“Wait in the car!”
“Just leave it, Sammy!”
And I’m crying and he’s crying.
* * *
Of course I don’t want to go to school the next day. Because I might actually kill Skipper if I see him. But I have to. Not because of grades or the fact that I’ve got to pass this Chemistry test to pass the quarter. Because I still need to act like it’s fine. Like I’m still going to audition. Like he can’t ruin everything.
Proud moment: he side-eyes me in the hall and I just keep moving. Swimming through the hall, thinking of Portia and her perfect lips and her distant haughtiness and how I would do anything to get even the slightest smile from her. Headphones on. Hood up. I look like a total wannabe thug, but I don’t care. Or I care, but I don’t want to look like I care.
This one girl from my cooking class is all over me. We’re partnered for this omelette-making exercise. She keeps purring in my ear about the sexiness of a man who can cook. I take the compliment but it does nothing to stir my desires. I’m just getting through the day and thinking of Portia. And I make the best cheese and pepper omelette I can, because I’m sick to death of the frozen saltlicks we eat every night for dinner.
On the way home I grab a dozen eggs and some cheese and butter. I’ve got nothing to do at home without my sound gear. Samuel swore up and down and left and right that he’d work something out. Whether he does or not, he deserves a real meal before he heads to The Venetian. I might even nuke some of the ice-locked green beans from the behind the frozen meals.
He takes care of me. And I’m dead grateful.
* * *
Actually dead grateful is an understatement, because at home I drop that dozen eggs right on our front stoop because Samuel’s carrying this mixer. Brand new. Top of the line. He’s just got this sparkling grin I haven’t seen since he fell in love sometime last year. It’s been hidden since he fell out of love. That sap.
“Ethan. Wait and see. I was gonna let you shop with me but I was just too excited.”
“Is this—?”
“Come inside!”
He practically shoves me inside the door, and, on my worktable next to my desktop machine, is a brand new keyboard, drum machine, effects pedals, a microphone. He sets the mixer down. He’s waiting for me to speak, but I can’t.
“You’d better get practicing. I’m sure these things have some new quirks you need to figure out.”
“Pretty sure these things don’t have quirks. Not like the old stuff. But, Sammy…” The words are still caught somewhere else. All I manage to ask is “The money?”
“Covered. Totally covered. Just rock the audition, baby brother.”
“I thought…”
“Right, well, yes most of my funds are…invested. In product. But it’s okay. My buddy is liquidating the assets as we speak.”
“So…”
“I just borrowed a bit of cash. Interest free. Once we’re liquid, we’ll be swimming in it.”
I can’t help the wrinkle that forms between my eyebrows. Because we have never had cash. Not really.
“You borrowed it? How?”
“Don’t worry about it! Just practice!” Samuel’s giddy. Giddy.
“I’m not practicing until you tell me where you got the money.”
“I know a guy.”
“Super shady. Who?”
“You know that hardcore punk club a few blocks over?”
No. He has to be joking. Not only do I despise punk in all of it’s loud, off-key, screw-you-real-music sort of way, I know which club he’s talking about. And I hate HATE the owner, Shark. He’s lecherous and loud, cocky and aggressive. He’s always high, on the really, really hard stuff. He’s a sadist piercer/tattooer who gets off on performing extreme body modifications on just barely-willing participants. He’s punk scum and he belongs in some sort of pond, feeding on the bottom. The guy takes advantage of everyone. He gets what he wants. Period.
“Yeah,” Samuel continues, “Shark’s not such a bad guy after all. He said he would love for a kid from our neighborhood to make it big on the music scene.”
I scoff. “What does he know about real music? Did you sell your soul, or what?”
“Nothing like that.”
“No. You did. It’s the only way that tightwad would part with some of his filthy money.”
“I told you, he loaned it to me interest-free. Don’t worry about it. Once the product has been distributed, I’ll pay him back.”
“I don’t get the catch. What’s the catch, Sammy?”
Samuel just shakes his head. It must be bad.
