felt the same because she said, “This is getting ridiculous.”
I didn’t want to get into it with her. “I’m here for a band thing.”
For about a half second she looked like she was going to argue or ask questions, but then she just walked away, leaving the door open. I took that as my cue to go in.
Everything, from the floors to the furniture to the walls to the high ceiling, was white and beige. The only actual color was a red flower arrangement on a short table and a large red painting on the wall. I followed Vicki through the front room and hallway and into the huge, chrome-filled kitchen. Then she opened a door and pointed down a flight of stairs. “They’re in there.”
“How do I know this isn’t a dungeon where you torture your enemies?” I asked.
“Because if it were, I’d have put you in there years ago,” she said over her shoulder as she stomped away.
I headed down, and I could just make out the drums. At the bottom of the landing, guitars kicked in very faintly. I pulled opened a heavy door and the noise level increased. There was yet another door behind it. When I pushed that open, the music got so loud I could feel it. This place had some amazing soundproofing.
As it turned out, the practice room itself was sort of dungeonlike—if the Rich Bitch Hill version of dungeons has dark walls covered with acoustic foam and thick black carpet on the floor.
Brody was standing at a mic with a vintage Fender strapped over his shoulder. He had his usual Kurt Cobain look going on, except his sweatshirt and jeans were very obviously clean and expensive. He looked at me through his blond hair for a second, and then ceased playing and turned toward Taku, the other guitarist. Taku stopped too and gave me a nod. With his spiky hair, industrial cartilage bars in both ears, and black shirt with black jeans, Taku didn’t look like he belonged in the same scene, much less the same band, as Brody. In fact, with Xander’s laid-back pseudo-surfer look, they were all kind of mismatched, which—I have to admit—was kind of a nice change after all the pressure to look th
e rockabilly part with the Real McCoys.
Xander got up from behind his drums. “Hey, Seth. Glad you could make it. I was just saying I didn’t know if you were going to show.”
Brody was looking past me, and I wondered if maybe he was wishing I hadn’t.
I shrugged. “I thought I’d check it out.”
“Cool,” Taku said.
Xander started rushing around, getting the bass plugged in and ready, while I stood there feeling out of place. “‘Scratching at the Eight-Ball,’” I read aloud from a banner that stretched across the back wall.
“That’s the name of our band,” Taku said.
Weird. Not Magic 8 Ball. Just plain 8 ball.
I said, “It sort of makes me think of someone scraping their fingernails over a few grams of coke. But I’m guessing that isn’t what you’re going for.”
Xander started laughing so hard he looked like he was about to fall over. “See, these guys didn’t believe me when I told them that ‘eight ball’ would make people think of drugs. But Taku is so straight-edge we have to get on him to use his asthma inhaler, so he has no clue.”
I’d noticed that Taku coughed a lot in the mornings.
“For the millionth time. I don’t have asthma. I have bronchospasms,” Taku said. Then he turned to me. “Our name came from a Social Distortion song. You know how knocking the cue ball in the pocket is called ‘scratching’? And when you scratch trying to sink the eight ball, you automatically lose on what should have been your winning shot? So yeah. Scratching at the Eight Ball. I guess we were feeling cynical when we chose it, right, Brody?”
Brody nodded. “Always.”
It was the first word he’d said since I’d walked in.
Xander handed me Brody’s Gibson Firebird bass, which looked like it had never been played, and sat behind his drums. “Let’s do this,” he said. “Seth, jump in whenever you feel comfortable.”
Then he hit his sticks together several times and started pounding away on his drums. Brody and Taku started playing too.
I’d never auditioned before. This wasn’t quite how I’d expected it to work, but I could handle it. And as anxious as Xander seemed, maybe in some ways it was more like they were auditioning for me.