Beatless (5 page)

I added five new friends to my cell phone and my life. I worked and Tucker would come by every once in a while under the guise that he was looking for something for his sister Eliza, but I knew better because we didn’t really carry anything a thirteen year old would want.

The first meeting at Berkley’s mini-mansion had proven to be tense, with the critiques between all the band members becoming more accusatory than helpful. I attended two more Friday night shows, each one ending with Tucker asking if I’d like to come over and me accepting without hesitation. It was fun and they were interesting, like a dysfunctional family. We ate pizza and talked about music, watched movies in Berk’s home theater until I could hardly keep my eyes open. And then Tucker would drive me home in his old blue Ford Festiva that had clearly seen better days; but with the windows rolled down and his music turned up loud, it didn’t really matter. It was comfortable. No more. No less.

The fourth time we all hung out after a night at The Kick, I could tell that something had changed. Sara and Miller were in a heated discussion about what had happened during their set, and the drummer looked like he was about to punch a wall. I tried to keep out of it, but my curiosity got the better of me and I ended up on the couch right next to them, pretending to pick green peppers off my slice.

“You were
off
. It makes it difficult to play when you’re a beat behind. Or ahead.” Sara held her arms up like she was telling the truth and he just needed to admit it. “You try to go off on these solos and it doesn’t work because you don’t practice it in rehearsal so we’re all left to keep up with you while you’re trying to show off.” She blew her blonde streaked bangs out of her face and straightened her black rimmed glasses.

Miller, a good foot taller than her, crossed his skinny arms and leaned into her face. “I’m an artist. I can’t control how it comes out.”

Tucker piped up. “You’re part of a band. Not a solo act.”

The glare that came out of Miller’s brown eyes made me shrink back, thinking that the two would end up punching one another in their respective faces. But they were locked in a staring contest instead.

Berkley sat back in a large leather chair by the television and watched patiently. Marcus was perched on the couch next to me, completely enthralled, rubbing his calloused fingers together nervously.

“I can’t do this anymore. You’re always blaming me for everything, and honestly? It’s not even worth it.” Miller shrugged and leaned over to pick up the drum sticks he’d laid on the table. “I’m out.”

In silence, we all watched as he walked to the door without another word and effectively quit the band.

“Well, that went well,” Tucker muttered, sinking down onto the couch next to me. “I don’t know of another drummer that could learn our stuff fast enough to play our next gig. We’re so screwed.”

Sara held up her hands again. “Don’t blame me for this. You knew he was temperamental from the start. He’s always trying to prove something. Not a team player.” She ticked off the reasons that they were better off without him.

The air was thick with apprehension until Tucker ran his hand over his face and sighed. “Usually it’s the bass players that walk out. This is new one.”

Marcus shook his head and ran a hand over his newly trimmed curls. “Uncool, man.”

“I have no idea what we’re supposed to do now,” was all Sara had to offer.

I sat back and took a deep breath, unsure if my opinion was warranted or not. But it seemed worth a shot.

“Hey . . .”

Every eye in the room turned to look at me.

“What if you just didn’t have a drummer?”

“That’s not exactly possible.” Berkley looked way too skeptical to believe what I was suggesting.

“It is, though.” My voice felt stronger. “You know what my favorite part of your show is? When the music drops out and it’s just you guys singing. It’s like my whole body reacts because it’s just so awesome. And powerful. I can’t describe it, but I can’t look away.” I’d revealed too much and suddenly felt like an idiot.

“So what are you suggesting?” Tucker leaned in to study my reddened face.

“I dunno. Maybe instead of The Beat you guys should be . . . Beatless. A cappella or something. Just the voices.”

A good five minutes went by while they all stared at me and I regretted even opening my damn mouth.

Berkley narrowed her eyes and leaned forward again, her hair sliding over her shoulder in a dark red cascade. “You sing, Mallory Durham?”

“No. No. My throat is wrecked from this mono I had about a year ago. I don’t . . .”