“Return it. I don’t need it. I can just borrow Rocko’s equipment. Or Cherry’s. I’ll figure out something.”
“And then what if you get the gig? I mean, I don’t say this lightly: you’re the most amazing DJ I’ve ever heard. You’re gonna get the gig. You’re gonna need this stuff. And then, if you want, you can pay me back because you’ll be rolling in it.”
“How do you know I’m so good? You’re tone deaf.”
“Whatever. I know you get every last person on their feet. The amount of tail your ugly mug gets, you must be some sort of artistic genius.”
“Very funny. I’ll get the gig. I have to.” Consider my resolve hardened.
“Good. Get practicing.”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t be an idiot. It’s fine. I can handle Shark’s loan. It’s all good. Please. Please. I don’t ask you for much. I gotta find something to eat. Practice. I demand it as your legal guardian and best friend.”
And maybe I shouldn’t, but it’s all right there: the best equipment I’ve ever laid eyes on. And if I’m gonna get up to speed I need to get all my samples in order.
When I sit at the desk, Samuel grins. I grab the lone piece of equipment that survived the assault: my much beloved headphones. Once they’re on, I can feel Samuel hovering. He punches me affectionately. I give him the finger. Eff off. Seriously. I have work to do.
* * *
I have never been so glad to hear one of Skipper’s sets in my life. It’s the audition and he is flailing musically and literally. If I wasn’t an expert musician and could hear his flubs, it wouldn’t matter, they’re written all over his face. His head jerks up and his hands fly pointlessly.
“Thanks!” Portia’s husky voice booms into the mic she’s holding. She’s in her balcony above the dance floor, for once not surrounded by bouncers and eligible bachelors.
“Thank you,” Skipper says. He tries to save face and look cool and collected, but he really fouled up. And I am so effing pleased.
“BassBuzz!” She said next. That’s my DJ name. I want to change it. It’s not reflective of my music now. It’s leftover from when I habitually blew out speakers because of over-emphasizing the bass. It totally lacked subtlety.
The sound crew helps me set up my gear and I focus on calming the nervous tremor in my fingers. I need these fingers to cooperate. The crew did a good job, everything’s in order. There’s no excuse for my delay, so I flip on the beat and work the distortion. I loop a sample and slip one of the headphones on. And then I’m there, in the beating pulse of the song. Floating in a river and jamming on the keyboard adding loops, adding dissonance that never quite resolves but drives the music onward. I can’t even look at Portia, even though I know her face doesn’t lie. It’s a good sign when I wind this one down and pick up the beat to a frenetic dance rhythm. A whole new song, but she doesn’t stop me.
* * *
Portia hasn’t told me I got the gig. But I would have to think being invited to her palatial penthouse is a pretty good sign. An even better sign when she takes my hand and pulls me up to her bedroom loft. I thought my heart was pounding before the audition, but it’s got nothing on the slamming against my ribs that it’s doing now.
The first floor of the penthouse was all golds and browns and cream, sparkly, meticulous and arid. But Portia’s room is like stepping onto another planet. I scan the
room, completely at a loss for words. It’s surprisingly masculine for such a fragile-looking princess. She’s so primped and up on the pedestal of four-inch heels. The furniture is opposite, heavy, weighted, large rivets and upholstery tacks, reclaimed wood, cogs and gears, warm incandescents in iron wire cages. So many bells and whistles and…sound equipment.
“What do you think?’ she asks. For a second I think she looks a bit nervous at me seeing her sanctum.
What I think is that this feels intensely intimate. What I think is about how many guys and girls she’s brought up here and for what purpose. What I think is that she’s beautiful. What I think is that she has the most amazing equipment I’ve seen, and I’m including the stuff Samuel scored me.
“Do you mix? Or do you bring all your DJs up here?” I ask, hoping it comes off as flirtation and not insecurity. If she mixes, herself, what does she need with DJs?
Portia kicks off her shoes, sighs, and sits on her bed. “I dabble. My first love is singing.”
“No kidding. I’ve never caught your sets.” She’s never performed. I would have known if she had, but I don’t want to admit that.
