“Thank you.” The receptionist plucked the sheet of paper out of Alex’s hands and entered the data into his computer. Without looking at us, he said, “Okay, you’re checked in. Take the elevator to the twelfth floor.”
“So, what kind of vibe are we going for when we take this picture?” I hopped in front and turned to face the guys, walking backward on our way to the elevators. I smiled wider, trying to defuse the tension. “I, for one, am partial to the jumping-in-midair shot.”
“That may be a little too cheesy.” Alex pressed the button for the elevator. “I think we should go for the brooding up-and-comer look.”
“That won’t be hard,” Bobby joked, looking at Luke out of the corner of his eye.
Luke’s scowl deepened, and by the time we were zooming up to the twelfth floor, he looked downright miserable. I hoped he could turn that frown upside down—and soon. We were about to sit for our first official interview and professional photo shoot, and I wanted us to look good for our debut.
You know—for the ladies.
That’s one of the perks of being in a rock band. You get to meet swarms of girls who are interested in your music—the most important part of you. I’d devoted countless days and weeks and hours to practicing my craft, developing my own sound so that I could raise my music to the next level. I did that because I love the bass. My instrument is a part of my body, and without it, I’d feel incomplete.
Again, I also did it for the ladies.
And there was a really cute one when we stepped off the elevator. I lunged in front of my bandmates—no sense in letting their sourpusses be the first of Sunset Curve she sees.
“It’s so good to meet you.” She held her hand out and shook vigorously, her short brown hair bobbing through the motion. “I’m Paige, Bernadette’s assistant. I’ll be stepping in for her today.”
“Oh?” Luke piped up. It was the first thing he’d said in a while. “Is she not interviewing us?”
“She can’t be here for an actual interview. That’s why she mailed you those questionnaires. Did you bring those with you?” Her eyebrows creased, as if it was self-evident that the interviewer would not be showing up to the interview. We obviously had a lot to learn about the music biz.
Alex handed her our worksheets, which we’d filled out beforehand. They were comprised of pretty basic questions like what our names were, where we were born, our favorite bands, and how long we’d been playing music. If I’d have known this was the entire basis of the interview, I would have spent more time on it instead of hastily jotting down my responses this morning. I was determined to make a deeper impression on Paige so that she could tell her boss we were something special.
And who knows? Maybe I’d get a date out of it.
She didn’t look much older than us. And she was just so pretty and nice, and I bet she was smart, too—I could tell by the way she held her clipboard that she knew her way around a textbook. I mean, girls were all sorta amazing in their own way, and let’s face it, I was kinda klutzy and slightly awkward, so I couldn’t afford to be choosy. I was an equal opportunity lover—open to any takers.
“We’re ready for you in the back. If you’ll follow me.” She extended an arm down the hallway, which was decorated in enlarged photos of the magazine’s most iconic issues. Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Counting Crows, Radiohead, Alanis Morissette—they were all there, watching us as we walked to the back studio.
“So, what did you think about our music?” I asked.
“Honestly, I haven’t quite gotten a chance to listen to it. But my boss, who sent me to fact-check this piece, she really liked your stuff. Said she couldn’t get it out of her head.” She stopped in front of the last door on the left and gestured for us to pile in.
It was a pretty large studio with a wall of windows on the other side of the room and a table of snacks behind the photographer, who had bright lighting equipment set up in front of a white screen. He looked up from adjusting his lens to give us a quick nod. I couldn’t believe all this was for us.
Especially that table filled with snacks. I crossed the room in a few long strides. My mouth watered at the spread, and I found myself wondering if we could break from the shoot before it even started. But before I could lift a sandwich to my mouth, the rest of the group joined me, deep in discussion.
“Have you been at the magazine for long?” Luke raised his eyebrow skeptically, no doubt wondering if our article was being handled by a professional.
“Oh, no. I’m technically an intern. Working here for college credit.” She gave an awkward grin but composed herself, straightening her posture and jutting her chin out. “I hope to work here once I graduate.”