“I don’t believe you,” Tucker whispered at my side.

“But it’s true.”

He shook his head and ran his fingers along the hair at his ear, a common gesture that told me he was thinking about something intense. “We’re gonna need more voices.”

“I’m sure you could find some people from the other schools.”

“I don’t know. I think we might know someone already.”

“Nope.”

“Yep.” Sara was leaning, too.

“I can be your manager or something. I’ll help load your stuff.”

“We’d be without instruments,” Marcus offered. “Nothing to load.”

“I’m not sure I can do that since I work and I have to concentrate on school and I don’t have a car and all that.”

Tucker smiled. “So many excuses, Mal. But you
have
a car. You told me you did.”

“I can’t drive a stick.”

“Tucker can.” Berkley was smirking like a know-it-all and I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

“I mean . . .”

“It’s settled then. We’ll write some new arrangements. I’ll teach Mal to drive a stick so she can come to rehearsals. And we’ll work on making your voice stronger over the next couple weeks to get you ready to perform.”

“Pass,” I squeaked. “Hard pass. I don’t . . .”

“It was your idea.”

I was being ganged up on, but the looks on all of their faces made my heart beat a little faster at the thought that they actually believed I could do it. So I looked down at my lap, took a deep breath and sighed. I was so easily cornered. “When do we start?”

Mal,

I keep watching this movie. Each time I turn it on, it’s like I’ve never seen it before. Something new shows up and I feel a memory stir in the back of my mind. I’ve tried to put my finger on it, and I think it reminds me of you. That I should relay the message somehow - because it’s important.

I finally figured it out today so I wrote it down before I lost it again. It’s a quote:

“Destruction is a form of creation. They just want to see what happens when they tear the world apart.”

Teenagers today - we’re losing them to apathy.

But you?

You have the ability to set the world on fire and watch it burn.

Sam

~*~5~*~

I was screaming. As much as it could be considered screaming, I was doing it.

“Clutch.” It was all he was saying while I made feeble attempts to even get the stupid car into first gear.

“I
AM
clutching!” My throat was on fire and I was sweating with frustration while Tucker was sitting in the passenger seat laughing his ass off at my failure.

“You have
got
to calm down. Has anyone ever told you you’re a little overdramatic?”

Eyeing him with as much distaste as I could muster, I hissed, “Shut it.”

I closed my eyes, concentrated on where my feet were, and took a deep breath before pressing down on the clutch with one foot and hitting the gas with the other. The clunker shot forward and I panicked, letting it die right in the middle of my driveway.

His hand drifted over mine on the steering wheel and he patted my fingers a few times. “It gets easier.”

“Whatever. I should walk more anyway. Build up my stamina.”

“I was thinking maybe you should start jogging or something to build some breath control.”

“So you want me to die. That makes sense. Either I’ll die in this car or I’ll die on the side of the road. All in the name of
art
.”

Squinting, he choked out a laugh. “They’re going to have an open casting call for the theater in Lawrenceville next semester. You get credit for it. And you should definitely look into it, because you’ve got enough dramatics . . .”

This time I slugged him in the stomach. He doubled over and grabbed my hands, pulling me forward until I was just an inch from his face. The laughter died in my throat and I stared at his downcast eyes, eyes that were fixated on my mouth. I waited, a rush of anxiety rising up through my lower belly and into my chest, blossoming outward until I couldn’t hear anything but blood rushing in my ears.

Tucker lifted his stare to read my expression and then arranged his features to a cool collectiveness before he relaxed back on his side of the car. “We could practice your breath control in other ways if you’re not up for a run.”

“Like what?” It came out like a wheeze.

He bent forward again, placing his hand on my stomach gently, his widespread fingers grazing the bottom of my bra. I broke out in another sweat and chalked it up to the temperature outside. Even though it was like seventy degrees.

With a gentle push he applied pressure to that space and a whoosh of air escaped my lips. “If I press here while you sing, it will make a difference. You can work on controlling your sound that way. Bring it up from the bottom. Through your chest. Not your throat or nose. The sound is richer.”

