by Kaje Harper
“Still, enough shoveling for you.” John rummaged in his pocket. “Here’s a twenty.”
“Dad, you don’t have to.”
“Don’t turn down free money,” John quipped, and then hesitated. Is that the right message to give a kid? “If it really is free. I mean, usually if someone’s offering what looks like free money, there’s a catch in it somewhere and… you’re laughing at me.”
“Dad, you don’t have to be Yoda, font of all wisdom. Give me the money.”
“Go get yourself a snack,” John told him. “You know where the student center is. Then go to the library. And you know what you can do for me? Make a list. All the things you liked about living in California, and all the things you don’t. Then what you’re hoping will change by moving here. Tonight we have to have a serious conversation with your mother, and it’ll help to have ideas written down.”
“I can try.”
“You have your cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll text if I need you. Set it to silent in the library.”
Mark sighed. “Yes, Father.”
John took a swipe at his kid’s head. “Go away now.”
Mark’s grin was almost his old familiar one.
By lunchtime, John had made a good start on the secondary cleanup, the less used doors and steps, and the rougher paths where the plow couldn’t go. The college had a separate plow service for the roads and parking, so he didn’t have to worry about those. Except when the service pushed snow from the lots up onto his newly cleared sidewalks. Damn. He paused to re-shovel an obscured path.
He met with his crew, gave them directions for the afternoon, and sent them on break. When his office was clear, he glanced at his watch. 11:55. Ryan would be done with Histology lab. John really needed a hit of Ryan’s presence in his life. He took out his phone.
“Hey, you.” Ryan’s voice was warm.
“Hey. Done squinting through microscopes?”
“Absolutely. I’m going cross-eyed here.”
“Up for some lunch?”
“With Mark or without him?”
“Um.” It took a second for that to compute. Then John felt embarrassed. What kind of dad forgets about his kid? “I don’t know. I’ll call him in a minute. I sent him indoors to keep warm.”
“How about at The Gong?” Ryan said. “Mark might like the music. Unless, I forget, is it karaoke day?”
“Nope. Acoustic Tuesdays.”
“So I’ll see you there?”
“You want to come to my office first?” John asked, not sure if he was really serious. “I could lock the door.”
“I have a one-o’clock class.”
“I can work fast.”
John loved Ryan’s laugh. “With our luck someone would knock at just the wrong moment. I’ll see you at The Gong.”
John tried Mark’s phone but it went to voice mail. Probably still in the library. He texted the lunch invitation. For a selfish moment, he hoped the kid wouldn’t spot it. He wanted to sit and talk with Ryan without Mark as an audience. Even in a room full of other people.
The Gong was in the basement of the student center. It was student-run, through a co-op, and served an eclectic mix of food. It also served music. There was a small stage tucked in one corner. Students could line up to perform for ten-minute sets. Beside the stage was a gong, though, and if you weren’t popular, your set might last a lot less than ten minutes. The audience never knew what they would hear, but some of the kids were very talented.
John went down the wide staircase to the lower level, and looked around. Ryan was just coming out of the elevator, and his face lit up as he caught sight of John. John let himself just watch Ry walk over to him. That crooked limp was just part of Ryan now, and the slow, deliberate, rolling steps he used to mask it brought other encounters to mind. Damn, that’s one good-looking guy.
Ryan stopped in front of him, cast a quick glanced down John, and then back up. “Hungry?”
“Damn you.”
Ryan laughed. “Come on, let’s find a table. Is Mark coming?”
“I don’t know. I sent him a text.”
The Gong was crowded at this hour, most of the tables full. John was scanning for an open one when Ryan said, “Hey, that’s Mark.”
John looked up. Ryan was staring at the stage. Three students were playing— a tall blond kid on flute, a shorter, stockier guy using a tub as an improvised drum, and sure enough, Mark on guitar.
“He didn’t bring his guitar this morning,” John said, puzzled.
“That’s not his, unless you’ve been spending a mint on him. Sounds good in his hands, though.”
