Five Flavors of Dumb (8 page)

“But not
real
musicians.”

“Absolutely,” he gushed, gaining momentum now we were back on his favorite topic. “You’re following in the illustrious footsteps of composers like Lully.”

I made him spell out the name for me, but it didn’t help. “Never heard of him. Was he any good?”

“Sure. Right up to the moment he rammed the staff on his toe, got gangrene, and died.”

I snorted. “Now I
know
you’re kidding.”

Ed bit the inside of his mouth, furrowed his brows. “Actually, I’m not kidding at all. But hey! It looks like your feet are doing just fine. Nice shoes by the way.”

He opened the door and climbed out before I could say good-bye. And it wasn’t until I started to pull away that I remembered I was wearing a new pair of Chucks.

Determined to prove they were up to snuff, Dumb scheduled an extra rehearsal for Wednesday lunchtime. With Ed on board, we’d even gotten permission to use the large music classroom. Unfortunately, Josh had also scheduled an audience.

I should have realized immediately that Kallie’s appearance at the back of the room was no accident. The music block is on the far side of school, and doesn’t lead anywhere else. More significantly, Kallie was there to stay—she pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing her freshly waxed legs as though she was discouraging the boys from taking the closer look that her miniskirt seemed to demand.

I stared at her in a way that was meant to say
What are you doing here?
But Kallie just smiled right back, her lips parting by the smallest degree, revealing perfect white teeth.

I’d like to say that Kallie’s presence went unnoticed by the band, but nothing could be further from the truth. From the moment she showed up, Josh’s performance deteriorated. Within seconds his focus was on some acrobatic dance moves that seemed more suited to Disney than Dumb. Meanwhile, Tash gripped her guitar like it was an assault rifle. I estimated ten minutes before someone got hurt.

I tried to shut out the madness while I wrote an e-mail to Phil Kirchen c/o WSFT-FM, explaining that Dumb’s mentor, Baz Firkin, had made us aware of his call for bands (which was almost true since I’d seen the notice at Baz’s studio). A little web-based research revealed that budget cuts and a declining listenership threatened to bankrupt the station, so I added a line saying that if he promoted Dumb I could guarantee at least a thousand new listeners from our high school, where the band had a cult following (again, the sentiment was true even if my numbers were somewhat unscientific). True, the station’s tagline—“the softer side of Seattle”—had me a little worried, but I figured minor details like musical style and genre could be negotiated later.

As soon as I’d sent the e-mail, I noticed Josh standing in front of me, stamping the ground as if he were trying to put a hole in it. I peered over the top of the computer and realized all eyes were on me.

“Ed said that stamping my foot is a socially acceptable way of getting a deaf person’s attention,” explained Josh, confused that it took me so long to notice.

At the back of the room, Ed rolled his eyes. “But not during a band rehearsal, remember? I told you, there are too many other vibrations. Just wave your hand somewhere that Piper can see.”

Okay, I admit it—it kind of sucked to have all this explained in front of me, like it was part of a lesson on the care and feeding of the deaf girl. It especially sucked to have it play out in front of Kallie Sims, like we were a study in opposites, textbook definitions of “cool” and “uncool” with real live representations of each (
for illustrative purposes only!
). But at the same time, it was difficult to be too bummed since Ed had obviously told them all this stuff before, when I wasn’t around. And although Josh had forgotten, there was something quite comforting about knowing that he’d tried to take note, and that I had some behind-the-scenes help for whenever he (and everyone else) forgot.

Josh accepted Ed’s criticism with a curt nod, then looked back at me and grinned like we were sharing a joke that no one else could understand. His eyes twinkled, and I felt myself turn bright red. A moment later he stood beside me, clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention.

“Guys,” he announced, smiling brilliantly, “I think we can all agree that we’re coming together, musically speaking. But there’s still something missing. Thankfully Kallie will change that for us.”

Tash smacked her right hand against her guitar strings, eliciting an angry response from her amp. “We don’t need a stylist.”

Josh laughed. “Don’t worry, Tash. I wouldn’t want to change your style anyway.”

Tash narrowed her eyes, but decided to take it as a compliment.

“No,” continued Josh, “Kallie’s not here as a stylist. She’s here as our new member.”

I didn’t wait for the others to voice their outrage. I just closed my laptop, grabbed Josh’s arm, and dragged him into the neighboring practice room. I slammed the door shut and hoped the crumbling soundproofing on the walls still worked.

“What the hell, Josh. You know she can’t join.”

The smile never left his face. “Why not?”

“For one thing, the contracts have been finalized.”

“I don’t see any contracts.”

“That’s ’cause my mom had to redo them to add Ed’s name, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, Ed.” Josh picked at the wall, flicking a fingernail-sized chunk of white foam across the room. “I’m glad we were able to find a place in the band for your best friend. I really mean that.”

“He’s not my best friend,” I said, wondering why I felt so defensive. “Anyway, we needed a drummer.”

“And now we need Kallie.”

“Why? What does she play? For all I know she could screw up the band’s sound completely.”

“The way Geek Boy Ed screwed up our image, you mean? Sure, a dork with bad clothes—that’s just what we needed.” The words came out faster than usual, and though he tried to salvage the comment by smiling again, it was a smile that didn’t extend beyond his mouth. “I don’t mean that, of course. It’s just that, well . . .
look
at us. My brother looks perpetually stoned even though he’s never touched drugs in his life. Tash precisely fits the FBI’s profile of a future serial killer. And Ed has all the flair of a bank clerk. See what I’m saying?”

