Friend Is Not a Verb (11 page)

“Of course I was. That’s what we do. We mess with each other’s heads. What are you, on drugs right now?”

“Yes, Emma,” I said. “Yes, I am. I use them as a cry for help.”

“Well I’m here for you, my friend. Take one day at a time. Remember: When you try to escape from reality, you’re only escaping from yourself.”

She winked at me and strolled out of the dog run. I watched her disappear around the corner, her ratty hair flapping in the breeze. The atoms began to slow down. But then, they’d never sped up in the first place. At least, I was pretty sure they hadn’t.

About a week and a half after Sarah disappeared for the second time, she began updating her Facebook news feed in a sudden frenzy.

I received all four updates on the same afternoon in the space of an hour. She was sort of brilliant, my sister. I understood the plan now. This was our private line. Since she wasn’t Facebook friends with anyone else, I was the only person who could read her posts. And as far as she was concerned, they told me everything I needed to know: That she
was
safe, that she’d returned to the Dominican Republic for some reason, and that she wouldn’t be gone for a year this time. They also told me that she was in communication with Gabriel. Who else could have told her about the gig?

And thanks to Gabriel’s manuscript, I also knew a few other things she
didn’t
know I knew. Like the name of the flower-buying Nazi, for one: Karl Funkhausen. (Unless she knew more than one Nazi? Yikes.) But in a way, the stuff I wasn’t supposed to know only made me more frustrated. Even with the new puzzle pieces, I couldn’t form a clear picture. Sarah was too cautious and clever. So was Gabriel.

Of course, he had the added drawback of being someone I saw in person. Plus, I generally wanted to punch him in the face after spending any time with him.

Jesus.
What about me? This wasn’t exactly bringing out the best parts of my personality. The longer it went on, the more I felt like Encyclopedia Freaking Brown. Only dorkier. And not as upstanding. After all, I was a thief, too.

The morning after I received Sarah’s flurry of updates, Gabriel threw a zinger at me. “Hen, your playing is getting better. You know that?”

I was packing up to leave his East Village crash pad after one of our more productive lessons. He and I had managed to play along to all of “Motown Philly” by Boyz II Men without messing up once. Triumph! But still, I hadn’t expected a compliment.

“You think?” I asked him.

Gabriel nodded. “You’re not just playing the notes. You’re listening now. You’re feeling the music.”

“Please don’t say stuff like that,” I grumbled. “It was Boyz II Men.”

He laughed. “I know. I wanted to see if you could groove on a song you hated. I really wish I could come see your gig, man.” He glanced down at his plain white T-shirt and frayed jeans. “It would also give me an excuse to buy some new clothes.”

Aha! I thought. Could this be a way in? “You’re still having legal troubles?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Something like that,” he said.

I zipped up my bass case and leaned against the door. “Hey, can I ask you something? What made you decide to go with the whole nineties nostalgia thing, anyway? I mean, for your band?”

“It wasn’t my idea.” He sat on the edge of the futon. “It was Rich, my guitarist’s. Actually, Madeline came up with the name. They used to be a couple.”

“Really? Was that weird for you?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Uh…just that, you know, you said you used to be in love
with Madeline,” I stammered. “Or something like that.”

He sighed. “I guess it was weird. The whole thing was weird. Rich and Madeline and Tony, our drummer, were obsessed with
Friends
. They used to skip classes to watch it. The three of them. Tony was their third wheel. They didn’t seem to mind, though.” His eyes darted over to his laptop, perched on top of the pile of manuscripts. “Tony’s a big computer geek. He was able to steal all sorts of things off the internet. He got them every single episode of
Friends
on DVD delivered for free.”

Now we’re getting somewhere,
I thought.

“Why are you smiling?” Gabriel asked.

“Uh…just, um, that’s funny,” I said. “Our drummer is a computer geek, too.”

“Yeah.” Gabriel nodded thoughtfully. “It makes sense. Drums and computers are technical. Drums are, like, the math requirement of music.”

“You’re not a math person, huh?”

He shook his head. “It’s sort of pathetic. Columbia has a math requirement, and I nearly flunked out because of it. Sarah, too. We both got straight As in religion and philosophy and our writing seminars…” His voice trailed off. “You know, it was Sarah who came up with our band motto. ‘Friend is not a verb.’ It was hilarious.”

