by L A Tavares
“What do you say we make this more interesting?” she adds, reaching into her pocket and showing off a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. She tosses it next to our drinks on the table beside the air hockey surface.
I reach into mine, pulling out enough to match her bet. Staring at the money, I realize that I couldn’t say no if I wanted to. When I have the chance to take a risk, I take it every time. But this is hardly a bet. I’d beaten her seven to one. This isn’t a bet. It’s a sure thing.
I toss the money on top of hers.
“Ladies first.” I slide her the puck. She slides it right back and laughs. “All right then,” I add, hitting the puck toward her. She hits it back slick and fast, buzzing right past me and into the slot. The lights overhead flash.
I reset the plastic disc and hit it toward her. She returns it in a zig zag motion across the surface and I knock it back toward her. She’s stops it with a quick hand, then flicks her wrist back my way. Clink.
Two-zero.
“You played me,” I say, staring at the ten to three score on the board as she pockets the money.
“I was hoping you would say no,” she says in a small voice as she sits on the edge of the air hockey table and hands me back the money I put down. “That was a test. You failed.”
“I—” But there are no words worth saying. The only option is to stand there and look like an idiot—which, admittedly, I deserve.
“Blake, you told me you have been gambling. You said you’re only doing it for fun, but it’s getting in the way of work and love and I want to help you. I do. But you have to help yourself too.”
“You aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know.” I run my hand through my hair and feel the back of my neck get hot in a mix of frustration and embarrassment. “Why do you care?”
She tilts her head and raises an eyebrow. “Listen… I know we just met. But we have a lot in common. You’re easy to talk to. I don’t have a lot of friends here yet. I consider you one. Besides, my father ruined our family with his inability to stay away from a poker table.”
I nod. She’s right. We mesh. For a long time, I have wished I clicked with someone the way Alexander matched with Jana or how Kelly and Natalie meshed. Close friendships, outside the band, weren’t something I ever really had.
“Come on.” She hops down from the table and puts her hand on my forearm. “I’ll buy you dinner.”
As we wait for our food, something she had said replays over and over in my head. ‘My father ruined our family with his inability to stay away from a poker table.’ She hardly ever talks about her father, but I find myself wanting to know more. The words stuck to me like a dart in a bullseye because for the first time, I know it is a very real possibility that if I don’t figure this thing out, my own inability to stay away from tables could ruin my own family – both my band family and any future one I may have with Kelly. But when the opportunity to ask her more arises, I can’t ask the question. Maybe, in the end, I don’t really want to know the answer. Instead, I change the subject.
“So, why haven’t you pursued a career in music?” I ask through a bite of pizza. “I mean, your dad is like…apparently a music god, according the boys. He has some of the most famous musicians of the decade on his label, and you’re better than half of them.”
“I’m better than more than half of them,” she says after a sip of her drink. “But that’s part of the problem. I want to make it on my own and not because of who my father is. If I make it in the music world, I want it to be earned, not gifted.”
When we started out, I would have taken any gift that was given. I didn’t care how we got there I just wanted to get there—but she’s entitled to her wrong opinion.
“Besides, you don’t know my dad. Signing with him was the biggest gamble of them all, honestly. He’s made musicians but he’s ruined them too. And everything my dad does comes with strings attached. He would’ve owned everything I’ve ever done. And despite all my efforts, he almost did.”
My face twists in confusion and I raise one brow.
Stasia wipes her hands on a napkin and holds up one finger before reaching into her purse for her phone.
“I’ll show you this one time then we’re never going to bring it up again. It’s a part of my past, and truthfully, it kind of hurts to watch it.”
“You don’t have to…” I start, but I truly have no idea what I’m talking her out of.
“I want to. You guys are taking a chance on me, and it’s the best chance I’ve had in a long time.” She shrugs her shoulders and clicks into a video that begins to load. “You all want to know why I haven’t pursued a professional career. This is why.”
The video completes its download, and the phone comes to life. At first, a dark blackness covers the screen then an instrument plays intermittently. It’s different. Violin, maybe? Each time the string instrument rings its rich tones, a light flashes and the silhouette of a person holding an instrument between her shoulder and chin illuminates. I was right about the violin. When she stops, the light stops. When she plays again her spotlight returns. Her song and rhythm pick up speed, her sound powering the brightening light in the distance behind her. As she strings together gorgeous yet harsh notes, the light gets closer and brighter. Her shadow starts to grow on the ground as the spotlight grows nearer and the scene starts to take place. She’s standing on railroad tracks under the entrance to a tunnel.
The spotlight isn’t a spotlight at all but the headlight of an oncoming train.
The train comes close enough that its wheels against the metal tracks overpower the song and the force of the wind from the tunnel sends her hair flying up and out of place—then the scene changes. Stasia’s singing on the heavily graffitied staircase of the train station, her voice and incredibly wide ranges echoing through the empty brick stairwell. As the song continues, she switches from violin to guitar and joins another performer with make-shift drums on the platform parallel to the tracks. Passersby throw money into his hat as they walk past.
