By the end of practice, I’m doing better, but still not great. I can’t even remember the last time I came out of a practice having performed so badly. I even played better when I was high.
My hands are shaking again, and I hope no one notices.
Jenna pulls her stool over to sit next to me. “What do you think?”
I grumble under my breath. “I think I have a lot of work to do.”
She smiles, and I don’t love the hint of pity I see in it. “You’re a brilliant cellist. But this is a lot of new material really fast.”
It’s not the material. I can play the music. “I guess I underestimated how different it would be to play with a band. Orchestras are more . . . organized. I have to get used to not being conducted.”
“I don’t know,” Jenna says. “We could make Alec wear tails and stand in front of us and wave his arms.”
Alec ignores this suggestion. “You did fine,” he says to me. “It’s not as bad as you think.”
I’ve been told that a million times in my life. I’m not any more inclined to believe it now. “Thanks.”
Jenna looks down at Ty and gasps, seizing his iPad so fast I’m afraid he’s been watching snuff porn right at my feet.
“No!” she says. “That’s 4-18. My turn.”
“You said I couldn’t beat 4-18. I was just going to try a few birds.”
Jenna clutches the iPad like it’s her precious and sits down next to me.
“You’re on my bow,” I say, and I put my hand on her shoulder to move her over.
When she moves, I don’t want to let go.
“Good to have you with us, man,” Leo says. He lifts his bare foot onto one of the amps and fishes something out from between his toes.
Roxie makes a face. “Tell me you’re not going barefoot on stage.” She appeals to Alec. “Tell him he can’t do that. I don’t care about his acoustics.”
“I care about his sound,” Jenna says. “But I’m not sure the bare feet actually improve it.”
“All band members will continue to wear shoes,” Alec says. “All in favor?”
Everyone’s hand goes up but mine, not because I oppose footwear, but because I’m not getting in the middle of this. Though I do reluctantly remember to move my hand off Jenna’s shoulder. Not that she protested it being there.
Even Leo votes yes.
“There we go,” Alec says. “No longer an issue.”
Roxie looks at Leo suspiciously. “You want to wear shoes?”
“Heck, yes,” Leo says. “I just got the tracking number for my alligator boots. I shot the gator myself, and now the boots are all ready, right in time for the show.”
Roxie’s eyes bug so large she’s practically an anime character. “You’re going to wear alligator boots on stage? What if PETA shows up? We’ll get paint thrown on us.”
“Roxie, baby,” Leo says, “you wear enough leather to have killed a whole ranch by now. I think if PETA were coming after us, they’d already be here.”
“Ha! 4-18! Reigning Rollins champion.” Jenna hands her iPad back to Ty and then turns to Roxie. “Leo will be wearing long pants,” she says. “No one will even notice the boots.”
“True,” Leo says. “My matching alligator vest, on the other hand—”
Roxie makes a sound that’s a cross between a roar and a groan, and Leo grins. Roxie looks at Alec, presumably hoping he’ll object to the vest, but Alec just shrugs. “No one goes barefoot, you use the cream, and Leo shuts up about your foot fungus. Problems solved. Leo can wear his vest as long as Allison approves it.”
“Allison is our costumer,” Jenna tells me. “We’ll want to run your outfit by her, as well. Do you know what you want to wear?”
“I wear what I’m told. Allison can have free rein.”
“I wouldn’t give her that much freedom,” Jenna says. “She’ll turn you into David Bowie.”
I must look afraid, because Jenna laughs. “We’ll give her some guidance. Something like your normal look would be good. T-shirt and jeans—nice ones, like the ones you’re wearing. Maybe a little tighter, with some nice black boots.”
“Tighter?” I give Jenna a look. A small smile plays across her lips.
And then I notice Alec glaring at us.
Right. Whatever we are to each other in private, we’re not supposed to be doing that in front of anyone else.
I clear my throat. “If that’s what you want.”
Jenna’s eyes flash, and I see her bite back a comment about what exactly she wants.
It’s mutual.
I fish for a change of subject, and remember what I promised to Gabby. “Hey, by the way,” I say, “my sister’s best friend is getting married in a couple weeks. Her friend is an actress on that soap, Southern Heat? And her fiancé is this big deal Hollywood agent. Anyway, my sister was wondering if we’d play the wedding, like, as a maid of honor gift. I know it’s kind of last-minute and you guys probably don’t play small stuff like that, but it’s going to be this huge thing with lots of people from the industry. I mean, the wrong industry, right? But still it might be good for—”
I stop talking when I realize I’m rambling and everyone else is staring.
“Did you rehearse all of that?” Jenna asks with a grin. “Because you’re in the band. You can just say, hey, can we play this wedding, and we would say, yeah, if we’re in town, why not?”
“Except Alec,” Leo says. “Alec will want to know what’s in it for him.”
“Hollywood connections,” Roxie says. “What do you say, Alec?”
Alec shrugs. “Sure. It’s before we leave on tour?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Between the LA concert and when we fly out.”
