Friday night Pig's dad gives us a ride to the youth center. We have to haul amps and cymbals and the snare and foot pedal for the drum kit, plus the guitars. Pig's dad doesn't talk any more than Pig does.
“There will be beautiful women watching. I know there will be beautiful women.” Denny's motormouth is in overdrive. He must be nervous. Plus he's texting or tweeting or something.
Pig's dad laughs. I say, “Yes, Den. And they'll all be watching you.” By now my right foot is bouncing like my own rhythm section, and I've got elevator stomach. I'm thinking about a million things at once. Will we win? Will Lisa love my song? Will Lisa love me? Does getting a ride from someone's dad counts as a road trip? It has to count more than moving drums on the bus.
The youth center hasn't changed much. I used to go there to play floor hockey when I was little. The first thing I see is lots of guys in dark blue shirts. Darn. There are parents here too. Luckily, Mom has to present that offer on a house. That's one less thing to worry about.
We haul everything into the gym. It's set up with a low stage with mikes and stands and a drum kit that looks as if it has been attacked by gorillas. A spotlight shines down. The Twisted Hazard guys from Battle of the Bands are setting up.
My elevator stomach jumps twenty floors. We're really going to do this.
I see more kids from Battle of the Bands, but it's Lisa I'm looking for. Then I spot her. She's across the gym, behind another girl and three guys. They seem to be all talking at the same time. I wave, but I don't think she sees me. That's okay. She's busy. I'm busy tooâ busy being nervous.
We sign in at the judge's table. We are going to be on fifth, out of ten acts. Is that good or bad? I don't know. Denny keeps asking what time they think we'll be on. I don't care about that. “What number is No Shirt No Shoes No Service?” I ask.
“They're right before you,” says a bald guy who is one of the judges.
We go to tune up. It feels good to have something to do.
Twisted Hazard kicks off. It's hard to tell about their songs. They pretty much all sound the same, especially with earplugs in. One song is either about
macaroni
or
mayday homey
. But it's not rap, so
homey
doesn't make sense. Macaroni? Who knows. They're loud and they rock though. I look at the judges. They're writing stuff down. Is that good or bad?
The second band is called Death Star. They're pure metal, sort of like Iron Maiden but dumb. One song has the word
troll
in it a lot, and the other is something about hammers. The judges write more stuff down. They can't like troll songs, can they?
Third come two guys with acoustic guitars. I don't catch their names. They play exactly the same thing and take turns singing about a magic potion. They sing so high they squeak.
I'm starting to feel better. I know “Sleeping in the Backseat” is better than these.
Now No Shirt No Shoes No Service is up. I know Lisa's song is good. If we don't win, I want her band to win and us to come in second.
“Let's tune again,” Denny says. He's looking at his watch. Then he looks all around. “Beautiful women, beautiful women,” he keeps saying. Pig is drumming the wall. He's got his aviator shades on. How can he see anything?
“In a minute,” I say. I push forward. A guy is plugging in a keyboard. The other girl is the drummer. There's a guy on bass, and Lisa and the other guy on acoustics. Lisa looks incredible. She's got on soft boots and leggings and this short skirt with her jean jacket. The little green stone in her nose catches the light. She pulls the mike down to her level and looks out at the crowd in front of the stage. I hope she sees me. I don't want to do anything dorky like wave. She looks my way, and I think she recognizes me. Just then the guitar guy counts, “Two⦠three⦔ and they start.
Hey, when you see me
Don't act so dreamyâ¦
But Lisa's song has gone from being a cool indie rocker to a drippy emo ballad. The power chords are gone. The drummer loses a beat. The guy on keyboard messes up a wimpy solo. The bass player uses one string, and none of the bits I showed Lisa. Lisa's voice wobbles with the slow time.
I hang in long enough to clap at the end of the tune. Lisa doesn't look happy. I head back to get my bass.
“They suck,” Denny says. He's bouncing on his toes. He has his Teleporter slung on. Pig is still drumming the wall.
Denny's right, but I don't want to say it. “It's a good song though,” I say.
“Ours is better,” Denny says.
