by Josh Farrar
“That was … amazing,” Crackers said. “You are really fantastic.”
“Well, thank you very much. I always try my best when meeting new—”
“You are definitely in,” I said. “Right, Jonny?”
Jonny stayed quiet about the incredible Darius. What was his problem? Was he in or out? I couldn’t keep track.
Just then, my cell phone vibrated. I pulled it out and saw that it was our landline at home. I really didn’t want to deal with X right now. Couldn’t he take care of himself for five minutes? I ignored the call.
“Right,” Jonny finally said. “But, dude, you look familiar—”
“Well, I’m glad you like it,” Darius said. “You want to play some more? I love to play!” He went back to tuning his snare drum, listening to the vibrations of each tap he made like he was hearing the distant music of aliens. Typical music dork, more concerned about his drums being in tune than about the fact that he had just blown away the band he had auditioned for. Something was definitely off about this guy. His glasses were cheap-looking, like something you could buy for two dollars at a toy store. And his bushy eyebrows looked too big and cheesy to be real. But I didn’t care. He was the best drummer I’d ever played with, by far.
“I don’t know about this guy,” Jonny whispered.
“What?” Crackers asked.
“Maybe we should talk about this privately,” Jonny said.
Darius the Hilarious got the hint. “It was wonderful playing with you guys,” he said. “I’ll just hang out in the shop for a few.”
“What’s wrong with you, Jonny? That guy was fantastic,” I said after he’d left.
“I thought he was incredible,” said Crackers.
“Well, he’s fantastic. He’s the best drummer in our school, but that’s not the point,” said Jonny.
“What is the point, then?” I asked.
“He’s not who he says he is,” Jonny said.
“He’s definitely a little weird, but we’re all weird,” Crackers said.
“That’s not what I meant—”
Just then, we heard a loud crash from the front of the store. I opened the drum room door and ran out, Crackers and Jonny right behind me. A big hulking guy with a baseball cap pulled low over his head was holding Darius up by the shirt collar. Darius’s feet were six inches above the ground.
“Put me down, man!” he said. His attacker was about ready to throw Darius against the Vintage Wall, and Don Daddio was not going to let that happen.
“Don’t even think about it, fool,” said Don, stepping between the two kids and the thirty-grand guitar display. He wagged his finger at the bigger one. “Take a deep breath and walk out the door, bud.”
The jerk then dropped Darius on the ground, where the drummer landed with a thud. His glasses and fake nose and eyebrows fell to the floor along with him. He wisely stayed put, leaning against a Fender amp.
“Darren, if you go through with this, you’re a dead man,” the big one said, then pulled off his cap and turned to face us. It was Jackson Royer, of course. And Darius the Hilarious was Darren—aka Curly Burly—the Raising Cain drummer.
“And, Jonny, we’ve already talked about this. If you become a Bungle, you’d better watch your back,” Jackson said.
He had just put a hit out on one-third, or possibly one-half, of my band.
“Oh, and Beatles Girl, you and Quackers’ll back off, too, if you know what’s good for you. Raising Cain has owned the battle for two years running, and this year will be no different.”
“Move on, Jackson,” Don said. “And unless you want to be barred from the battle, and from this store, for the rest of your natural-born life, you’d better seriously reconsider that attitude of yours. Now go.”
Jackson looked Don square in the eye for an uncomfortably long moment, took two steps backward, then slipped out the door. I swear I could feel the temperature rise a couple degrees in the store once that snake had slithered away.
“Okay, so what are you doing here?” I asked Darren. “Is this some kind of joke?”
He got up groggily, rubbing his hand on his tailbone. “No, it’s not a joke. I really want to be in the band.”
“Why?” I said. “You’re in Raising Cain.”
“I’ve been trying to get out of that band for a year,” he said. “But Jackson isn’t exactly the most approachable guy in the world when it comes to … change.”
“I can imagine,” I said. “But how long did you think it’d take for us to figure out who you actually were?”
“Those fake eyebrows were a dead giveaway,” said Crackers.
“Well, none of you guys figured it out until Jackson came in here. Except Jonny, maybe. He knew who I was all along, didn’t you, buddy?”
“Yep,” Jonny said. “Even if your little costume hadn’t been so lame, I would have recognized you by your drumming. Duh.”
“You guys know each other?” Crackers asked.
“Dude, we were bandmates. Jonny was the original lead guitarist of Raising Cain.”
“What?” I said.
“Yeah. It’s true.” Jonny shifted and glanced at his feet, looking like he couldn’t wait to get out of there.
“I thought you knew,” said Crackers. “The entire school knows that.”
“So that’s why you didn’t want to be a Bungle?” I asked. “Because you thought we’d be the kind of nightmare bandmates that Jackson was?”
“Ha, fat chance,” said Darren. “You guys are obviously nothing like Jackson.”
“He was probably worried about violent reprisal,” Crackers said.
“I’ll talk to Jackson,” Jonny said. “I think I can make him understand …”
“Good luck with that little project,” I said. “I thought you were afraid of him.”
“I’m not. I just … respect him enough to stay away from him.”
“But you were afraid to perform in public with us because of him, right?”