“My father totally forbids it. He says he’d strip me of my duties at the club if I ever disobeyed him. And since the club and its music are basically my life…”
We have that in common. “Why won’t he let you?”
“He says it’s unrefined. He wants me silent and beautiful. Like the club’s figurehead. In his mind, being a singer is a pretty lowly occupation. Just a step up from prostitutes really.”
“I know some prostitutes who would welcome that comparison.”
“You know prostitutes?” she asks, one eyebrow creeping up.
Rats. I’m blushing. “Nah. Not, you know, biblically or anything.”
“I’m teasing,” Portia says. “I mean, despite my dad’s best intentions, people still think I’m like some musical slut. I know the rumors.”
“Rumors?” I ask. Super lamely.
“I don’t bang every DJ we hire at Belmont. I’m sort of okay with the rumors because it seems to cast quite a wide net. And I love talent. And you, BassBuzz, are talented.”
I shake my head and laugh. “It’s Ethan. I came up with that handle when I was just a mite.” The next bit just falls out of my mouth: “So why am I up here with you?”
“You’re free to go.” Suddenly she’s all ice. “I thought maybe you’d listen to something for me.”
“I’d love to.”
Just like that she thaws, and again looks a little nervous. She hops off her bed and pulls the chair out from the desk. I sit and accept her headphones, which are easily worth a couple grand. It’s a sickness, pricing all the equipment I see, wondering about the monthly cost of living in this place, wondering how often she drinks that champagne that costs more than Sammy’s house.
But these thoughts come to a halt when she spins up the hard drive on her sleek laptop and I’m there. The music’s simple. Nothing virtuosic or innovative. But a compelling beat and lyrical musical lines.
Then. The singing. I try to keep my face neutral. But it’s like hearing an angel. I must give it away because Portia looks desperate for approval. I point to her in a question. Is that you? And she nods.
Kill me now, I just fell even more in love with this girl I don’t know hardly at all.
The song ends. And, hang it all, my carefully controlled mug just splits into what has to be the goofiest grin ever. Portia’s lips press together in a lame attempt to hide how relieved and thrilled she is that I obviously loved it.
Headphones off.
“So…” she asks.
“Beautiful.” You. The voice. The fact that I’m here with you.
“Yeah?”
“Amazing. I’d love to play around with this… Is that too forward?”
“No. Not at all. I was hoping you would.” She looks at me expectantly. And she’s standing so close, I can smell her perfume, and occasionally her leg brushes against mine. I try not to think about kissing her. So I dive right into the music. I plug my headset in and pass her hers. She pulls up another chair.
Now her leg is flush against mine, so I turn up the volume. Do not foul this up, Ethan. Do not kiss the beautiful girl.
I add complexities and layers. I trip up the beat in my signature style. I loop this gorgeous line of humming and add a harmony or two. Small tweaks really. It’s still her song. She keeps nodding. And when we get to this one spot, she reaches out and grabs my hand. Because this song is pure magic.
When I remove my headphones, I’m embarrassed at how hard I’m breathing. But she is also.
“I can’t….” She shakes her head as she takes off the headphones.
I can’t help but laugh. “And that means what exactly?”
“You’re incredible.”
“Back atcha. Does this mean I got the gig?” I ask, surprised at my boldness.
“Didn’t I say? You’ve had the gig. Saturday night prime time slot is all yours. No, this is more…do you think you could help me with my own music? I mean, I have to make a big splash. I get one shot at impressing people enough to have a chance at a career before my dad decides to cut me off.”
“Of course I’ll help you. Your voice needs to be out there.”
She smiles. And asks formally, “So would you mix some stuff for me? I mean, I think possibly we’d be a good team. It would mean a lot to me.”
Awkward. This conversation is so stilted and weird, but I’m bleeding happy.
“Absolutely. I would be honored. I think you’re…transcendent.” And I just raised the awkward ante.