“Ours
are
better,” I snap. “Tell me about it.” I plug my bass into the tuner as their second song begins. I may sound okay, but my fingers are shaking. Tuning seems to take forever. I slip the bass strap over my head. The patch cord is coiled in my hand. Now I hear clapping as Lisa's band finishes. They announce that Incoming is next.
“Let's do it,” says Denny. I follow him and Pig. I almost stumble on the one step to the stage. The amp is heavy. The lights are hot. It takes me two tries to plug in. Then I turn and look out from the stage.
I have to squint in the glare. Pig's shades suddenly seem like a good idea. This may be the youth center, but it feels like Madison Square Gardens. There are a lot of people here. There is also a microphone right in front of me. I'd swallow but there's nothing to swallow. My elevator stomach lurches into a free fall.
Behind me, I hear Pig setting up. He rumbles around the kit and moves something. I fumble out a couple of bass notes. Denny is messing with his distortion pedal. Now he smacks a test chord. From out front there is a buzz of voices. I look at Denny. He's grinning like he lives on a stage. I start to feel it too. We're a team. I
want
this. Maybe I've been waiting for this my whole life and not known it. My stomach stops before the basement. I take a deep breath and run a few more notes on my bass. Pig is still fussing. Now Denny's waving. I look to the back, and coming in the doors are Alison and Lucy from the video club, then Jessica with a camera up in front of her. What the�
There isn't time to wonder. The judges nod for us to start. As Pig counts us in, I see the girls shuffle forward. Two more people squeeze in behind them. One of them is Mom. She's with a guy, arm in arm. The guy has a mustache and one of those stupid old-guy western-style hats, a long leather jacket and dad jeans. I've seen him before. As we come in on the first beat, I remember where. My place. A long time ago. It's Chuck.
We rock out. Pig nails the beat. Denny half sings and half screams, and it works. He also bounces, jumps, drops to his knees and flicks a pick out into the crowd. He even plays okay. Lucy and Alison and Jessica are right down in front, filming.
And I hate every second of it. I pretend I have to watch my fingers. I don't look up once. There's lots of clapping when we finish. Denny does a big goofy bow and before I can stop him, says, “Thanks. We all wrote that, from my idea.”
I have to look. Chuck has his dumb hat pushed up on his bald head. He's got his arms crossed, and he's talking to Mom.
Now he's looking at me, standing onstage with his bass beside the guy who just claimed we wrote Chuck's song. It was supposed to be Chuck who had reliability issues.
I know what I have to do. Before Denny can say anything else, I step to my microphone. “Uuuh,” I say.
I've stepped too close, and what they hear is
UUUUH
with a huge squeal of feedback. The whole room jumps, including me.
“Uh,” I try again. “Uh, actually, there's another writer.” My voice sounds like a strangled chicken. Heads lift at the judge's table. I'm not going to look at Denny. I squint at the far basketball hoop. “Our friend Chuck wrote it. He let us change it around and that helped us get started.” I point. “He's back there.”
Heads turn. Chuck grins and waves. There is more clapping. “He loaned me his bass too,” I say. The clapping is still going on. “So, anyway, I don't know if that counts, but we did write this one by ourselves.”
I look at the judge's table. This time they're not writing, they're scratching lines right across their papers. Oh, no. I can't look at Denny. I'm not even looking at the basketball hoop now. My eyes are closed. I clutch my bass and play the opening of “Sleeping in the Backseat.”
I know I've got the beat wrong even before I sing the first line. Pig and I get out of time. Denny hits a wrong chord and forgets to sing on the chorus.
While we mangle my song, part of me floats above everything. That part of me is calm. It wonders what sounds worse than a strangled chicken. Archie barfing? A sick ostrich? Pick one, it tells the rest of me, because that's how you sound, especially on that high note you can never quite reachâthe one that's coming up
now.
Then it tells me that “Sleeping in the Backseat” still sucks. All that
running, running, running
doesn't cut it. Meanwhile, the rest of me feels as if I'm in a train wreck.
There's a trickle of clapping when we finish. Then comes the kiss of death.