“Which will be in how many years?” I rubbed my chin, trying to look casual as I tried to calculate her exact age.
“Three?” She said it more like a question than with conviction.
If she was a freshman in college, that meant that she was basically our age, which meant I had a chance. And since she was seriously cute, I planned to make my move.
“Maybe you and I could grab some coffee and talk about journalism sometime.” I leaned against the craft services table. It shifted underneath me and scooted closer to the window with a loud screech. I stumbled grabbing the table for support before finding my footing again. I donned my most winning smile to cover up my folly. “I’ve always been super interested in magazines. Why read anything else, right?”
“Right.” She gave a strained laugh. I couldn’t tell whether she thought my confession of not being a reader was cool. But I couldn’t help but tell the truth—I was an open book who didn’t like books. Her eyes gave me a once-over. “How old are you again?”
“Seventeen, but I’ve been told I’m an old soul.” I tore off a sprig of grapes and popped one into my mouth.
“Call me when you’re older.” She threw her head back, laughing heartily. She snorted at the end of her laugh, so she covered her mouth. It was cute. She stepped away and then stopped, turning to look over her shoulder. “Oh, and the food actually isn’t for you guys. It’s for the next band coming in. They’re going to be huge. But you can have a few grapes, since you already touched them.”
And with a wink, she returned to the shoot.
“I think she likes me.” I rubbed my hands together, feeling like a new man. I couldn’t say the same for the rest of the bunch. Bobby looked deflated, Alex looked checked out, and Luke looked like a sick puppy.
Geez, guys.
I cleared my throat, grabbing their attention. “May I remind you that today is the day we reach legendary status?”
“With the intern?” Alex rolled his eyes.
“Nah, man. It’s all on us.” I ran my fingers through my hair, exhaling deeply. “Come on, guys. We can’t keep clashing like this, or we’ll literally end up like The Clash—broken up and not making music. Do you want that?”
“No.” Alex shook his head quickly. “I live for this band.”
“Me too,” Bobby said, nodding slowly. “Luke, I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you to talk to your mom.”
“I’m not mad at you, Bobby.” Luke sighed. “Guess I kinda needed a kick in the pants. I’m madder at myself for not actually talking to her.”
“But you will tomorrow?” Bobby raised an eyebrow, looking skeptical and hopeful at the same time.
“I will, I promise. But right now we need to focus on us. Our band is everything to me. And I don’t want anything to come between us and crushing it on that stage tonight.” Luke uncrossed his arms and lifted his hands, his fingers twiddling in the air. “Can’t you feel the energy in the air, boys? That’s the universe telling us this is our time. I can feel it in my bones—can’t you?”
I gulped. The hair on my arms started to rise. I could feel it in my bones—this urgency of living life to the fullest right now.
“Guys?” Paige raised her voice. Our heads snapped up to find her standing next to the photographer. “We’re ready for you.”
“So, does this mean the band’s back?” I asked eagerly, drawing in the boys for a hug.
“Yes, okay! Yes.” Alex’s shoulders rumbled through a chuckle.
“Now that everyone’s in a better mood, I’d like to revisit that jumping photo idea.”
“Fine, but just one. We’re trying to look like serious artists here.” Luke grabbed my shoulders, his smile returning to his face. “And hey, thanks for bringing the bigger picture back into focus, Reg.”
Once we were in front of the camera, the process didn’t take long. Luke—thank goodness—didn’t frown in every frame. Alex’s typical charm was on full display, and Bobby’s toothy grin was more grin, less teeth. As for me—I usually find it hard to hold a pose for a long time, but this was a different situation. Paige kept looking at me from the other side of the camera, and that made me smile.
After a few more shots, it was a wrap, and the photographer’s team was already rearranging the set for a new band—probably the one who was important enough to have a snack table—before we even left the room. But that didn’t change the importance of this moment for me. I was proud—no one in my family had ever been to a photo shoot before.