They made their way over near the stage and listened. The music was vaguely familiar. The boy on flute got a clear, soaring sound from his instrument that formed a unique counterpoint to Mark’s playing. The drummer had little range with his instrument, but did a lot with it. They played un-gonged through a full set, and got loud applause as they finished. John and Ryan edged closer, as the boys left the stage, making room for a pair of violinists waiting behind them.
Mark carefully handed the guitar to the drummer “That was amazing,” John heard him say, his tone brighter than it had been since he arrived. “God, I’ve never played anything that sounded like that.”
“And never will again, until your dad hits the lottery.” Ryan spoke up from behind him. “Hey, Mark, you guys were hot up there.”
Mark turned in surprise. “Ryan, Dad. What are you doing here?”
“I thought we were getting lunch,” John said, “But apparently we were listening to you play first. Do you know these guys?”
“We just met,” the guy holding the guitar said. “Mark saw my Martin—” He stroked a curve of the instrument. “—and he was really into it, so I let him try a few notes while we were waiting, and hot damn, he was doing too good to stop. I’m Calvin, and this is Patrick.”
Mark turned to Calvin. “Thanks a bunch for letting me play with you. It was sweet.”
“You’re good,” Calvin said. “Better than good. In fact, I was wondering if you’re getting tired of whatever band you’re in, because we’re looking for a lead guitar, and you’re better than any of the guys who’ve auditioned so far.”
“Really?” Mark’s face lit up.
“Yeah,” Patrick put in, “although some of them were pretty bad, worse than Calvin.” Calvin punched his arm, and he flashed a grin. “We’re getting desperate.”
Ryan gestured away from the stage. “How about we take this to a table, if you’re serious. We’re blocking the view.”
“Sure,” Calvin said. “I’m serious.” He went over to a battered case leaning on the wall, and tenderly stowed the guitar away.
They found a table just being vacated and sat. Onstage, the violins were playing something spiky and dissonant. Calvin pulled out a card and passed it to Mark. “That’s us. CrossCut. Although we’re thinking about a new name, because the cross part makes some people think religion, or anti-religion and we’re not. Patrick plays flute and recorder and harmonica and some sax, Gordon, who’s in class right now, is our actual drummer, I’m mostly a bass but I’ve been playing lead since our front man quit.”
“Have you played any actual shows?” Ryan asked.
“A few. We’ve been changing things up since Joe ditched us. He was the one who started the band and he picked the music, but the rest of us want to go a little edgier now, fewer standard covers, maybe write more of our own songs.”
“I write, a little,” Mark said. “I’m better with the music than the lyrics.”
“We practice around four, most days,” Calvin said. “Except Thursdays, because Patrick has philosophy.” He made a barf-face at Patrick, and then turned to Mark. “If that fits your class schedule, it would be cool if you could come by this afternoon, and meet Gordon and jam with us, see how it goes.”
“Um, I don’t really have a schedule,” Mark said. “I mean, I just moved here.”
&nb
sp; “And he’s still in high school,” John said, biting back the “he’s only fifteen” because he figured it might make Mark want to kill him. “Although four in the afternoon might be workable, even when he starts school again.”
“We use a practice room in Kline Hall,” Calvin said. “Whichever one we can get. Whoever arrives first signs us in with the band name, so you can look at the sheet. You should really come by later.” He glanced at his phone. “Shit. Calculus.” He got up and tilted his head toward Mark. “See you later?”
“Yeah.” Mark’s face was bright. “Later.”
Patrick nodded to them and followed Calvin out of the café.
Mark turned to his father. “Can you believe it? I was just hanging out, and his guitar was so sick. I asked if he would play a few notes, to hear the tone close up, and then he asked if I played, and then… wow. That was just cool.” He hesitated. “Would you let me join the band, if they ask me? I mean, when they hear me audition they’ll probably want someone older and better, but if they do?”
“I suppose so.” John would’ve needed a hell of a reason to destroy his son’s sudden enthusiasm, even though things rarely worked out that easily. “You know, I hope you get in but they might find someone else, or you might not like the music they play.” Or you might not get to stay here. He was ready to fight for Mark, if he had to, but… “You shouldn’t count on it.”
