Boy Shopping (17 page)

Michael

“
O
nline dating just isn't for me,” Kiki announced, leaning past Sasha to turn off the screen. “It's not like I really have time to date anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Jasmine shrilled. “What are you so busy with now?”

“Physics,” Kiki said, plopping back down on her bed. “And I have rehearsal at Franklin's in half an hour.”

“Kind of late, isn't it?” Sasha asked, turning the screen back on to check the clock.

“Franklin had a doctor's appointment right after school.”

“Checking on his venereal diseases?” Jasmine leered.

“You want to know the truth?” Kiki asked, putting her homework away.

“Well, duh!” Jasmine exclaimed.

“Franklin's at the dermatologist's.”

The girls all gasped.

“But I've never even seen him with a pimple!” Sasha said.

“Not anymore. But apparently when he was in the eighth grade at Kenwood, they called him ‘Spongeface.' ”

“Well, what do you know?” Camille said, with a strangely thoughtful expression. Kiki had a bad feeling that Camille might actually give Franklin a chance.

“Don't start feeling sorry for him,” Kiki warned her. “He's still a man-slut.”

“But if he's only like that because kids used to make fun of him . . .”

“Don't be a doofus, Cam. Franklin isn't some tortured soul walking around in the body of a rock star. He's about as deep and complex as a sock puppet,” Kiki pointed out. “But he is a nice guy.” It was odd but true. Franklin had put his dweeby past behind him in a way that Mark never had, and probably never would. “And he's usually a lot of fun.”

“Like Michael?” Sasha asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Yes, like Michael. But I never said I wanted to date Franklin either.”

“Of course, Michael isn't riddled with disease,” Sasha said. “Hopefully.”

“Not that I'm ever going to find out. Seriously, guys, I can't go out with someone who—” Kiki was interrupted by her cell phone. “That'll be Mark. Time to roll.”

“Can't,” Sasha said, typing fast. “I'm working on an e-mail.”

“You can e-mail Thomas from your house. I've got to run. Jasmine, what are you looking for in there?”

By the time Kiki had pried Sasha from the computer and Jasmine from her closet, Mark was waiting downstairs.

“Hello, Mark,” Jasmine said, smirking. Kiki was beginning to wonder if telling Jasmine that Mark was going to ask her out had been a good idea.

“Uh, hi, ladies,” he said, turning a strange shade of red. “Kiki, you ready?”

“Sure. Everyone's leaving. Goodbye.”

Kiki almost shoved the Pussycats out the door, not wanting to meet Camille and Sasha's curious stares—they were also trying to decide if Mark was actually interested in Jasmine.

The ride to Franklin's house wasn't comfortable. Mark was fidgeting with the steering wheel again, but he was talking, at least—this time, about their next album. They were going to spend Christmas break in the studio, two weeks of eighteen-hour days. They had to make every second count, since their next chance to do a major recording would be spring break, and the album was supposed to hit shelves in early May. They had done most of the writing over the summer, and they were already putting together scratch recordings for the label, but every song had to be session-ready by December 20. That was why Franklin had flipped out when Kiki skipped practice earlier that week, and why this was the worst possible time for the band to have relationship issues.

“Mark, try to chill,” Kiki said when they arrived at Franklin's house. “Rock isn't supposed to sound uptight.”

“It isn't supposed to sound bad either, which it will if we don't get in some practice time.”

Franklin was noodling on his guitar when they walked into the music room, working on “Foxfire,” which they also called “the song that never ends.” They had been playing with it for more than six months. Everyone—the bandmates, A&R, even their managers—agreed that there was something there. Franklin's melody line was haunting, and the time signature—9/8, compound triple time—was more than weird enough to keep Kiki interested. But they had never come up with an arrangement everyone liked.

Halfway into this practice, Franklin started playing around with the lyrics to “Foxfire”—lyrics Mark had written—just to try something new. They played through to the end of the song, and instead of taking it again from the top, Mark stalked over to Franklin's music stand and ripped the battered notebook from it.

“Problem, Mark?” Franklin asked warily.

“I'm trying to see where that line about pale green eyes came from. I don't remember writing that line.”

Kiki tucked her drumsticks into her waistband and sat back on her stool; she could tell this was going to take a minute.

“I just made it up, dude. The break is too boring without any vocal.”

“You may think that your voice is necessary for every single measure, but some things sound better when you just shut up.”

Franklin rolled his eyes in Kiki's direction, but she kept her mouth clamped shut. She had no desire to get involved.

“Dude, the break is boring. Either it needs some vocal, or something real interesting needs to happen in the melody line, or we should just cut it. But it's still not working the way it's written.”

“Kiki, what do you think?” Mark asked in the false, sugary voice he sometimes used when he was trying not to scream.

“I think that I'm having some issues with the rhythm section. I don't like how the lead in—”

“I asked you about the break.” He was squeezing his lyrics notebook so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

“And I am not going to fight with you two about it, unless you decide to make it a drum solo.” Kiki shrugged and slumped farther back on her drum stool.

“Thanks for being so helpful. Do you realize we're supposed to be in the studio—”

“Yes, Mark, I do. But refusing to consider the possibility that Franklin might be right and you might be wrong, won't get us into the studio any faster.”

“You would take his side,” Mark growled.

“I'm not taking a side—I really don't know what to do to this song. I'm just suggesting that you listen to Franklin for once.”

“If Franklin had one shred of musical theory to back up—” Mark paused when he noticed that Kiki was not only ignoring him but had actually gotten up to walk away.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I'm going upstairs to check my e-mail,” she said, carefully clambering around her drum kit. The music room wasn't small, but the drums were crammed into a corner, and Kiki never got around to moving them. “Come and get me when you're ready to play.”