At the opening to the chorus, she’s on the roof of the train station, joined by a drummer and a keyboard player among other musicians who are set to make the rooftop look more like a concert stage. At the opening of the bridge of the song, Stasia is sitting cross-legged on the train station turnstile, singing a fast-paced section of the song.
The song picks up intensity and the drummer, keyboardist and other guitarists can be heard, though not seen. In the video, Stasia plays her guitar on top of the moving train while belting out the lyrics that end the words of the song and as the music fades out, she’s stepping through a door on to a train with a destination labeled Anywhere But Here.
“It’s an incredible video. You are an unbelievable performer. But you already know that.” She smiles and nods an agreeable yes. “So, what happened? This is professional-level stuff, Stasia. How has nobody seen this?”
“It didn’t work out.” For one moment she was willing to give me some information but not all. She’s still holding back the piece of the story that causes her the most pain. “It was a great video, and it could’ve been something amazing. I poured everything I had of myself into that song and recording those scenes. But that label went a different direction, and I knew there was something out there better for me.”
“I get that.” I shrug, trying to see it from her side. “If Cooper hadn’t come along, we would’ve ended up on a label. But we made it without one. We got lucky.”
I lift my glass and she taps hers off mine.
“Let’s get out of here before we’re late for the show and Kelly hates me more than she already does,” Stasia says.
“She doesn’t hate you.”
Stasia rolls her eyes.
* * * *
Then
Alexander’s mother knocks on our bedroom door and asks us to come downstairs. Neither of us knew why, but we weren’t about to start admitting things. We head down the stairs, having a silent argument about who was going to go
first.
“Now!” she bellows and we rush down the stairs so as not to make things worse. “Alexander,” she says as we turn the corner. Phew, it’s not me. “Tell me… How does one get a zero on a test?”
“Umm-m, they don’t answer any questions correctly?” He scratches his head. She slides an awkwardly folded piece of paper in his direction.
“A zero, Alexander? And please, please tell me if I refold those lines that paper won’t turn into an airplane.” Her glare narrows and she taps her foot.
“I wouldn’t recommend trying,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his toes. I laugh but swallow it, turning it into a faux cough when her eyes meet mine.
“Blake, yours isn’t much better. What is going on with you two?” she asks, her voice finally softening.
“We’re just busy, Mom,” Alexander whines. “We are good at music. We love music. We’re getting paid to do some small shows here and there. School just doesn’t seem that important.”
He’s so wrong. There is a time you are honest with your parents and a time you bite your tongue—that should have been a tongue-biting moment. He had a fifty-fifty chance of choosing correctly and he chose wrong—though, that test we’d taken had been true or false and he’d failed that too.
“Okay,” she says, tapping her fingers on the countertop. “I don’t know how else to get through to you, so here it is. You have a history test this coming Thursday. If either of you fails, neither of you plays your show this weekend. You can study together, help each other out or bring each other down. The choice is yours. But you both pass or you both miss the show.”
“But—” we protest, but she raises her hands and walks away.
“That’s final,” she says as she heads into the next room.
“So, I’ll start posting cancellation flyers then?” Lord knows neither of us would pass that test.
Alexander gets this look in his eye and curls his lips into a half smile.
“No.” I shake my head hard.
“I didn’t even say anything!” he says, feigning innocence.
“I know, but I know that look. If you don’t tell me what you’re thinking, then I’m not lying when I say I had nothing to do with it.”
“It’s nothing bad.” He shrugs.
“Scouts’ honor?” I ask.
“I got kicked out of scouts…twice.”
“How do you get kicked out of Boy Scouts?” I ask. “You know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know. What’s this plan?”
* * * *
We sit in the school library—after about twenty-five minutes of looking for it—and I work on writing song lyrics instead of studying. Off to a good start.
The library door opens, and Kelly walks over to our table, sits down and cracks open her history book. I look at Alexander then back at her.
“Umm, hi?” I say. Kelly doesn’t just sit with me and Alexander. “What’re you doing?”
She looks at me as if this is the dumbest question in the world.
“Tutoring you?” she says with obvious skepticism. Alexander looks away, his eyes to the ceiling. I could kill him.
Kelly and I haven’t really spoken since I’d tried to kiss her and she’d made it abundantly clear that my chances with her were about as good as my chances of passing this test. Nonexistent.
I’ll give Alexander credit. It was a good idea. She’s brilliant and patient and she teaches us history in a way that I understand, instead of just throwing a book at us and telling us to read it. Unexpectedly, I even kind of enjoy it.
“Okay, I think that’s good for today.” She closes the book. Alexander and I give her a few ‘thank yous’ and ‘see you tomorrows’ as she pushes her chair out and walks away.
“Go talk to her,” Alexander says as we stand. “You barely said three words the entire time.”
“It was tutoring, not a blind date,” I say under my breath, shoving my books into my bag.