Alec points to a calendar on the wall. “Write it down.” I grab a marker and while I start writing, I notice that three weeks ago, they played an event someone wrote down as “Roxie’s mom’s garden party.”
Okay, yeah. I may have oversold.
“My sister,” I say, “is going to die.”
“I hope not,” Leo says. “We don’t do funerals.”
Everyone digs in to Jenna’s pie again, and I eat mine right out of the tin. It’s apple, and straight-up delicious, but it isn’t warm. Jenna smiles at me, and I wonder if that joke is intentional.
I’m pretty sure it is.
“How is it?” she asks.
“The best,” I say. I hope she gets that I’m talking about more than just the pie.
When everyone packs up to leave, I wave for Jenna to hold up. Ty is already outside bouncing up and down, but Jenna calls for him to wait a second. She turns to me.
I pull a phone out of my pocket. “My sister pointed out that I probably shouldn’t be texting you much on your regular phone. So I got you a burner.”
Jenna looks delighted. “Do you have one, too?”
I pull out a second, identical phone. “My number’s already in there.”
Jenna grins. “So I can call you anytime.”
“Day or night,” I say, and her eyes dance.
We both look away, and I’m pretty sure she’s thinking exactly what I’m thinking.
“Call me tonight?” I ask.
She gives me a smile that makes me want to pull her in my arms and kiss her right there. It’s a good thing I have all that practice not doing drugs, because I manage to stay still. If I don’t move, I can’t kiss her.
But god, I want her.
“Absolutely,” she says. And then she floats up the stairs, and is gone.
Ten
Felix
Jenna calls around ten o’clock, after my dad has already gone to bed, but before I stop hearing the moaning from his porn. I’m thinking of buying him some headphones for his birthday.
“Hey,” I say. I settle into the pull-out couch. It’s
a piece of furniture Dad clearly bought for looks over comfort—the mattress is way too thin and the metal bar jams into my back while I sleep. But considering he fronted three stints of rehab and still offered me a place to stay, I’m not inclined to complain about his furniture choices.
“Hey, yourself,” she says back. “Just so you know, at some point in this conversation, I may need to shout, we’ve been had! and flush the phone down the toilet.”
I smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. Especially while I worry that Alec is listening to our every word through the door.”
“I can put you on speaker. You could ask him yourself.”
An intense wave of jealousy rushes over me. I don’t want it to—it won’t help anything—but it tears me up that he gets to be there with her and I don’t.
“I’m kidding,” Jenna says. “He and Ty are both in bed, so I’m hiding out downstairs. The steps creak, so I’ll have plenty of warning if one of them is coming.”
I bite back a comment about the warning I’ll give her myself. Even though I’m pretty sure she was thinking the same thing as me back at the studio, I’m nervous as hell I’m going to mess this all up somehow.
Things are complicated enough as it is.
“So,” she says. “What did you think about practice?”
I groan. “I thought I sucked.”
“You didn’t. You’re a brilliant musician. We just need to practice.”
“It’s the sound, I think. I’m fine playing the songs by myself, but when I try to blend with you guys—it’s like I’m an orchestral cellist trying to play with a rock band or something.”
“Yeah,” Jenna says. “There’s a shock.”
I’ve played rock songs on my cello almost all my life, but rarely with other people, and when I did, it was always other classical musicians. I close my eyes. “I hate it when I’m not perfect.”
“And are you usually?”
Yes, I want to say. And once, years ago, it was true. “You really don’t want to hear this,” I say.
“As it turns out, I want to hear everything about you,” she says. And while there’s a hint of teasing in her voice, I can tell she means it.
My heart flutters. I can’t argue with that.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve never auditioned for a part I didn’t get.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Everybody warned me about it when I went off to Juilliard. I had to fail sometime, you know? Things would be a lot more competitive in New York. And they were.”
“But you were still the best.”
“No,” I say. “But I never auditioned for anything I wasn’t confident I could get. I would practice for hours and hours, stuff I knew, stuff I could do in my sleep. And not just at Juilliard. Before that, too. Because I had to be the best.”
“Did you do that for your audition with us?”
“No. It was different. You asked for music that I loved.”
“Ah,” she says. “So you’re not a fan of classical? Because that’s odd, for a cellist. Even Mason started in orchestra.”
“I didn’t say that. The third piece I played for you—the Shostakovich? That was classical.”
“I thought it was, but I didn’t recognize it.” She pauses. “To be fair, I didn’t recognize the first song, either.”
“The Meat Puppets,” I say. “‘Head.’”
“Right. That.”
“At least you got ‘Under the Bridge.’”
She makes a little sound like a verbal wince. “It sounded familiar.”
I bury myself under the crocheted afghan on Dad’s couch. “You’re a pop star. You cannot tell me you don’t listen to music.”
“I do,” she says. “I just don’t like classical. And I don’t know the Meat Puppets.”
I pull the blanket up over my head and pretend I’m mortally wounded. If Dad hears my death throes, he’ll probably just assume I’m doing the same thing he is.
“Um, Felix?” Jenna says. “Did I just murder you?”
