Authors: Scott Westerfeld
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Horror & Ghost Stories, #Performing Arts, #Music
The Last Days (4 page)
I glared up at all those winking lights, wondering how she was supposed to squeeze that much gear into anyone else’s sound without squishing it.
“Plus, it’s not really a song,” she added. “More like a guitar solo that doesn’t go anywhere.”
“Whoa . . .” I breathed. “Like a
what
?”
what
?”
“A guitar solo that doesn’t go anywhere,” Zahler repeated, nodding. I stared at him.
“I mean, you guys want to do
songs
, right?” Pearl continued. “With verses and choruses and stuff? Don’t you think the Big Riff could use a B section?”
songs
, right?” Pearl continued. “With verses and choruses and stuff? Don’t you think the Big Riff could use a B section?”
“Fool idea,” Zahler said. Then he scratched his head. “What’s a B section?”
4. NEW ORDER
-ZAHLER-
The new girl was intense. And kind of hot.
She could pull a tune apart like it was
nothing
. Not like Moz, who always talked in circles. Pearl could just hum what she meant, fingers waving little patterns, like she was
seeing
air-notes at the same time. I watched carefully, wishing my fingers could do that.
nothing
. Not like Moz, who always talked in circles. Pearl could just hum what she meant, fingers waving little patterns, like she was
seeing
air-notes at the same time. I watched carefully, wishing my fingers could do that.
She was one of those girls who looked better in glasses—all smart and stuff.
The way she stripped down the Big Riff was totally fawesome. Like I knew would happen, she didn’t touch my part. My part is basic, the foundation of the Riff. But Moz’s jamming could get kind of random, like she’d said about pizza. You know when they have the sundae bar at school where you make your own sundae? I always add toppings until the ice cream disappears, and it winds up kind of disgusting. Give him enough room, and Moz’s playing can get like that.
Don’t get me wrong—the Mosquito’s a genius, a way better player than me, and there was some pretty fool stuff in his Big Riff zigzags. But it took Pearl to pick out his best threads and weave them back together in a way that made sense.
She explained that a B section was a completely different part of a song, like when the chorus has a different riff, or everything slows down or changes key. Me and Moz didn’t do that too much, because I’m happy playing the same four chords all day long and he’s happy buzzing around on top of them.
But when you think about it, most songs do have B sections, and we sort of hadn’t noticed that ours almost never did. So the moral of the story is, you shouldn’t be in a band with just two people for six years. Kind of saps your perspective.
Moz was all buzzy at first, like the Big Riff was his pet frog that Pearl was dissecting. He kept looking at me and making faces, but I eyeballed him into submission. Once he saw that I thought Pearl was okay, he sort of had to listen to her. It hadn’t been my idea to drag my ax all the way down here, after all.
In the end, Moz was no idiot, and only an idiot would mind listening to a smart, hot girl telling him something that’s for his own good. And for the good of the band, which is what the three of us were already turning into.
It was fawesome to watch. All the years Moz and I had been jamming, it was about adding
more
to the riffs. So it felt great to see stuff getting erased, to sweep away all the mosquito-droppings and get back to the foundation.
more
to the riffs. So it felt great to see stuff getting erased, to sweep away all the mosquito-droppings and get back to the foundation.
Which, like I said before, is where I’m happiest.
Once the Big Riff was cleaned up, Pearl started playing. I’d figured she was going to blow us away with some kind of thousand-note-a-minute alternafunk jazz, because she’d been in that Juilliard band. But everything she played was sweet and simple. She spent most of her time poking around with her mouse, diluting the tones flowing from her synthesizers until they were thin enough to sneak through the folds of the Big Riff.
In the end, I realized that Pearl was playing some of the lines she’d erased from Moz’s part. Even though she’d simplified them, the whole thing wound up bigger, like an actual band instead of two guitarists trying to sound like one.
And then came the moment when the whole thing finally clicked, totally paranormal, falling into place like an explosion played backwards.
I yelled, “You know, we should record this!”
Moz nodded, but Pearl just laughed. “Guys, I’ve been recording the whole time.” She pointed at the computer screen.
“Really?” Moz skidded us to a halt. “You didn’t say anything about that.”