“So I’m killing two birds with one stone then,” he says, then shoves me hard in her direction as she reaches the door. My books hit the ground with an echoing slam, and she turns to check the commotion.
Walking toward her with my hands in my pockets and my eyes on the floor, I take a deep breath and take another chance.
“So, I really appreciate you doing this for us.” I drag my toe across the tile and bite my bottom lip. “I thought maybe I could take you out this weekend…as a thank you. You know, for…this.”
She smiles but it’s not genuine. It’s forced. Sympathetic, even.
“I actually have plans with my cousin this weekend.” She leaves the sentence open ended. I’m not sure if it’s a no—which is worse than a no.
“That’s even better. I’ll invite Alexander and we can take you both out somewhere,” I offer.
“Oh, umm, I’m not sure Alexander is her type, honestly. But, maybe some other time. See you tomorrow, Blake.”
Strike two.
* * * *
Three days with Kelly paid off—well, for my history test anyway. By the look on Alexander’s mother’s face, one would have thought we’d brought home a winning lottery ticket instead of a couple of Bs on a history test. She sticks them up under faded Red Sox magnets on the fridge and hugs us both.
“I knew you could do it!” Her voices rings through the kitchen. “See? Why do I have to be mean to get through to you two?”
“Tough love,” Alexander says. “It works.”
“Okay, okay,” she says, “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I’m so proud of you—of both of you—that I can’t keep it a secret.”
Alexander and I look at each other then back at her.
“I have a friend who owns a small—really small—recording space.”
My muscles clench with excitement. I can feel Alexander’s body shift next to mine. No way.
“It’s nothing special…but he agreed to let you…put down a track or whatever you guys call that.”
The words that come out of Alexander’s and my mouth are not comprehensible. I’m not sure they are even words. We race up the stairs to the phone to call the rest of the guys and tell them the news.
This can’t be real. I repeated those same four words for days, right up until the moment we walked into the studio for the first time and the dream started to take shape into reality.
Watching Alexander in the booth is a thing of pure ecstasy. You’d think he was performing for a crowd of thousands and not singing to a microphone and a wall. Even though we’re standing there and I can see it happening, it still feels like a dream. We will walk out of here today with a demo, and I’m just waiting for someone to pinch me awake.
“You boys have a great sound. There’s a lot of talent here,” a brown-haired man says, removing his headphones as Alexander leaves the booth.
“Thank you.” Alexander is out of breath and sweat beads at his brow. “And thank you so much for having us, umm…sir.”
The man laughs and sticks out his hand. “Gary Cooper,” he says, taking Alexander’s hand in his own, “but you can just call me Cooper.”
* * * *
“We have a single, boys,” Alexander says, lifting his drink and the rest of us follow suit. “No band name…but a single!”
We all laugh a sound that echoes across the football field and into the open air, decreasing in volume until it reaches the stars and fades out altogether.
Julian cracks another bottle and fills all our cups, minus Dominic’s. Never once has he succumbed to the peer pressure of this group. The football field spins around me in a green blur. I don’t need more, but I take it.
The sky is speckled in tiny white lights that glitter against a black backdrop over the school, yet if you go any closer to the city, you can’t see them at all. The skyscrapers and abundant light sources blot out the starry sky overhead just miles from where are. What a concept… Sometimes you need darkness to see the light. I can relate to that.
“Okay, ban
d names. Go,” Alexander slurs and the guys throw out names. I lay back with my hands behind my head, looking at the star-studded sky. “Light Pollution,” I say. It’s the first thing I think of as I lie here analyzing the sky. But there are no bites.
Julian throws out a name that none of us catch, no matter how many times we ask him to repeat it.
“I don’t think any of you are in the right state of mind to be making such a decision,” Dominic adds. He sips Gatorade from a bottle.
“We’re out of vodka,” Julian says, trying to stand up but stumbling across the white paint on the grass of the field.
“Where are you going?” I ask, sitting up too quickly. The world turns, as does my stomach.
“Locker room,” he says, “I’m pretty confident Coach keeps a bottle in his desk.”
“Absolutely not,” I say, but he’s already a bus length away from me before I can do anything about it. The guys follow close behind him, laughing loudly, and making no effort to be discreet.
If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. I run to catch up.
Julian fiddles with the knob. The door doesn’t open.
“Locked,” he says.
Well, dare I say it, duh.
“We should be going anyway—” I start to say, but another voice cuts through mine.
“You won’t be going anywhere.”
I don’t have to turn around to know that voice. I have sat in his office enough times to know that it’s Principle Wheeler. This time, he has back-up. A uniformed police officer stands at his side.
Julian’s parents come first. He slides into the back of their family’s luxury SUV and waves to us from the back window before they pull away from the school. Before long, Theo’s grandmother arrives, followed by Dom’s parents. We are the last two unaccounted for, and Alexander’s mother isn’t answering the phone.
“I can’t let you boys go without a parent,” the officer says, snapping his phone closed and slipping it back in his pocket.
“My mother works two jobs. She’s probably home trying to sleep for a few hours before her next shift.”