“Close. But I might pull through.”
“Because I don’t like classical? Or classic rock?”
“Yep.” I make my voice sound hoarse. “That was the death blow.”
“Oh, shut up,” she says with a laugh.
I drop the act. “The Meat Puppets, for your edification, played with Kurt Cobain for his MTV Unplugged in New York album. He sang their song ‘Plateau,’ which should be required listening for anyone with a career in music. Probably a career at all.”
“Wow, you’re serious about this.”
I’m aware I’m ranting, and probably giving her serious second thoughts about ever having kissed me. But I can’t stop. “And if you don’t like classical, it’s because you haven’t heard enough of it.”
“Maybe,” Jenna says.
“You sound doubtful. No, you sound like a mom, like, maybe we’ll buy candy while we’re at the store, but really you’re just hoping they forget.”
“I am that mom.”
“Well, I’m not going to forget.”
“Neither does Ty,” she says. “Classical music is just—it’s like those books I had to read in high school.”
“Okay, sure, some of them. But didn’t you read even one book in high school you liked?”
Jenna pauses.
I’m incredulous. “I can name several offhand, the top of the list being Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried.”
“I didn’t read that,” Jenna says. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever actually read any of the books I was supposed to read in high school. I wasn’t exactly a model student.”
I make another noise like I’ve just been murdered. “You are comparing classical music, my first love, to books you didn’t read in high school? That’s it. Challenge accepted. I’m going to teach you to love it.”
“Yeah, all right,” Jenna says, probably mostly to appease me. “I’m sure I could learn to appreciate it.”
I groan again. “People say that about music they think they ought to like but don’t. You’re not supposed to appreciate music. When you love it, it appreciates you.”
Jenna laughs. “That sounded like it was supposed to be deep. But I don’t think it made sense.”
“Yeah, well,” I say. “I’m the guy who suggested that we should have emotional intimacy instead of sex, so you get what you paid for.”
“Ha, yes,” Jenna says. “And what does that make us again? We’re not dating. We’re emotional . . . intimators?”
I laugh. “That has an interesting ring to it.” Then the words settle in my mind, the words for what I hope we are, and I can barely breathe.
“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” she says.
She’s right. It’s a heavy quiet. One pressed down with things I’m afraid to say, afraid to even think. I change the subject. “So are you worried I’m going to mess up the performance?”
“No,” she says. “Are you?”
“I’m nervous. That’s also new.”
“You never get nervous before a performance?”
“I never used to,” I say. “I’m a cocky bastard. What can I say?”
“Yes, well. I noticed that.”
“The scariest gig I’ve ever had is the first day I played the street. In a concert hall, you know what’s expected of you. The culture is rigid. Everyone knows exactly when to clap, when to bow, when to stand, when to sit. People are there because they’ve bought tickets and they want to hear you play, excellently, exactly what’s in the program. It’s all very . . . structured.”
“Okay, yeah,” Jenna says. “More so than our concerts, even.”
“Definitely. On the street, people are there for a lot of reasons, but you can bet it isn’t to listen to you. You’re hoping to give them something they aren’t expecting, something that
makes them want to give back to you. But I had no idea if anyone would pay me to play, and even less idea of whose territory I might be stepping on, which norms I might be breaking.”
“Why’d you do it?”
I hesitate. I want to tell her the truth, not just what I want to believe is true.
“Because I did the structured, good, and expected things until I was nineteen years old. And it took me places I never want to be again.” I pause. “And because when I stopped, everything got scary, so what was one more thing, you know?”
“And look where it got you,” Jenna says.
I smile. “Feels pretty good. But it’d be a lot better if you were here.” I feel that deep ache again of wanting to hold her close to me—to be back at that Ramada with her tucked under my arm, her head on my shoulder and her body pressed alongside mine.
“Crashing with your family.”
I laugh. “Okay, less that. But hiding out on your couch hoping Alec and your kid don’t catch us doesn’t seem like a picnic either.”
“Maybe not,” she says. “Though Ty would be happy I’m talking to you. He likes you.”
“And I like him,” I say. She’s quiet for a moment, and I wonder if that was the wrong thing to say. I don’t want to insert myself into her life in ways I’m not welcome. “Does that bother you?”
“No,” she says quickly. “I guess I’m just nervous about giving him false expectations. With things being so . . . uncertain.”
“That’s fair. Do you want me to discourage him? I don’t like the idea of ignoring him, but I could if you—”
“No, nothing like that. I’m just overprotective, I guess. He and Mason were friends. I even left Ty with him a couple of times, but then I found out later that Mason was high when he watched him. I’m pretty sure he even did drugs at our house.”
I sink down into the couch cushions. The gaping pit in my stomach is back. I want to tell her the truth, but this isn’t the moment. Besides which, I’m terrified. It seems like my opportunity to say, “Hey Jenna, by the way, I’m about five minutes out of rehab” passed me by long ago, but at the same time, I’m not sure when that could have been because it’s only been a few days.
Everything We Are Page 10