“It was?” I heard myself ask. Whoops. I should have kept my mouth shut. I wanted him to relax and forget himself.

Gabriel flashed a lopsided grin. “You sort of had to be there, I guess. She went off on this whole speech about how the era of
good, smart lyrics was over. She said that people didn’t know how to be intimate anymore, because of the internet. All the new popular bands—you know, like the Jonas Brothers and the Cheetah Girls—all their hit songs were about IMs and email and texting. There was nothing face-to-face about them. Nothing
real
. Friendship had lost its substance. Once she articulated it like that, it sort of cemented our nineties nostalgia thing.”

“Wow,” I said. “Profound.” I cringed. I actually meant it, but the word came out sounding smug and sarcastic.

“Ah…I’m boring you,” Gabriel said. “You should probably get going.”

“No, no—you’re not boring me at all,” I protested.

“Maybe.” Gabriel grinned at me again. “But you know, Hen, you’re still not going to trick me into telling you why Sarah and I ran away.”

Six days before the gig, Emma showed up unannounced at band practice, carrying a grocery sack. Apparently, New Beginnings didn’t need her to volunteer in the afternoons anymore. Mornings only. Bartholomew Savage and Petra were understandably irritated—so was I—until she pulled out a six-pack of beer.

“Musicians need booze,” she declared.

Bartholomew Savage’s face lit up. Both Petra and I passed on the offer. (I needed to become a rock star
before
I became a raging alcoholic.) Emma cracked open a can for him and one for herself, then sat cross-legged in the corner of the stuffy little room. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “Keep jamming.”

“Did you get a fake ID?” I asked.

“It’s my cousin Nadine’s. I showed you, remember?”

I didn’t, but I didn’t feel like solving another mystery right now. Emma sat quietly for the remainder of the rehearsal, drinking beer after beer. Bartholomew stopped at two. Emma finished the rest. When our time was up, she lumbered to her feet and clapped loudly.

“Awesome!” she slurred. “Is it my imagination, or is it 1993 in here? Give it up, people!”

Bartholomew Savage laughed. Petra forced a smile. I blinked at her, lost.

“You really think we sound good?” Petra asked.

“I’d tell you if I didn’t. My inhibitions are at a Nadine.” She hiccupped. “I mean a nadir.”

The following day, Emma showed up again at Sonic Rehearsal Studios with another six-pack. Nobody protested. Nobody even said hi. Emma simply cracked open a beer for Bartholomew Savage, and one for herself, and sat cross-legged in the corner.

Interesting. For whatever reason, she was part of the routine now. We had a drunken groupie. Good for us. I only hoped she didn’t develop cirrhosis of the liver.

Monday night, with two days to go, Petra invited everybody over to my place to strategize about gig promotion. (Both her mom and her dad were throwing separate parties that night, so their apartments were off-limits.) We all crammed into my
room. Petra and Bartholomew Savage sat on the edge of my bed; I sat at my desk…and, yes, Emma joined the party, too. She sat on the floor in the corner. Luckily, she only brought one beer this time. She’d hidden it in a brown paper bag, so my parents wouldn’t see. Not that the bag did anything to mask the smell.

“So what do you think of the Facebook fan page I set up for Dawson’s Freak?” Petra asked, all business.

I turned on my computer and linked to it, taking the hint. It
was
pretty funny. She’d found an old
Dawson’s Creek
cast photo and photoshopped our faces onto it. She was Katie Holmes’s character. Bartholomew Savage was the handsome blond star, Dawson. And I was the pudgy one. (What was his name? Pacey?)

“I re-friended all my friends from the band page and updated the news feed last night,” she added, as if we needed reminding. “I’ll do it again tonight and tomorrow. So hopefully we’ll get a good crowd.”

“Easy there, Petra,” Emma said. “You’re stalking me again.” She turned to me. “See? What did I tell you?”

Petra didn’t seem to get the joke. I didn’t blame her. But my mind was elsewhere. For the first time, I felt a little flutter of nervous anticipation. The gig was really happening.