My brother, Steve, was possibly even more excited to see my face featured in a magazine than I was. Not to brag, but I was sorta his role model. The truth was, though, I usually spent more time with the band than I did with him, leaving my little brother to deal with our arguing parents by himself.
Yeah, I felt guilty about that sometimes.
But soon, all that time away from Steve will have been worth it. Now I had something to show for myself—professional band photos, a magazine article, and a showcase at one of LA’s hottest venues. Finally, I felt like I was worthy of Steve’s admiration. I couldn’t wait to show him the proofs.
Get it? Show him proof?
Sometimes I crack myself up.
The rustling of papers nearby snapped my attention back to the present. I snapped my head to the edge of the craft services table, where Paige was trying to stuff more papers into her already-stuffed clipboard. Her cheeks reddened—just like mine do all the time—and I felt even more drawn to her.
I wanted to leave Paige with a parting gift, something to remember the brief but memorable time we’d spent together. I’d give her one of our band T-shirts, like I did to all of my potential love interests. So far, I’d given out a lot of shirts and—can you believe it?—received no calls back.
But when did that ever stop me?
“Guys, who brought the T-shirts?” I asked over my shoulder as I wrote my phone number on a paper napkin. The only response I got was empty stares.
I had a sinking feeling in my gut. This time, I knew it wasn’t hunger pangs.
“I think Luke was right earlier. We did forget something.” I felt a scarlet blush creep across my face. “We forgot to pick up the T-shirts to sell at the show!”
My mom gripped the railings of the steep steps up to the loft above the garage studio. When she got to the top, she heaved herself onto the landing and sat on the edge of it. Her legs dangled over the ladder.
“I haven’t been up here in ages,” she said, a little out of breath. She smiled down at me, her black curls falling around her face. She folded her legs underneath her, then heaved herself up into a standing position. “Come on up.”
I hopped up the stairs and was at the top within moments. My mom had made it look hard, but it was a piece of cake. She looked at me, her face flushed.
“Oh, to be young again,” she said wistfully.
“Mom, you are still young. Aren’t you only like fifty?” I covered my mouth, stifling a laugh. I knew my mom was younger than that, but I couldn’t help but tease her a little.
“Ouch. I’m not that old.” She gripped her chest as if she was offended, but then a smile crept across her face. She opened her arms wide, looking over her shoulder. “This is the rock-and-roll graveyard your aunt was talking about.”
“She wasn’t lying,” I mumbled as I strolled through the cluttered space. Stacks of CDs towered in a corner, toppling into a mound of folders and papers. It was hard to see where one mess ended and another began. In another corner lay an old fender and a dusty electric keyboard. It looked ancient, like it hadn’t been played in decades. “Is all this yours?”
“Goodness no.” She shook her head and knelt down to a cardboard box at her feet. “Most of this stuff was here when we bought the house. That sometimes happens when you buy a property as is. You inherit another person’s hoard.”
“Whoever lived here before really knew their music.” I riffled through handwritten sheet music strewn over a plastic card table. Most of it was finished, and from what I could read, the music was interesting. A large covered heap behind the table caught my attention. I slid the sheet covering off it, revealing a round drumhead. “Is this a complete drum set?”
Mom was a talented musician—a phenom on the piano and decent on any other instrument she picked up. But I’d never heard of her playing the drums. They looked so out of place in our studio.
“I think so.” Mom stopped rummaging and looked up. “More of the musician’s hoard.”
“Don’t tell Carlos.” I laughed. If he saw these vintage drums, he’d surely want to start taking lessons. My ears throbbed just thinking about the racket.
“It’ll be our little secret.” She stood up, holding an armful of rope and bungee cords in her hands.
“What is that for?”
“Es para nuestro proyecto. Our secret project,” she said, her mischievous smile growing.