“Kiki, this is no time to throw a temper tantrum.”

“I'm not the one who's having a tantrum, Mark. I'm being serious. I don't know what to do about the song's structure, and I don't really care, beyond working out better beats. When you two have an arrangement you like, give me a call, then we can work on the percussion. But I am not going to be a part of another stupid argument.”

Mark continued to whine, even as Kiki shut the door behind her very carefully, so that Mark couldn't accuse her of slamming it. After breathing deeply for thirty seconds and shaking the tension out of her shoulders, she wandered through arctic-white hallways and staircases to Franklin's filthy bedroom. Ignoring piles of clothes large enough to make her look like an infrequent shopper, she picked her way across the chaos to Franklin's desk. It was actually pretty clean, because Franklin rarely sat there longer than it took to check his friend requests on MySpace.

Kiki logged into her e-mail, and was surprised to see a message from someone called
[email protected].
She assumed it had something to do with the video they did for “Friday Night Special”; otherwise she wouldn't have opened it.

Kiki had speed-dialed Sasha before she finished reading the second sentence.

“I know what you're going to say,” Sasha said, instead of hello.

“Actually, I'm pretty sure you don't know half of what I'm going to say, since I've learned more bad words from roadies than you picked up visiting churches with your grandma, but I think you're going to get my point,” Kiki said through clenched teeth.

“Please don't be mad, Kiki. You know I don't like to meddle—”

“Then why did you?” Kiki screeched.

“Because sometimes the last thing you think you'd ever want is exactly what you need.”

“So you think Michael and I are going to ride off into the sunset? Do you see marriage in our future?”

“No, but I think you'll have a good time with him. Don't you ever get tired of being serious all the time?”

“I'm a drummer, Sasha, not an executioner.” She paused, then added, “I'm not Mark.”

“Not yet. And don't tell me that you don't get tired of his all-work-no-play thing. I know you do. In fact, since you're reading e-mail in the middle of practice, my guess is that they're already driving you crazy. Let me guess: Mark thinks Franklin's being stupid, and Franklin thinks some rodent crawled up Mark's ass and died?”

Kiki let out a shaky laugh. “For someone who has never seen us practice, you know us pretty well.”

“I know
you
well, Kiki. So why don't you trust me and give this thing with Michael a try? I'm not saying it's going to be everlasting love, but one date isn't going to kill you.”

“If it does, I'll haunt you forever, Sasha Silverman.”

She laughed. “Jews don't believe in ghosts, Kiki. At least I don't think we do.”

“Well, I'm not Jewish, so I don't think it matters,” Kiki said.

“So you aren't going to kill me for using your e-mail address?”

“Not until I actually go out with this Michael guy. If he sucks, then I'll kill you.”

“All right. I'll be keeping my fingers crossed.”

“Good. That way you can't type any more e-mail from my address.”

After Kiki told Sasha goodbye, she e-mailed Michael, then rejoined her bandmates downstairs. They were completely silent when she let herself back into the room.

“Are you two finished fighting?” she asked, working her way back toward the drum stool.

“We're canceling the recording session Saturday night. And I think we're cutting the break,” Mark said tightly.

“Fine. Then let's get back to work.”

 

The next day's practice went much more smoothly, possibly because Kiki was working extra-hard to keep everyone on task. They were finished promptly at 7:30.

“Want to pick up some dinner on the way home?” Mark asked, loosening the strings on his Stratocaster.

“Nah. I've got a ride.”

“Hot date?” he asked sarcastically. There was nothing unusual about Mark being snarky when he didn't really mean it, and Kiki had been called the Queen of Snark herself. Still, Kiki thought she heard the faintest undertone of anger in Mark's voice.

“Actually, yes, Mark. But I don't see why that's a problem. It's not like we've ever gone out. And anyway, I thought you were going out with Jasmine.”

Franklin almost tripped over his own guitar stand.

“You're going out with the Bloom of Doom?” he gasped.

“I was going to ask her to Trip-Hop Triple Threat this Friday, unless someone's got a problem with that.”

Franklin held up both hands and said, “I'm just warning you, man. I talked to Jerry Ryan, who went out with her most of last year. That's one girl who'll hand you your balls if you piss her off.”

“Jazz isn't that bad,” Kiki insisted. “You just have to keep her entertained. And you can't take her too seriously.”

“That's it—you're doomed. Don't talk to her, man.”

“You can't tell me what to do, Franklin.”

Kiki walked out, knowing that the fight would go on and on, and it would be pointless. Mark would win, arguing Franklin into the ground, but there was no way he would ask Jasmine out now: Mark could probably deal with Jasmine, but having to listen to Franklin's mockery would drive him crazy. But the truth was, Franklin was right: Jasmine and Mark were not meant to be. Opposites might attract, if you were talking about magnets, but not usually with people. That kind of thing worked better in the movies than it did in real life, which was why Kiki was more than a little worried when a battered Thunderbird, held together with duct tape, rolled into Franklin's pristine white driveway.

The car's top was down, and since Franklin's house was surrounded by security lights, Kiki got a good look at Michael. And one look was enough to ensure that she would definitely be getting into his car. Catnip for girls, Sasha had called him—and she was right. But it was more than just the eyes, green as playing fields, and the curly, soft hair. More than the broad shoulders under his jean jacket, which looked butter-soft from washing and perfectly worn in. More than the face that might have belonged to a very tolerant angel. Michael had a smile that made all the clenched muscles in Kiki's shoulders and back instantly relax. It was better than a massage.