I was in a confused daze because my body was reacting way too eagerly to his touch. Slowly, I placed my hand on top of his and raised it off my body to place it in his lap, averting my gaze to the windshield. “I guess we could try that.”

“What time does your aunt get back?”

It was a good question because recently she’d been gone more often than not, and even when she was home she was lying around watching television or on her computer. She’d grown increasingly lazy and unkempt over the past month. Divorce depression was a sad thing to watch.

“I don’t know. Hours? I’m not really up to date on her schedule.” Because she didn’t really have one.

He folded his hands together and reclined in his seat while I tried my hardest to ignore his profile. “We can go to my house if you want. My sister has this thing she does on the weekends with my dad and they won’t be home for a while. We could work on some of the music?” It was a question – but it wasn’t. He knew I would say yes.

So I did.

“Okay. But . . . can we take your car?”

***

The Scott house was less than five miles from mine, but it could have been in a completely different world. The neighborhood was older, clearly didn’t have a Homeowners Association, and the houses themselves looked like they were in dire need of repair. His was a brown ranch that had an exposed basement, which I quickly learned was where he had all his musical instruments set up. It was a sweet deal because he’d soundproofed the room with egg crates, the whole back wall was filled with band posters, and there were a few guitars mounted to the studs above his keyboard.

He seated himself in front of it, turning on the power and shuffling the sheet music that had accumulated there. “What’s your vocal register?”

“I don’t have one anymore, remember?”

“We can change that.” Light notes plinked out from beneath his fingertips and he swiveled in his seat to regard me carefully. “I know you’ve got it in you. You have to believe it too or it won’t work.”

“I don’t want to sing in front of you.” The thought alone was making me want to vomit. What if I was as terrible as I imagined? I’d only been singing along to the radio in my room, but it was breathy and sparse, and honestly, it hurt a little if I went too high.

His eyes softened and he patted the seat next to him. “Then sing
with
me.”

I’m not a sucker by any means, but that was an invitation that I couldn’t refuse. My left arm touched his right as he leaned over a little and started to play.

“Do you know this song?”

“I’m pretty familiar with
London Bridge
, yes.”

He switched the song into
London Bridge
by Fergie and it sent me into a fit of giggles.

 “Okay. Be serious.” Clearing his throat he started another song and I waited until the intro was over, staring at his fingers while he played. Tucker began to sing in a low voice, his face tilted toward mine for a second before he’d look back down again. It was True Colors, so of course I knew it. But I kinda wanted him to keep going. I was just glad he didn’t choose The Rose. I hated that song.

After another repeat he stopped and regarded me. “You know this one. It was in the spring recital you guys did sophomore year.”

“You weren’t there.”

He shrugged, his shoulder hitting mine again as he restarted the song. “Sure I was. And you were an alto so hit me with your part.”

My lips felt dry and swollen, my throat thick with fright. I couldn’t do this. I was going to look like an idiot.

“It’s just us. Don’t freak out.” He kept playing the intro. Two, three times. Until I closed my eyes and leaned into the sound.

It was the first time I’d seriously used my voice in almost eighteen months and the sound that came out was wobbly and foreign, but he didn’t mind. He came in with the lead and I crept up with harmony until I started to lose my breath and had to hold up my hand for a break.

Tucker’s eyes sparkled as he leaned back and took his fingers off the keys. “Not bad for your first time.”

“Thanks for being gentle.” I fluttered my lashes at him in a fake swoon.

“Get up.”

I did as he said, standing in front of him.

“Let’s try the breathing again. But I’ll do it from behind.”

“Perv.”

“Calm your hormones, woman. This is all business.”

“Sure.
Okay
.”

He walked behind me and pushed his chest into my back, pulling my shoulders into his sternum. His long arms wound around my waist from behind and he placed two fists below my rib cage. “Give me a C.”