“Yeah, okay, I guess. But I’m done with that now. It’s time for me to get away from Jackson, and for good.” Jonny turned to Darren. “But, Darren, you’re still in it, all the way. Jackson’s not going to just let you leave Raising Cain. You realize that’d be like a declaration of war, don’t you?”
“First things first,” Darren said. “In an ideal world, with no Raising Cain, no Jackson Royer, would you want me to play drums in your band?”
“Yes,” Crackers said.
“It depends,” I said. “You remember the first day of school, when you told me The Beatles were lame and that I wasn’t allowed to make eye contact with you?”
“Um, yeah. I’m sorry about that,” Darren said.
“Because if you’re going to be in this band, we’re going to have to look each other in the eye once in a while.”
“Agreed,” he said. “That’s not really me anyway. That’s just an act I put on for Jackson. But it’s over now. I’ll deal with him.”
“There’s still the matter of your beating up all the most helpless kids in the school,” Crackers said. Go, Crackers!
“That’s over and done with,” Darren said. “I promise.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I said.
“Listen, I’ll make it up to them. I’ve already been skimming off the top to give as much money back to those kids as possible.”
“Tell that to Bumblebee Shoes,” I said.
“Who?” said Jonny and Crackers.
“She means Angelo. Angelo Martsch,” Darren said.
“Darren, where does all the money go anyway? If you’re ripping off like half the fifth grade every single day, it must add up to a lot every week,” I said.
“At least a hundred a week, sometimes two,” Darren said. “We bought all our equipment with that money.”
“And after that? What about all the cash since then?” I asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” Darren said. “Jackson never lets me keep more than ten bucks a week, max. I have a fe
eling most of it goes to his older brother.”
“Yeah, and he’s even meaner than Jackson. I think he actually makes Jackson do all this, like as some sort of test,” said Jonny.
“That’s just an excuse,” said Darren. “I’m out. I’m out of Raising Cain. And I’m in … The Bungles?”
“Yeah!” said Crackers and I.
Jonny was silent, but he wore a faint smile.
“You cool, Jonny?” I asked.
“Yep, I’m cool. Welcome to the band, Darren.” He put his hand on Darren’s shoulder.
And that was it. The Bungles were complete.
Rock stars need bands. And I finally had a band again.
HALF-PIPE
As I walked back home, I replayed all the events of the last hour in my head. We had a drummer! And our drummer was not a doofus genius who had come out of nowhere. He was the same evil freak who had bullied little kids out of lunch money and tried to intimidate me on the first day of school. But he was trying to turn a corner, change himself, and get away from all the bad forces in his life. Could someone make a change like that overnight, though? Could Darren Miller be trusted?
And just as mind-blowingly, I remembered that Jonny had been a member of Raising Cain. A founding member of Raising Cain. Unbelievable. How long had he known Jackson? I wondered. And how hard had it been for him to quit? I had seen firsthand that Jackson didn’t exactly take rejection well. That must have been why Jonny had been such a loner and so afraid of commitment: he wasn’t just afraid of playing with people again; he must have been really scared about what Jackson would do to him if he did. I remembered the first time I had seen Jackson, the way he had coolly examined the scar on Jonny’s lip. Had Jackson been the one to put it there?
The real mystery to me, though, was Jackson himself. I was starting to understand his whole junior-mobster approach, especially if it was really some freaky older brother pulling all the strings. But why was he going out of his way to scare me and our band? Raising Cain was untouchably awesome. As much of a stir as we had raised at the open mic, I still had a grip on reality and I knew we were no match for their power and tightness. Still, why else would he write that scary note to Jonny? Why else would he come all the way over to Don Daddio’s just to kick Darren’s butt? Why would he care? The thought of it made me … proud.
With all these thoughts running through my head, I was back in our neighborhood before I knew it, surrounded by the warehouse buildings that blocked out most of the late-afternoon sun. I’d left the store at about four p.m., so X had been alone for six and a half hours. How much trouble could a nine-year-old cause in six and a half hours?
When I got to our apartment door, I could tell something was wrong right away. I quickly put the key in, and the door opened on its own. It had been pulled closed without locking, which meant that X had left the apartment. And if anything had happened to him … it was my fault.
“X?” I called from the doorway. I knew there was no way he was there, but it was worth a shot. “You home?”
Of course he wasn’t, though. The questions were, where was he, was he okay, and how much trouble was he going to get me into?
I pulled out my phone, which I had turned to silent back when I thought Darius the Hilarious and Curly Burly were two distinct beings. When I saw that there were seventeen missed calls, I started to panic. Something had to be wrong. And sure enough, as soon as I turned the ringer back on, it started wailing away.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Annabelle, where have you been? Damn it, why haven’t you picked up your phone?” There was anger in there, for sure. Shock and disappointment, too. You might think these scolding words had come from one of my parents. But it was Shaky Jake.
“I—I turned my phone off for a while.”
“And you left your brother alone!”
“Yeah. I left him alone. Is he all right?”
“Well, he’s going to be all right, but, no, he’s very much not all right at the moment. He fell off the half-pipe.” So he had gone skating, the little punk.
