Freefall (13 page)

“Who else is in your band?” I asked.

“Taku Endo. And also Brody Lancaster,” Xander said, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “I already talked to them, and they’re down with having you come out.”

Taku was my math tutor, and he seemed like a cool guy in that same dorky/friendly way as Xander. Brody, however, happened to be Vicki’s twin brother.

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to think of an excuse so I could get out of it without sounding like a dick. “I’ve been on upright bass for a year now, and I haven’t even picked up an electric in that time. In fact, mine’s in storage.”

All our equipment was in storage because that’s where practice was held, but Xander wouldn’t know that.

“You don’t have to worry about gear,” he said, waving his hand. “We rehearse at Brody’s. His dad set him up a studio downstairs that has everything. Seriously. You can use his bass and amp if you want. In fact, you could
steal
them and he wouldn’t notice.”

Xander was sort of smiling and shaking his head in a “damn those rich kids” kind of way, and I didn’t know what to say. It was the first time I’d ever realized he wasn’t one of them.

“Think about it,” he said, handing me a sheet of paper he’d been holding. “This has my phone number and Brody’s address. I’m
heading over right now, and we’ll be at it for a few hours. So if you want to stop by, feel free. Or if today isn’t good, we can shoot for some other day. We’re there all the time, so it’s up to you.”

“Cool, thanks.” I folded the paper and shoved it in my back pocket, but there was no way I was going to need it. I mean, me in a band with Brody?
Please
.

3:20
P.M.

When I got out to the parking lot, Rosetta was waiting by the Mustang, still wearing her neon halo. Amazing. The one person I’d hoped would turn up, and here she was. I could get used to this.

“Let me guess, you’re cured and you want a ride somewhere?” I asked.

She laughed. “That’s a big
no
. I wanted to hear how it went with Xander. He was nervous all day about asking you to meet his band. It was pretty cute.”

Xander. Cute. Ugh.

“Yeah, he talked to me about it, but I don’t think it’s going to work out,” I said, dropping my bag next to the car.

“Why not? You need a band, right? And they really need a bassist.” She set her backpack next to mine. “They’ve been playing together for almost a year. Two guitars, drums, vocals. No bass. Xander says it’s ridiculous.”

She sure knew a lot about Xander and his band’s goings-on.

“It’s not that simple,” I said.

“Well, Xander told me that you’re good—better than they are—so you don’t need to worry about that. Or are you thinking that you’ll be wasting your time because they aren’t good enough?”

Strangely, it had never occurred to me to wonder about either of those things. “It’s not that.”

“Then, what?”

If she wanted the truth, I’d give it to her. Whatever. “I just don’t see myself spending time with an asshole like Brody Lancaster.”

She frowned and lines formed between her eyebrows. “Brody? He’s nice. Quiet and moody sometimes, but not an asshole.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, rolling my eyes. “This coming from someone who hangs out with his evil sister.”

Rosetta squinted at me like she was trying to figure out if I was serious. “What are you talking about? Vicki’s snobby sometimes, sure, but she isn’t evil. And anyway, Vicki and Brody are nothing alike.”

“Are you
kidding
me?” I asked. “At that party at Pete’s, Vicki said what happened to Isaac was a ‘nontragedy.’”

Rosetta opened her eyes wide, all surprised. “She
said
that?”

“Yeah, she said that. She also said she hoped the same
would happen to me. If that isn’t evil, I sure don’t know what is.”

“I don’t understand why she’d be like that,” Rosetta said, biting her lip. “That’s really, really awful. She isn’t usually flat-out mean to people.”

“Yes, she
is
.”

Rosetta stared at the ground. “Let’s think about this. The night she said that to you. It was a party and she was drinking a lot, right? So I’m positive she didn’t mean it. Drunk people are always saying and doing terrible things they wish they could take back later. It’s just part of being a pod person. I’m sure she feels bad if she remembers.”

She was saying this to calm me down, to make me feel better, but I hated that she was making an excuse for Vicki’s bitchiness. “She doesn’t care that she said it,” I said. “That’s how she is all the time. It isn’t like there’s just one time,
one
thing with Vicki. She is always starting some—”

“This is getting so far away from the subject,” Rosetta said, cutting me off. “What I was saying is that maybe you should give
Brody
a chance. Check out the band; see if you want to do it. That’s all. I don’t want to have an argument over which of our friends is a bigger jerk or should be dead or anything like that.”