But apparently awkward works because before I can process it, she’s leaning forward to kiss me. Maybe it was meant to be a peck on the cheek, but I go for it and (again, awkwardly) kiss her on the lips. But it must not be a misstep, because she kisses me back and pulls me toward the bed and…
FADE TO BLACK
* * *
Mixing the first night. It’s like all those heavyweight planets aligned. She was there. Sammy took the night off with his stud of a beau and the two of them couldn’t hide their glee as they danced. Really, I’ve never seen Sammy look so at ease. Without aid of any wonderland magic. If he’s nervous about his deal with Shark, he isn’t showing it now.
Maybe this is naive of me (but, dammit, there are worse things in this jaded world to be than naive) but the way Portia looks as I spin, especially when I pipe in the vocal line I boosted from her computer, the way she looks is all stars, and I think maybe, maybe, she’s a fraction of as in love with me as I am with her.
I mix it down to the bare bones, tight snare beat, gymnastic vocal line (by my love), then a roll of high-hat into an acoustic bass line then BAM bass heartbeat. It’s the best climax I’ve ever done. And lewd jokes aside, it’s because of her. The sound of her voice, the way her hands felt on my pecs, her lips on my jaw, the whisper of skin, the curve of her calf. I’m on a higher plane.
And even though if you’d asked me last week if there was anything better than mixing for a groovy crowd, I’d certainly have argued, pluck a pheasant if I’m not looking forward to my set being done. Because I’m going to taste those lips again.
Whatever this is, it’s more than happiness.
* * *
Portia wakes before I do. She’s up for a few hours before crawling back into bed with my tired ass. I ask what she’s been up to, and she hands me these pages of lyrics, all in her expressive script. I read them and the cadence of the words is already clicking a beat in my head.
“I was just so awake,” she whispers, swirling a finger on my sternum. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Hope you don’t mind I used your voice last night.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve never been more flattered in my life. It was amazing. I couldn’t wait to get you back here.”
“Glad we’re on the same wavelength, Portia.” Saying her name like this, with her right next to me, it’s magic.
Bu
t the magic is nixed when my phone rings. Sammy. Eff off, Sammy. I’m obviously busy. So I silence it and kiss Portia, grabbing the silk rope of braid. She climbs on top of me and I groan. It’s too much. I’m going to supernova until the light inside me blinds us both.
But the phone rings again. Portia rocks her weight off of me and tosses me the phone.
I don’t even answer before I hear the panic in Sammy’s voice. “It’s gone, dude. We are so screwed. I’m so so so sorry. And Biggs is laid up in the hospital. My guy, Biggs. Totally jacked. I’m so sorry.”
Pretty sure his voice sounds like that because he’s trying not to cry. “Slow down.” I sit up and throw the covers off of me, not caring that the cool air is hitting so much bare skin. “Biggs? Who’s Biggs?”
“My dealer. I fouled this up so completely. He had everything. Everything. Every slip and pill and hit I had. What did mom used to say about eggs and baskets? Remember?”
I let out a breath. “It’s okay. We’ll sell my equipment. That should cover it, right? When’s the cash due back? We’ll get it together.”
It’s not like I asked her, but quick as a flick she’s reaching into her pocket for a tiny silver key, opening her closet, unlocking a fireproof box and showing me stacks of cash. She points to it in a question. I shake my head. No. I don’t need my wealthy girlfriend to bail me out no matter what. But the tenderness of her offer makes my chest feel pleasantly tight.
“We can’t,” Sammy says.
“Why the hell not?”
“It was due at nine this morning.”
“So hoofing what? Money is money, right? We’ll square you out. I’ll just pawn my gear and meet you at Shark’s in an hour.” I’m already pulling on my pants and my shoes and halfway out the door.
Sammy sounds so defeated and resigned. “No. Dude. It doesn’t matter. I’m going to go face the music. I mean, if I don’t show up soon, it’ll be worse. As per our agreement. Shit...I have to somehow try to give Biggs a break on his hospital bill. I can’t leave him hanging.”
Never Be Younger: A YA Anthology Page 17