“But you should go for the audition,” Ryan put in. “You’ll never know until you try.”
“Right,” Mark said. “That’s what I think. I’ve got to try.”
“Right now you’ve got to eat,” John told him. “You can’t audition on an empty stomach, especially after hours of hard labor.”
Mark pressed a fist against his stomach. “I don’t think I can eat. I’m so freaking nervous. What if they don’t like me? What if they do like me and I can’t measure up? What if I screw up the audition?”
John got to his feet. “You have four hours to work yourself up over it. I’m getting food. Ryan?”
“Bring me a sandwich? Roast beef on rye?”
“You’re asking me to buy it, as well as carry it?” Carrying a tray in a crowded café was not one of Ryan’s favorite activities, so he’d taken to hijacking space on John’s tray. John was more than willing to carry Ry’s lunch. He just liked giving the guy a hard time about it.
“Cheapskate.” Ryan fumbled in his wallet, and passed over a few bills. “Keep the change. Tip for delivery.”
“Out of three bucks. I’m overwhelmed. Mark? Anything for you?”
His son looked up at him, face anxious and pale. “What if I can’t find Kline Hall and I miss the audition completely?”
John fought back a laugh. “I think you’ll manage.” He left his son to his quiet panicking, and headed over to the food.
****
The next Friday afternoon, Ryan eyed the flight of steps up to Kline Hall’s glass doors with annoyance, actually considering going round to the side door ramp. It’d been a long week. At least the sun had melted the last ice off the ground today, and he wouldn’t have to watch his footing.
Having lab at the very end of every week was someone’s idea of sadistic scheduling. It meant three hours standing and bending, and only rare hope of using a lab stool. He felt it in every inch of his leg. On the plus side, he’d traded Kaitlyn for Greg as a lab partner this term, so the work no longer took four and a half hours. Onward. Shifting his cane to his other hand, he took a firm grip on the railing to climb the steps, one careful riser at a time. He’d learned his lesson about the choice between pride and flat on his ass.
Kline Hall was one of the newest buildings on campus. Named after an alum in the recording industry, it housed the music faculty and the arts. The lobby was all glass windows and white tile. It made Ryan think of a hospital. Without the smells. And hey, hey, with John over there, which made it one of the nicest sights all day. A week and a half since Mark had come to stay, and the sight of John still hit Ryan right in the gut. Maybe even more, now that he couldn’t do anything about it.
“Hey, big guy,” he said warmly. “I didn’t figure you’d wait for me. Didn’t you want to hear your kid practice?”
“Mark doesn’t really want me around while he plays,” John said. “You can come and back me up.” They didn’t touch, but Ryan felt the warmth of that slow smile. “Finally done taking corpses apart?”
“Just call me a zombie. Want brains, braaains.” Ryan shrugged. “One of the guys had to go puke when they demo’d how to open the skull to access the nervous system.”
“Yeah, that would’ve been me, too.” John led the way to the elevator. “Practice rooms are in the basement.”
“So, you’re going to be nice to the band kids, right?” Ryan said as they waited.
“I just want to meet these people. Is it overprotective to want to meet the twenty-year-old guys who’re spending hours a week with my teenager?”
The elevator doors opened and they stepped in. “Of course not.” Ryan took advantage of the small private space to kiss John’s jaw. “You want to make sure they’re not doing drugs or getting drunk or whatever you’re imagining. Although for what it’s worth, Mark talks about the music a lot more than about the guys. I think they really practice, not mess around. It’s been a week and a half, and he’s playing more obsessively than ever.”
The doors dinged open just as John turned, and his return kiss had to be aborted. “Right,” John said. “And it’s reasonable for me to want their phone numbers and stuff, like to call them if Mark’s out sick or something.”
“That’s your story. Stick to it.”
The basement continued the white-tile, white-wall theme, but without the windows. A row of closed doors with numbers marked the practice rooms. Like the mental ward of a hospital. Ryan bit his tongue and tried to get his tired brain looking on the positive side.