I eyeballed him to calm down. The Mosquito is always afraid that someone’s going to steal our riffs.
Pearl just shrugged. “Sometimes people choke when you press the red button. So I just keep my hard disk spinning. Here, listen.”
She fiddled with her mouse, popping in and out of the last two hours, little snatches of us, like we’d already been turned into cell-phone ringtones. In a few seconds, she pinned down the one-minute stretch where the New Big Riff had somehow flipped inside out and become perfect.
We all sat there, listening. Moz’s and my mouths were open.
We’d finally nailed it. After six years . . .
“Still needs a B section,” Pearl said. “And drums. We should get a drummer.”
“And a bass player,” I said.
She looked at me. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Moz said. “What kind of band doesn’t have a bass?”
She shrugged. “What kind of band has only two guitarists? One thing at a time. You guys know any drummers?”
Moz shrugged.
“Yeah, they’re hard to find,” Pearl said, shaking her head. “The System had a couple of
percussionists
but no real drummer. That’s part of why we sucked. But I know a few from school.” She shrugged.
percussionists
but no real drummer. That’s part of why we sucked. But I know a few from school.” She shrugged.
“I know this girl,” I said. “She’s great.”
Moz looked at me, all buzzy again. “You do? You never told me about any drummer.”
“You never told me we were looking for one.” I shrugged. “Besides, I don’t really know her, just seen her play. She’s fawesome.”
“Probably not available, then,” Pearl said, shaking her head. “There’s never enough drummers to go around.”
“Um, I think she might be available,” I said. What I didn’t mention was that she didn’t exactly have real drums and that I’d never seen her playing with a band, only in Times Square, asking for spare change. Or that she might also be sort of homeless, as far as I could tell. Unless she
really
liked playing in Times Square and wearing the same army jacket and pair of jeans every day.
really
liked playing in Times Square and wearing the same army jacket and pair of jeans every day.
Totally fool drummer, though.
“Talk to her,” Pearl said. She shot a mean look at the egg-carton-covered door to her room. “Listen, I think my mom’s home, so maybe we should quit. But next time, we’ll write a B section for the Big Riff. Maybe some words. Either of you guys sing?”
We looked at each other. Moz can sing, but he wouldn’t admit to it out loud. And he’s too genius a guitarist to waste in front of a mike.
“Well,” Pearl said. “I know this really lateral singer who’s free right now, sort of. And in the meantime, you can talk to your drummer.”
I smiled, nodding. I liked how in a hurry this girl was, how she was motivating us. And she looked pretty hot doing it, all focused and in charge. Six years of jamming, and all of a sudden it felt like a real band was falling into place. I was looking at the posters on Pearl’s wall, already thinking of album covers.
“Drums? In here?” Moz said.
My gaze swept across all the amps, cables, and synths. There was about enough room for us, all this crap, and
maybe
someone playing bongos. No way could a whole drum kit fit in here, even if they weren’t exactly drums. And with egg cartons jammed into the windows, the place was already reeking of rehearsal sweat. I could imagine what a hardworking drummer would do to that equation.
maybe
someone playing bongos. No way could a whole drum kit fit in here, even if they weren’t exactly drums. And with egg cartons jammed into the windows, the place was already reeking of rehearsal sweat. I could imagine what a hardworking drummer would do to that equation.
That was another reason I’d never bothered to mention her to Moz before. Drummers are way too big and loud for bedrooms.
“I know a place where we can practice,” Pearl said. “It’s pretty cheap.”
Moz and I looked at each other. We’d never paid to rehearse before. But Pearl didn’t notice. I guessed she’d shelled out money to rehearse in lots of places. I just hoped she was paying for this one too. I had some money from my dog-walking gig, but Moz was the tightest guy I’d ever met.
“The other thing is, before we start adding a bunch more people, we need to figure out a name for the band,” Pearl said. “And it has to be the right name. Otherwise, it’ll keep changing every time someone new jams with us.” She shook her head. “And we’ll never figure out who we are.”
“Maybe we should call ourselves the B-Sections,” I said. “That would be fawesome.”
Pearl looked at me, kind of squinting. “Fawesome? Do you keep saying
fawesome
?”
fawesome
?”