“Everything changed the night of the Bimbo Lounge show,”
Jim Forbes remarked.
“The club was packed with celebrities and representatives from every record company on the East Coast. Eddie Vedder offered to be their manager. A bidding war began on the
spot. Fortunately, their lawyer, Mr. Donovan Wood, Esquire, was able to sign the band to a multimillion-dollar deal the very next day…”

“Hey, do you think there’s a chance your dad would come to the show tomorrow night?” I asked Emma.

“About as much chance as you have of hooking up with one of those Fox News Sexperts,” she said.

“Ha-ha. He goes to shows all the time for business. You told me he goes out at least one night a week.”

“Right.” She took a sip of beer. “For business. Not to see Dawson’s Geek.”

“Dawson’s
Freak
,” Petra corrected.

“I
know
, Petra,” Emma groaned.

“He said he wanted to hear a demo,” I pointed out. “If he wants to hear a demo, wouldn’t he want to see us live?”

“I told you, he was drunk when he said that.”

“He only had nine martinis, right? How drunk are
you
right now?”

“Ha! Let me explain something to you, Hen. My dad’s clients play at Giants Stadium. Not the Bimbo Lounge.”

“Nada Surf plays at Giants Stadium?” I asked. “Where? In the men’s room?”

“Okay, look,” Emma said. “You want to know the truth? Even if my dad
did
come and see you play, he wouldn’t remember it.”

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“He drinks too much, Hen! There’s no way he’d come to
see you play unless he was loaded. Not to mention the fact that he hates rap rock. He wouldn’t get the irony. He’s going to see Journey because he genuinely enjoys their music.”

“Well, maybe he’d enjoy ours,” I said angrily.

She shrugged. “Whatever.”

Petra didn’t look so happy anymore. “What do you think we should put on the flyers?” she asked me.

“And that’s another thing,” Emma said. “If I were you guys, I wouldn’t waste money making flyers.”

“Waste money?” Petra repeated.

Emma nodded. “That’s right. Flyers don’t work.”

“I found a job because of a flyer,” I pointed out.

“And look how wonderful it is. Look, the best way to promote a gig is to tell all your friends. But no offense, Hen, you don’t have any friends besides the people in this room. You’re
looking
at your audience. And two of them are already in the band.”

“How many friends do
you
have, Emma?” I snapped.

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to be a famous rock star, Hen. Come on, do you really think that people are gonna want to shell out eight bucks or whatever it is to see your band play at some dump? On a Wednesday?”

I frowned. Lots of people had seen PETRA the one time we’d performed at school. Then again, attendance at the assembly we’d played had been mandatory. There hadn’t been a cover charge, either.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said. “Look, I don’t want to be a Negative
Nelly, I swear. And I would have tried to get people at work to come, but I don’t think homeless people make enough money to go out on weeknights. I know volunteers don’t.”

Petra scowled. “Emma, why are you so catty around me? Can’t you say one nice thing for once? Like, ‘Hey, guys, way to go. I think it’s great you got a gig.’”

Emma laughed and looked at me again. “Because if I said that, I wouldn’t be fulfilling my god-given role as the only realist in this strange little posse.”

I knew she was expecting me to laugh, too. But I didn’t give her the satisfaction. I didn’t even smile, and I was proud of myself. It meant that I
had
grown up a little this summer. Emma might have morphed into a surly, intolerable booze-hound, but she could no longer cajole me into having fun at my own expense.

“You know, I was thinking about something,” Bartholomew Savage said. “We should just make our demo off the sound board at the show. Victor said they have a really good system there. My dad got me ACID Pro, and I…”

“Donovan Wood never made it to that first gig,”
Jim Forbes said.

Thankfully, the comment drowned out Bartholomew Savage’s rambling monologue. Once he started talking about computers, he wouldn’t shut up. Blah, blah, blah. He never understood that the average layman has no interest in sequencing and layering…it was all technical mumbo jumbo. On the other hand, I had complete faith in his abilities. If he claimed
he could produce a first-rate demo, then he would. He’d opted to take elective computer courses at Spencer, the way normal people at Franklin opted to take fun elective courses like Knitting, or the Literature and Films of Woody Allen.

“When their lawyer listened to the recording from the show, there was no turning back,”
Jim Forbes went on.
“Donovan Wood knew a sure bet when he heard one. Dawson’s Freak had captured a sound like no other, at the right time, in the right place—”

“Beer tasting
is
a good idea!” Bartholomew Savage exclaimed.