Which of our friends
should
be dead?

Unbelievable.

I grabbed my bag and headed to the driver’s-side door.

“Seth, hang on,” Rosetta said.

But I couldn’t. Even
though I knew I was probably blowing it with her, I didn’t care; I needed to get away from this screwed-up conversation.

I opened the door. As I was about to get in, Rosetta said, “Damnit.”

She didn’t yell in frustration like most people—including me—might have. She just sort of sighed it. And yeah, it’s tame, but it was such a surprise coming from her that I stopped and turned.

“I’m sorry,” she said, meeting my gaze. “I didn’t mean that the way you think. I don’t know what I was meaning or why I said it at all. I’m just . . . sorry.”

“Okay,” I said.

And that was it. Fight over.

We leaned next to each other on my car, close enough that her shoulder was touching my upper arm. I thought about making a joke about how it was good that we’d gotten our first argument out of the way on the first day of school at the intersection, because now we were already getting to be experts at it. But I knew it would only come out lame, so I didn’t bother. Instead, I said, “Psychological noise sucks.”

“I know. Do you mind if we rewind this conversation and record over it?”

“Rewind to which part?” I asked.

“How about to whichever part where I can say, ‘I’m not an expert on these things, but maybe playing music with
these guys is what you need. It’s a fresh start. What’s it going to hurt to try?’”

“So then what’s my line?”

She pulled one of the neon glow necklaces off her head and stuck it on mine. “Maybe you don’t have a line. Maybe at this point you decide not to think about it, not to try to talk yourself out of it. You get in your car, go to Brody’s house, and play bass. And then, even if you decide it’s something you don’t want to do ever again, at least you’ll have a jump start on the ‘challenge yourself to do things you find uncomfortable’ homework, right?”

That gave me an idea. “How about this: I’ll do it if you come with me. In my car.”

She laughed. “I don’t think so.”

The more I thought about it, the better it was sounding. “You’re going to put it on your list for the homework, right? Getting past your motorphobia?”

She nodded.

“Then you should take your own advice. Don’t think. Don’t talk yourself out of it. Just get in the car.”

She laughed again. A nervous laugh, but maybe it was an excited one too, like she was considering it? “I
can’t
,” she said after a few seconds. “I have a clinical disorder, you know.”

“Excuses, excuses. You chicks with phobias are all the same.”

I smiled a little so she’d know I was teasing.

“I know you can do this,” she said. “And no matter what
happens with the band, I think you’ll be glad if you try.”

Now
she
was the one changing the subject. If anyone else had pressured me with the “you can do this” crap, I’d have probably been annoyed. But because it was her, it was working. I actually wanted to. Just to show her I could, I guess.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go. And then afterward we’ll get started on
your
challenge. Deal?”

“Deal.”

3:41
P.M.

I stood on the steps at Brody’s, waiting for someone to answer the door. It seemed quiet for a house with a band practicing inside. At Studio 43 people could hear our music from a block away.

Finally, the door swung open and Vicki was standing in the doorway, staring at me. I was
so
sick of running into this chick. She felt the same because she said, “This is getting ridiculous.”

I didn’t want to get into it with her. “I’m here for a band thing.”

For about a half second she looked like she was going to argue or ask questions, but then she just walked away, leaving the door open. I took that as my cue to go in.

Everything, from the floors to the furniture to the walls
to the high ceiling, was white and beige. The only actual color was a red flower arrangement on a short table and a large red painting on the wall. I followed Vicki through the front room and hallway and into the huge, chrome-filled kitchen. Then she opened a door and pointed down a flight of stairs. “They’re in there.”

“How do I know this isn’t a dungeon where you torture your enemies?” I asked.

“Because if it were, I’d have put you in there years ago,” she said over her shoulder as she stomped away.

I headed down, and I could just make out the drums. At the bottom of the landing, guitars kicked in very faintly. I pulled opened a heavy door and the noise level increased. There was yet another door behind it. When I pushed
that
open, the music got so loud I could feel it. This place had some amazing soundproofing.