“Yeah.” I grinned at Moz. He rolled his eyes.
She thought about it for a minute, then smiled and said, “Fexcellent.”
I laughed out loud. This chick was totally fool.
5. GARBAGE
-PEARL-
“One of those boys was rather fetching.”
“Yeah, I noticed that, Mom. Thanks for pointing it out, though, in case I missed it.”
“A bit scruffy, though. And that dirge you were playing was making the china rattle all afternoon.”
“It wasn’t
all
afternoon.” I sighed, staring out the window of the limo. “Maybe two hours.”
all
afternoon.” I sighed, staring out the window of the limo. “Maybe two hours.”
Getting a ride with Mom was nine kinds of annoying. But deepest Brooklyn was such a pain by subway, and I had to see Minerva right away. Her esoterica kept saying that hearing good news helped the healing process. And my news was better than good.
“Besides, Mom, ‘that dirge’ is totally fexcellent.”
“It’s feculent?” She made a quiet scoffing sound. “Don’t you know that feculent means
foul
?”
foul
?”
I giggled, reminding myself to tell Zahler that one. Maybe we could call ourselves the Feculents. But that sounded sort of British, and we didn’t.
We sounded like the kind of band that rattled the china. The Rattlers? Too country and western. China Rattlers? Too lateral, even for me. The Good China? Nah. People would think we were from Taiwan.
“Will they be coming over again?” my mother asked in a small voice.
“Yes. They will.” I played with my window buttons, filling the limo’s backseat with little bursts of summer heat.
She sighed. “I’d hoped that we were past all this band practice.”
I let out a groan. “
Band practice
is what marching bands do, Mom. But don’t worry. We’ll be moving our gear to Sixteenth Street in a week or so. Your china will soon be safe.”
Band practice
is what marching bands do, Mom. But don’t worry. We’ll be moving our gear to Sixteenth Street in a week or so. Your china will soon be safe.”
“Oh. That place.”
I peered at her, pushing my glasses up my nose. “Yes, full of musicians. How awful.”
“They look more like drug addicts.” She shivered a little, which made her icicles tinkle. Mom was all blinged out for some fund-raiser at the Brooklyn Museum, wearing cocktail black and too much makeup. Her being dressed up like that always creeps me out, like we’re headed to a funeral.
Of course, I was creeped out anyway—we were in Minerva’s neighborhood now. Big brooding brownstones slid past outside, all tricked out like haunted houses, turrets and iron railings and tiny windows way up high. My stomach started to flutter, and I suddenly wished it was both of us going to some dress-up party, everyone drinking champagne and being clueless, and next year’s budget for the Egyptian Wing the big topic of consternation. Or, at worst, talking about the sanitation crisis, instead of staring out the window at it.
Mom detected my flutters—which she’s pretty good at—and took my hand. “How’s Minerva doing, poor thing?”
I shrugged, glad now that I’d scrounged a ride. Mom’s minor annoyances had distracted me almost the whole way. Waiting for the subway, staring down at the rats on the tracks, would’ve totally reminded me of where I was going.
“Better. She says.”
“What do the doctors say?”
I didn’t even shrug. I wasn’t allowed to tell Mom that there were no doctors anymore, just an esoterica. We stayed silent until the limo pulled up outside Minerva’s house. Night was falling by then, lights going on. The brownstone’s darkened windows made the block look like it was missing a tooth.
The street looked different, as if the last two months had sapped something from it. Garbage was piled high on the streets, the sanitation crisis much more obvious out here in Brooklyn, but I didn’t see any rats scuttling around. There seemed to be a lot of stray cats, though.
“This used to be such a nice neighborhood,” Mom said. “Do you need Elvis to collect you?”
“No. That’s okay.”
“Well, call him if you change your mind,” Mom said as the door opened. “And don’t take the train too late.”
I slipped out past Elvis, annoyance rising in me again. Mom knew I hated the subway late at night, and that Minerva’s company didn’t exactly make me want to dally.
Elvis and I traded our funny little salute, which we’ve been doing since I was nine, and we both smiled. But then he glanced up at the house, lines creasing his forehead. Something skittered in the garbage bags by our feet—stray cats or not, rats were in residence.
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