Someone at the back is clapping like crazy. I don't even have to look to know it's Mom.
As we come offstage I know one thing. Now that I've blabbed that we didn't write our good song, no one's going to listen to us again. Ever. Actually I know two things, because I also know that I feel so crappy I don't want to see anybody. Too bad that's not an option. Mom and Chuck are already in front of me.
“Hon, I
loved
it! Why didn't you play that for me before? It's so
sensitive
.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Mom laughs. “Don't be sarcastic, you. I had to shuffle a lot of things, but I wouldn't have missed that for the world.” Then she says, “And look who I met at an agent's open house last week!”
“Davey,” Chuck says, “how are ya?” Chuck is grinning. He sticks out his hand. Mine are full. He sees and laughs. “Know the feeling.” His mustache is shorter now. He's thicker-looking. “Man,” he says. “Did that take me back! Who'd have thought you guys would still be listening to that stuff? Loved what ya did with it! Make me a million, okay? Hey, we've got to do some pickin'. You still got the guitar too?”
I nod.
“Smokin',” says Chuck. “You're on! Haven't played since I gave up truckin'. Sell houses now like your mom. I'll be over, okay? Let's do it.”
I nod again. I'm still trying to catch up. Mom takes Chuck by his leather-coated arm and says, “We're going to grab a quick bite, hon. Do you want to come with us?”
“I'd better stay here,” I say.
Mom smiles and says, “All right. We won't be late.”
Next it's Denny and Pig. I see them at the guitar cases. I'm still thinking about my mom's “
We
won't be late.” Denny and Pig won't look at me. I know I have to say it.
I put down the bass amp. It's killing my arm. “Look,” I say, “sorry, but I saw them come in. I had to.”
“Aw, no sweat.” Denny shrugs as he snaps his case shut. “Alison said they got good footage.”
That makes me feel a little better. After all, it's not as if the whole world was here. “So Pig can post it on Myspace,” I say.
“Well,” Denny stands and shuffles. Then he says, “It wasn't exactly for that. See, they were just filming me. For a video club project.”
“Video club?” I say.
Denny says, “Yeah, I joined, 'cause like, the girls wanted me too. We're making this movie.” Denny shrugs and makes a face. He says, “So, like, sorry, Ace, but I have to bail on the band. There's not gonna be enough time for music.”
“Butâ,” I say.
“Me too,” says Pig, from behind his shades. It might be the first thing he's said all night.
“What?” I spin to him. “You joined video club too?”
“No,” Pig says. “I'm in air cadets. Always was.”
“
Air cadets
?” I say.
Pig nods and points to his
Cleared
For Takeoff
T-shirt. “I'm starting flying lessons,” he says.
Suddenly the boots and the hair and the shades make sense. Pig says, “And my brother wants his drums at school anyway.” He hoists the snare and cymbals.
“But,” I say again, “but⦔
It's over. Just like that. Incoming is outgoing.
Pig doesn't stay to watch the rest of the bands. He has cadet training camp early Saturday morning. Denny goes to find the video girls. He says I should come too. I shake my head and put my bass away. There are no props this time.
The next band isn't even finished, and my band is done for good. I have had the shortest music career ever. All that's left is jamming with a bald real estate agent who wears dumb hats and redates my mom.
I sink down by my case and lean against the wall. Music bounces around me, but I don't take it in. I'm staring at the floor tiles when I see the toes of two soft boots. Oh. No. It's the person I least want to see after I've looked like a total idiot.
Lisa sits down beside me. “Hi,” she says.
“Hi.” I nod to the stage and say, “They're good.” As if I'm listening.
Lisa says, “Yeah. We weren't. We sucked.”
“Tell me about it,” I say back, and shrug. “At leastânever mind. I liked your song.”
“Thanks,” she says.
I wait for her to say she liked mine, but she doesn't.
After a bit I say, “How come you changed your song? I liked it better as a rocker.” I did, but I guess I'm also bugged she didn't say anything about my song.
“I did too,” she says. “But the band wanted to do it that way. And Grant couldn't play the bass line you showed me.”
“That's a drag,” I say.