I didn’t know what she was up to, but whatever it was, it was making her tired eyes glow with brightness. She tiptoed onto a faded rug, weaving around another pile of junk until she came to a stack of wooden chairs.
“This’ll work.” She patted the stack, sending a whirlwind of dust billowing into the air. She waved her hand in front of her face, coughing. “One of these days we gotta clean this place out.”
Oh no. I hope that’s not our fun project.
“How about never?” I smiled nervously, backing away from the clutter. I didn’t want to be stuck up here, organizing someone else’s mess. I’d lived here my whole life without ever feeling the need to come up here. We could leave this mess for another lifetime, as far as I was concerned.
Whoever had to clean out this studio would have a lot of work cut out for them.
“Let’s get these downstairs.” My mom shimmied the top chair loose from the stack, holding her head to the side to avoid the ensuing dust storm.
“Seriously, Mom.” I placed my hands on my hips and cocked my head to the side. “What are you planning on doing with ropes and old wooden chairs?”
“Do you trust me?”
“Not sure right now.” I pursed my lips, trying to look serious, but a laugh escaped my mouth. “Okay, fine. I trust you.”
“I’ll lower this first one to you. When it gets to the ground, untie the rope, and I’ll bring it back up.” She clapped her hands, rubbing them together. “Wash, then repeat.”
I lowered myself onto the ladder and hopped down the steps two at a time, using gravity to assist me. From the lower level I yelled up. “Ready!”
“Anchors away!” my mom said, holding the chair over the railing. Slowly, she lowered it down, lengthening the rope with a measured pace. “Stand back, mija. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
The chair landed with a clank on the floorboards. I did as instructed and untied the rope from it. When I gave the tether a little tug, my mom pulled the rope back up. We did five or six rounds of this—her lowering, me untying and tugging, her pulling the rope back up. When I untied the last one, my mom joined me on the ground floor, and we were surrounded by a sea of wooden chairs.
“Soooo we’re making an army of mismatched seats?” I frowned, more confused than ever. My mom had been so excited to come show me something out here. I thought the surprise was something better than throwaway furniture.
“We’re going to put these”—she said, gripping the back of one of the chairs and then tilting her head up—“up there.”
I followed her gaze to the top of the ceiling’s tall rafters. I sputtered out a laugh. “What?”
“Get it? Floating in the air, just like a chair.” She opened her mouth wide, nodding slowly as if she’d just said the punch line of a joke. When I didn’t respond, she said, “It’s from your lyrics this morning. It’s a tribute to conquering our challenges, because anything is possible.”
“That’s a stretch. Are you sure you just didn’t get the urge to do a little spring cleaning?”
“Maybe a little,” she said, wiggling her nose. She tied the rope around the first chair and held out the coiled loops. “Come on. Humor me.”
“You want me to throw it up there?” I looked at the ceiling again, which must have been twenty feet above our heads.
It took me several tries—hey, I never claimed to have a good throwing arm. But finally, we threaded the needle, tossing the rope over a wooden beam and watching it fall to the other side. Together we hoisted the chair above our heads until the chair hung flush with the ceiling.
Mom held the rope tight as she climbed the ladder again and secured it onto another rafter. Then she lumbered down and crossed the room to the couch. Grabbing a handful of pillows, she dropped them on the floor, scattering them at her feet.
“Time to gaze at our handiwork.” She lowered to the ground. Resting her head on a pillow, she gazed at the oddity. I followed her lead, claiming the pillow next to her.
“It’s kinda surreal,” I whispered, feeling like I was in Alice in Wonderland, where up was down and down was up.
“Hey, it was sort of your idea.” She turned her head, a soft smile on her lips.
“That was a line from a song. I didn’t mean it literally.”
“Well, I meant what I said.” She grabbed my arm and squeezed it gently. “You can literally make your wildest dreams come true if you try really, really hard. With a little effort, we can breathe life into the impossible.”
Whatever Happens Page 7