There was a sign-up list posted on a bulletin board. John stepped over and checked it. “CrossCut, room eleven.”
Eleven was the last room on the right. As they passed the doors, the faintest trickles of sound could be heard from other rooms— here a piano, there something in a brass instrument. It was hard to pick out the actual music though.
“Good soundproofing,” Ryan commented. He knocked firmly on door eleven.
After a moment it was pulled open by an unfamiliar Asian guy six inches shorter than Ryan. “We have ten more minutes…” he began, but from behind him Mark said, “Dad?”
“Can we come in?” John asked.
“Um, sure.” Mark took the other kid’s place and pulled the door open. “Is there a problem?”
“No problem.”
Ryan leaned against wall beside the door and let John explain himself.
“I just wanted to meet the guys in the band, get some contact info and such. You start school next week. I wanted to have a better idea how it’s all going to work with homework and practice.”
Ryan saw the pained look on Mark’s face. Doesn’t like the guys reminded of the difference between them and him. He spoke up, “And we wanted to hear you play. I’m just curious, so I butted in.” He held out a hand to the unfamiliar guy. “You must be Gordon. I’m Ryan. I rent a room in Mark’s house.”
Gordon hesitated as if the gesture was unfamiliar, but then smiled wider and shook hands. “Oh yeah. Mark says you play guitar too. I’m the drummer.”
John said, “I’m Mark’s dad.”
“Hey.” He walked back to his drum kit, and eyed Ryan. “Do you really want to hear us? Because we should run through this new piece a couple of times before we lose the room, so we don’t forget it. But it’s pretty rough.”
“Go for it,” Ryan said. Beside him, John reached out, snagged a tall stool out of the corner and shoved it at him. Ryan perched his butt on it gratefully.
The guys turned back to their instruments, with a brief discussion about an acoustic bridge. Mark was clearly self-conscious, glancing their way. But when the othe
rs got set, he picked up an old electric guitar and took his place.
The song was… interesting. At first Ryan kind of squinted his ears, but as they went on, the eerie sound of the flute wound through the guitar line in closer harmony, like it was creeping up on true music. The short, brown-haired kid, Calvin, began to sing in a voice that combined true pitch with a breathy rasp. The words were plaintive. When they reached the end, Ryan was caught up in the sound.
“Wow,” he said into the silence. “That sounds like it won’t work, and then it does. You guys aren’t just derivative off-the-shelf, are you?”
The tall guy, Patrick, flushed with obvious pleasure. “Thanks. Mark did a lot of the music for that. I mean, I had the tune and words but it was just flat and Mark, like, found the hook with the flute that pulls it together.”
“Nice work,” Ryan told them. “Not gonna bring you success as a dance band though.”
“I think we’ll pass on the dance-band thing,” Calvin said. “One more time, guys?”
It was even better the second time. Mark’s playing was more fluid, and the song grew on you with familiarity. Ryan glanced at John, whose eyes were glued to Mark’s flying fingers. Must be odd to see your kid grow up in front of you.
Calvin nodded when they were done. “Nice work, Patrick. And Mark, you nailed it. Let’s pack it in on a high note.” Patrick blew a tweet at the top of the flute’s range, and Ryan laughed.
The guys began stowing away their instruments.
“You don’t have to lug that drum kit back and forth, do you?” Ryan asked Gordon.
“Nah.” He pulled on a cover and patted the snare. “This isn’t mine. A bunch of the rooms here have resident instruments, like the drums or a piano. Makes practice easier. And there are lockers for guitars and shit.”
“When you get a gig somewhere,” Ryan volunteered, “I’ll play roadie, if you need the hands.” Gimpy roadie, but it’s the thought that counts, right? “And John has a truck.”
Calvin looked over. “Hey, thanks. And thanks for saying when, not if.”
“Gonna happen.”
“Ryan,” Calvin said. “Mark told us you play. Wanna show us?”
“Not tonight. I’m not in Mark’s league, and anyway, I’d leave your guitar smelling like formaldehyde. I just got done with three hours of dissection. I’m wiped.”