Struts & Frets (22 page)

“Yeah. I really need to talk to you. Can you meet me? I'm at the Dube.”

“Um . . . ,” I said. “Sure.”

“Great,” he said, not sounding especially enthusiastic. “See you soon.” Then he hung up.

I clicked back over to Jen5.

“That was weird,” I said. “It was Joe. He wants to meet up with me.”

“Oh, God, Sammy, you didn't say yes, did you?”

“Of course I did,” I said. “Why wouldn't I?”

“Well, I thought after what happened . . .”

“Fiver, I'm not scared of him anymore. I think we might actually be able to be friends now.”

“Why would you want to be?”

“Somebody should be,” I said.

The Blue Danube, or as most people called it, the Dube, was a bar and restaurant just off the OSU campus. It was a pretty seedy place, and the food was lousy. It was just one big open room, with the bar on one side, and a bunch of booths and tables on the other. It was kind of like a diner with a good jukebox and mood lighting. In fact, there were hardly any regular lights in the Dube. Just one or two small lamps over
by the bar. Most of the lighting for the place came from a big blue neon sign hung above the booths that said
THE BLUE DUBE
in swirling script. The sign cast everything in a dim blue light, making the place feel like it was a scene from some gritty crime movie.

Joe was sitting over in the corner booth, directly beneath the Blue Dube sign. He was writing in a little blank book, an empty coffee cup in front of him and a cigarette burning in the ashtray. Even directly under the sign, I couldn't imagine how he was able to see what he was writing without serious eyestrain. One hand was wrapped in a thick bandage.

“Hey,” I said, sliding into the booth.

He didn't respond right away, but instead continued to scribble into his book. I knew that feeling. Just wanted to finish that one last thought before it was gone. So I sat and listened to the jukebox. It was playing “Just Like Honey,” an old Jesus and Mary Chain song—slow, fat, distorted guitar under whispered vocals. It really was a great jukebox.

Joe put down his pen and snapped his little blank book closed.

“Hey,” he said.

“What's up?” I asked.

“Sorry about what happened,” he said, his eyes trailing to his bandaged hand.

“That's okay,” I said. “I wasn't the one who got hurt.”

“I heard you played at an open mic at Idiot Child last night.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I just did one song. It was mainly for Jen5's art show.”

He nodded and started clicking his Zippo lighter open and closed with his good hand. The sharp
ping
sound it made was in counterpoint to the song in the background. There was a faint smell of lighter fluid that penetrated the greasy burger smell.

“I need this band,” he said suddenly. He was looking directly at me, with the same expression as when I gave him a ride home. That sad, broken look. “I know I've said a lot of shit about it, and about you guys. But that was just me talking. I know I'm not a great musician like you and TJ. I know that.” Then his face went from that broken look to the triumphant, confident look that he had when we first saw that poster about the Battle of the Bands. “This band is special,” he said in a way that you couldn't argue with. “It's going to
be
something. I know it. We can still kick ass at this contest. And you know I'll work my ass off, because it's the only worthwhile thing I have now,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know that feeling.”

“So, are we keeping the band together?” he asked.

The question totally floored me. Because I hadn't realized it was my decision. And now, before I said anything, I had to decide for myself. I'd had a lot of dreams about this band becoming something. Was I going to give up on those dreams now, less than a week away from a contest that might make us that one percent that didn't have to have day jobs? Or was I going to see this through?

“You have to be cool with TJ and Laurie dating,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can handle it.”

“And nobody likes getting yelled at in rehearsal.”

He sighed. “I get it. I was a dick. I'm sorry. I'll be cool from now on.”

“And,” I said, “if we're still going to do this Battle of the Bands thing on Thursday, you have to have the lyrics to the songs we're doing memorized.”

“That's like three days away,” he said. “No problem.”

“Let's do it, then. I'll call Rick and TJ and we can rehearse tomorrow after school.”

“Awesome,” said Joe, actually showing a real smile. Then he said, “Uh, we should probably do your songs for the contest. Mine's not really ready for prime time yet.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Good idea.”

next day at lunch. Everyone else at the table—Rick, TJ, Alexander, and Laurie—were all giving me the same shocked look, but Jen5 was the only one to speak up.

“I told him it was cool,” I said. “Come on, guys. Give him a chance.”

“Sammy, what about
your
chance? I thought you were going to do your own thing now.”

“I'd never be able to get anything together in time for the contest.”

“Why do you even care about the contest?” she asked.

“I don't know . . .”

“Didn't you say that you thought music competitions were lame?”

“Yeah, they are. But think about getting that studio time. We can't pass that up. Maybe if we got a killer song on the radio, I wouldn't have to work at a coffee shop or write commercials.”