“What? Is he okay?”
“He broke his wrist. In two places.”
“Where is he?”
“In the hospital. I’m on the way to pick you up. Be outside in two minutes.”
“Okay.”
“Annabelle, I’m really disappointed in you.” Click.
Ouch. You’d have thought I had personally thrown X off that half-pipe.
On the way to the hospital, Jake didn’t say a word and wouldn’t so much as look at me. I wanted to yell, Wait! You have never given me the silent treatment and you’re not allowed to start now! You’re supposed to take my side, no matter what! But Jake’s unsmiling face made it clear that he didn’t want to hear a peep out of me.
We entered the hospital, where sad, lonely-looking people sat in the waiting room. The sickly light from the fluorescent bulbs above them made their skin look green. Jake pointed me toward X’s room, where he said my parents were waiting, and took a detour to the bathroom. I jogged the rest of the way. When I reached the room, I saw X in a massive cast, elevated by a couple of pillows and fast asleep. He looked so sweet and peaceful resting there, and for the first time I realized what I’d done. I’d been so wrapped up in my band, getting a drummer, getting everything I wanted, that I’d forgotten I was still an older sister. I’d forgotten what that meant.
My parents were both there, but they hadn’t seen me yet and were in the middle of a tense whispering match.
“I don’t know what to do,” my dad said. “But I’m leaning toward grounding her till she’s sixteen.”
“But she’s not sixteen, that’s the point,” my mom said. “We’ve put way too much on her shoulders.”
“We asked her to sit on her butt at home for a few hours and take care of her little brother,” Dad said. “That doesn’t seem like too much to ask.”
“It is when we’ve asked her to do it five weekends in a row.”
“Five weekends in a row? Really? You’ve been counting?”
“She’s been counting, and she’s been counting correctly.”
“Maybe we should send her back with my mother, like we discussed. She obviously isn’t adjusting to this move.”
“I think we’re the ones who aren’t adjusting to the move. Things have to change. Less time on music, more on the kids. It’s as simple as that.”
“But I’m not getting enough writing time in as it is. I don’t want to lose the little time I do have.”
“I’m tired of having to be the one to take care of him all the time!” I said. I really surprised the heck out of both of them. I raised my voice, though I made sure I wasn’t loud enough to wake up X. “I’m his sister, not his mother. You guys are supposed to be the parents!”
“Well, Belle, we’re not like other families,” my dad said back. “We all have to chip in to make it work.”
“But you never chip in, Dad!”
“Sure I do. Don’t I?” He looked up at my mom, but she wouldn’t look back at him.
Dad grabbed a corner of X’s blanket tightly in his right hand and stared at the wall. At first I thought, insanely, that he had gotten an idea for a new song or a new guitar sound or something; he had that same look, like he was searching for something out in the distance. Then, though, he let go of the blanket, slumped in his chair, and said, “Maybe you’re right … Maybe you’re right.” He looked totally defeated.
Then Mom stepped toward me. “I’m just glad you’re okay, Belle. You really scared us today.”
My plan was to be home way before their gig ended; I hadn’t realized they might be worried about me, too.
“Sorry, Mom.”
“It’s okay,” she said, wrapping me up in a hug.
“So you’re letting her off the hook, just like that?” my dad said.
“Nick, stop it,” said my mom.
“Can I say hi to X?” I asked.
“Sure. Just don’t wake him up.” By now, my
brother’s contented snoring had filled the room.
“Does it hurt?” I asked my mom.
“He’s on enough painkillers to beach a whale,” my dad said.
I approached the bed, took X’s hand lightly, trying not to disturb him. My dad was right. That kid wouldn’t have woken up if Raising Cain had been practicing in the room.
I got right next to his ear and pressed his palm up to my cheek. “X, I’m sorry,” I said. Then I whispered in his ear, covering up with my hands so my parents couldn’t hear me. “I’m sorry I screwed up. This is all my fault.”
Rock stars can be real idiots sometimes.
I GROUND MYSELF
On Sunday, I found R on IM.
EggMtnRckr: Wait, so youre saying that you stole not one but TWO band members from this Razing Kane guy?
Bassinyrface: I didnt steal anybody. They defected.
EggMtnRckr: Ok, ok, but the big bad bully dude is going to kill you. You are messing up Rule Number One for him!
Bassinyrface: Meh. we shall see. i think the tide is turning toward The Bungles.
EggMtnRckr: all right, well if you want me to come
up there and kick some butt i will book me a Greyhound ticket.
Bassinyrface: thanks, r. i will let you know!
EggMtnRckr: The Bungles … I’m more and more jealous of yr band name.
Bassinyrface: Awww, thanks!!! But it’s no Egg Mountain, now, is it?
EggMtnRckr: I dunno. Most people hear Egg Mtn and theyre like, wha?!?
Bassinyrface: heh. maybe.
EggMtnRckr: so how’s x? does he have a cast?
Bassinyrface: no, just a sling on his arm.
EggMtnRckr: painful?
Bassinyrface: Not anymore. He was whacked-out on painkillers for a few days, said some hilarious stuff.