As it turned out, the practice room itself
was
sort of dungeonlike—if the Rich Bitch Hill version of dungeons has dark walls covered with acoustic foam and thick black carpet on the floor.

Brody was standing at a mic with a vintage Fender strapped over his shoulder. He had his usual Kurt Cobain look going on, except his sweatshirt and jeans were very obviously clean and expensive. He looked at me through his blond hair for a second, and then ceased playing and turned toward Taku, the other guitarist. Taku stopped too and gave me a nod. With his spiky hair, industrial cartilage bars in
both ears, and black shirt with black jeans, Taku didn’t look like he belonged in the same scene, much less the same
band
, as Brody. In fact, with Xander’s laid-back pseudo-surfer look, they were all kind of mismatched, which—I have to admit—was kind of a nice change after all the pressure to look the rockabilly part with the Real McCoys.

Xander got up from behind his drums. “Hey, Seth. Glad you could make it. I was just saying I didn’t know if you were going to show.”

Brody was looking past me, and I wondered if maybe he was wishing I
hadn’t
.

I shrugged. “I thought I’d check it out.”

“Cool,” Taku said.

Xander started rushing around, getting the bass plugged in and ready, while I stood there feeling out of place. “‘Scratching at the Eight-Ball,’” I read aloud from a banner that stretched across the back wall.

“That’s the name of our band,” Taku said.

Weird. Not Magic 8 Ball. Just plain 8 ball.

I said, “It sort of makes me think of someone scraping their fingernails over a few grams of coke. But I’m guessing that isn’t what you’re going for.”

Xander started laughing so hard he looked like he was about to fall over. “See, these guys didn’t believe me when I told them that ‘eight ball’ would make people think of drugs. But Taku is so straight-edge we have to get on him to use his asthma inhaler, so he has no clue.”

I’d
noticed that Taku coughed a lot in the mornings.

“For the millionth time. I
don’t
have asthma. I have bronchospasms,” Taku said. Then he turned to me. “Our name came from a Social Distortion song. You know how knocking the cue ball in the pocket is called ‘scratching’? And when you scratch trying to sink the eight ball, you automatically lose on what should have been your winning shot? So yeah. Scratching at the Eight Ball. I guess we were feeling cynical when we chose it, right, Brody?”

Brody nodded. “Always.”

It was the first word he’d said since I’d walked in.

Xander handed me Brody’s Gibson Firebird bass, which looked like it had never been played, and sat behind his drums. “Let’s do this,” he said. “Seth, jump in whenever you feel comfortable.”

Then he hit his sticks together several times and started pounding away on his drums. Brody and Taku started playing too.

I’d never auditioned before. This wasn’t quite how I’d expected it to work, but I could handle it. And as anxious as Xander seemed, maybe in some ways it was more like they were auditioning for
me
.

I listened, and it didn’t take long to figure out that even though they were inexperienced, with very little stage presence, they were all decent musicians. Xander had called their style “pop-punk,” but, for some reason, I’d kind of thought I was going to be dealing with a boy band that cussed. But
there was nothing bubble gum about the loud, fast guitars and drums. It was obvious they’d been inspired by old Green Day or the Offspring, but Scratching at the 8 Ball was doing something much heavier, more complex.

After several minutes of getting a feel for the song, I started messing around until I came up with a bass line. For the past year I hadn’t touched anything but gut strings and I knew my fingers were going to be sore as I got used to steel again, but at that moment it felt good.
Really
good.

We kept going like that for an hour. They’d play a song through while I listened, then I’d play with them until we were ready to move on to the next. We made it through about five songs, and I found myself getting more and more into it. The songwriting was interesting. Whoever was responsible for the arrangement was pretty gifted.

“That was awesome,” Xander said, standing and wiping his forehead on his sleeve afterward.

After getting past the kinks, I’d played well—at least I thought so—but there was more than the music to consider. For one thing, Brody Lancaster was in this band, and he wasn’t giving off any good vibes. He’d been staring at the floor the whole time, as if he couldn’t even stand to look at me.