“Sammy,” she said.

“Come on, Fiver,” I said. “I want this so bad. Just back me up on this one, okay?”

She looked at me for a moment, then sighed. “Of course I will, Sammy.”

I could tell the whole thing bothered Jen5, but I couldn't figure out why. Working things out with the band had seemed to make much more sense than starting all over again. Maybe she just thought I should be the frontman or something. But when it came down to it, I didn't need to be the guy that everyone looked at. It was nice to fantasize about, but in reality, it wasn't that important to me. I just cared about the music.

I was pretty nervous before rehearsal. As much as I hoped things would go well, I was about fifty percent sure that it would all fall apart at rehearsal. Something would set Joe off and he'd just go ballistic on all of us. Or if nothing
else, having gone so long without rehearsal, nobody would remember what we were doing.

But amazingly enough, we actually sounded good. It helped that we just drilled the same three songs over and over again. And Rick did get a little confused every once in a while. But as soon as he got lost, he knew it immediately and fixed it himself. There were also a few times when Joe forgot his lyrics, but he'd immediately grab the sheet and look at it and get back on track. One time, he even apologized.

We took breaks in between songs and popped open the emergency exit door. We hung out on the back steps by the loading dock. Joe and Rick passed cigarettes back and forth while we all talked about little things we could add to the songs to make them even better, or how we were going to kick ass at the contest. Then we started talking about what we were going to do when we won. Should we send the track we recorded to a bunch of music blogs? Should we have a little tour? Rick had a cousin in Cincinnati who might be able to get in touch with a place down there, and Joe knew a bunch of people in Cleveland. It felt good to talk like that. It felt like we were a real band. We even sounded like a real band.

And maybe, for the first time, we were.

I gave Rick a ride home as usual.

“I have to swing by Marigold's to pick up some new strings,” I said as we climbed into the car.

“Okay,” he said. I could tell something was on his mind. He was working himself up to something serious. You couldn't rush Rick on stuff like that, so I just waited.

We had been driving for about ten minutes in silence when Rick suddenly blurted out, “You should do your own thing. Drop Joe and do your own thing.”

“But it's all coming together,” I said. “We sounded great tonight.”

“Tonight,” said Rick. “Who knows what he'll be like tomorrow.”

“Maybe he's really changed,” I said. “Maybe it took all that to make him understand.”

“Maybe,” said Rick.

“You think he's faking it?” I asked.

“I don't think he's faking it.”

“What, then?”

“I'm sure he thinks he's turned over a new leaf. But changing isn't as easy as that. People try to be better all the time. Who doesn't want to be better? But most of the time, people screw it up.”

“Wow,” I said. “Have you considered joining the pep
squad? What about winning the contest and going on a tour? What about everything we talked about tonight?”

“That's all it was, Sammy,” said Rick. “Just talk.”

“I don't believe that,” I said.

“I know you don't,” he said, and he sounded kind of sad.

Marigold's was mainly a CD store, but they had a little guitar supply section in the back that sold my brand of strings. It was a little cheaper than the guitar shop and a lot closer to home. I was tempted to stop at the New Release section to see what was out, but I really didn't have the money to buy new music, so we just made a beeline for the strings. We were back at the front, waiting in line for the register, in a only few minutes.

“I might actually get out of here without buying something I don't need,” I said to Rick.

“That would be a first,” he said.

I noticed he was standing very close to me and his eyes kept flickering over my shoulder at something behind me. Like he was hiding from something.

“What is it?” I said, turning my head.

“Don't turn around,” he whispered quietly.

“Rick?” came a cheerful voice behind me.

“Too late,” Rick growled under his breath. Then he smiled and said, “Hey, Zeke.”

I turned and saw a guy with long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was wearing a tight black T-shirt and jeans that most guys I know would be way too self-conscious to pull off. Maybe it was the jeans that made me think he was gay. Or maybe it was the fact that when he looked at Rick, it was completely obvious he had a crush on him.

“How are you?” Zeke asked him with a sincerity that was kind of intense.

“Uh, okay, I guess,” said Rick, looking very uncomfortable. “This is . . .”—he gestured at me.

“Oh, hey, I saw you play at the open mic on Saturday,” said Zeke. “Jen5's friend, right? Sammy? You were awesome!”

“Thanks,” I said. “You know Jen5?”

“Yeah, we used to go to art summer school at the College of Art and Design.”

“Cool,” I said. “So you're a painter too?”

“I'm nowhere near as good as Jen5,” said Zeke.

“She's awesome,” I agreed.

“Music's more my thing,” he said.