I nodded, half because I was still reeling from his attack on Ed, and half because, though I hated to admit it, I saw his point. Josh was the ideal lead singer—energetic, charismatic, and hopelessly in love with himself. But the band’s token feminine influence was Tash, and viewing her in certain types of light was enough to put you off your food. I thought about the photos I’d taken, and how Kallie would change the way people looked at the band. So what if she contributed nothing musically? She’d be a figurehead, a media darling, the paparazzi’s dream. But still . . .

“We
need
Kallie,” pressed Josh, clearly sensing my waning resistance. “We need someone to make us look good. And believe me, Kallie makes us look
amazing
.”

I rolled my eyes. “You just want to hook up with her, don’t you?” I asked, hoping he’d seize the opportunity to deny it.

“Don’t make this about me, Piper. Dumb needs Kallie. Kallie
is
Dumb.”

“Do you mean that literally or figuratively?” I snorted.

He laughed loudly. “Probably both. Does it matter?” He flashed his irresistible smile, confirming that we’d just shared an intimate joke. We were colluding.

Josh chivalrously held the door open for me as we left, still chuckling, and it wasn’t until we’d entered the classroom that I realized he thought he’d convinced me to accept Kallie. And I guess he had. After all, he knew a whole lot more than me about bands, and his logic seemed flawless. Sure, I still despised Kallie with every fiber of my being, but that didn’t seem like an especially persuasive line of defense.

“Okay, guys,” he shouted, presumably for my benefit. (He had so much to learn.) “This is a democracy. Let’s have a show of hands. All those in favor of Kallie joining Dumb.”

As Josh and I raised our hands, Will looked down, and Tash scowled. Only Ed’s vote was in doubt. I peered at him expectantly, but he shook his head. If I’d been thinking clearly I’d have realized that Ed’s refusal to play along was a last-gasp rescue attempt, a warning sign written large in bright neon lights. Heck, I’m sure I’d have breathed a sigh of relief. But at that moment, all I could see was that Ed was voting against me, and my face must have registered my sense of betrayal. Immediately, as if it had a mind of its own, Ed’s hand crept slowly upward, while his eyes studied the floor.

Josh clapped his hands together and attempted to shake my hand like it was all my idea. But I wasn’t looking at Josh. I was watching Tash, her nostrils flaring, eyes shooting daggers at Kallie.

Yes, we had our eye candy, but it didn’t take a genius to see that she was in danger of being eaten alive.

It was like Groundhog Day: Mom waltzing in with the revised contract as if she were a servant proffering a gift to a monarch. It was supposed to make me laugh, to keep some of the growing tension at bay, but I knew I was about to make things worse.

Mom ditched her faithful-servant impersonation.
What is it?

Mom’s shoulders slumped, but her gestures were surgically efficient, her face suddenly sharper than before.
It’s preferable for your band to be able to fit onstage.

Mom was almost never sarcastic, especially when signing, so I knew she was really exasperated. Or maybe just exhausted, as she was getting back later every day.

I clammed up because Mom was making fun of me, and she knew it too, because she sighed and changed gear.
So who’s new?

Kallie Sims,
I finger-spelled, then added
school goddess
in angry gestures that surprised us both.

I was about to answer when it occurred to me that I didn’t know, because Josh hadn’t told me. I
had
to know, of course. If I didn’t, then the band really
was
a joke. How could it not be? And yet ...

Mom hugged me, saving me from having to incriminate myself. When she stepped back, she tilted her head to the side.
Are you sure you want me to redo this contract?

I wanted to say that I didn’t have a choice, but I didn’t want Mom to think even less of Dumb than she already did, so I nodded with manufactured confidence.

Okay. Kallie, right?
She finger-spelled the name for confirmation.

I nodded again, but I’m sure a part of me died right there.

Mom was halfway out the door when she stopped.
Would you like me to add a clause about new and departing members? Just something to keep the group fixed at five.

Yes
, I signed with a desperation that must have completely given me away.

An hour later, Mom reappeared with an updated contract. This time she’d printed it on our regular home printer, so it wasn’t on the snazzy off-white bonded paper from her office. But I couldn’t blame her for that. After all, she probably figured it wouldn’t need to last very long.

Apparently, Phil Kirchen at WSFT-FM didn’t need long to mull over my request:

One line. One freaking line, but the MP3 request sent me into a cold sweat. I figured our chances of getting away with substituting
hard rock
for
soft rock
diminished significantly once he’d actually had a chance to hear the band, and even a DJ who specialized in six-word e-mails was likely to listen to more than the first two seconds of our only track.

I pulled up Google and started reading articles about soft rock, jotting down notes as I went:

I took a time-out and thought cleansing thoughts. Then, since it was abundantly clear that Dumb was a million miles from being soft rock, I wrote to Phil and said that we couldn’t go any further without assurances that there would be some form of payment.

Ten minutes later I received a new message:

Barf or no barf, that was all I needed. Without wasting another moment I ran out to the car, drove to the local library, and checked out a bunch of CDs. While I was there, I e-mailed Baz to say we were working on a new song we needed to record at the session on Sunday. Then I hopped back in the car and drove to Ed’s coffee shop, wondering how I should break the news that he had less than twenty-four hours to compose a soft rock song called “Loving Every Part of You.”

Easy.

“You’re kidding.”

I shook my head. “No, Ed. I’m not.”