by Ted Staunton
“Let me do mine first.” Denny grins and pulls out a distortion pedal. “Wait till you hear this,” he says. He plugs the Teleporter into it and hits a power chord. The sound crunches through the basement.
“Okay,” Denny says. He unfolds a paper with writing on it and lays it on his amp. “This is called ‘Got to Rock.’”
“That’s original,” I say. I fold my arms tight. My pits have gone cold where I’ve been sweating.
Denny doesn’t seem to hear. He starts chopping a rhythm so fast it’s practically punk. He sings:
Used to walk but now I run
Used to talk but now it’s sung
Used to dock—now I roam
Used to sway but now I rock
Used to groove but now I shock
Got to rock—like a rolling stone
He gets that far, and I already know it’s good. It’s way better than mine. Even though we’re all a band, I feel like I’m doomed. Halfway through, Mom sprouts magically on the stairs. When Denny finishes, she claps. Then she takes out an earplug and asks, “Is that one that you guys wrote?”
“Well, I did, actually,” Denny says. He’s grinning like a maniac. “It’s for the contest.” He tells my mom all about it.
“Wow,” says Mom. “That’s great. It’s catchy. It reminds me of…oh, I don’t know, what’s that song? What is it, Davey?”
I shrug and I say, “I’m not an Abba expert.” My mom loves Denny’s song. This does not make me overjoyed.
Denny jumps in, saying, “It sounds a little like lots of songs, probably. That’s how you can tell it’s good.”
Thank you, Mr. Modest.
“I never thought of it that way,” Mom says. “You said two songs. What’s the other?”
“Ace wrote one,” Denny says.
“Later,” I say to Mom. I start to fold up my paper.
“Oh, c’mon.” she says.
“Later.”
Mom shakes her head. “Then later it will be,” she says. “Does anyone want anything to drink?”
“A pitcher of draft, please,” Denny says.
“Dream on, Denny.” Mom laughs and heads for the stairs. “I’ll bring down some juice for all of you,” she says over her shoulder.
Sunday afternoon, Mom goes to an open house for real estate agents. I promise to do homework. She’s happy because I got a B on my math test. (Okay, it was B minus, but it still counts.)
I really do homework, because I can’t face music. I know it’s wrong, but it bugs me that Denny’s song is better than mine, even if it gives us a shot at the contest. How did the guy do it? I guess there’s no reason he couldn’t. Except that it’s Denny. That means I’m jealous. Of Denny. I never thought I’d be jealous of Denny.
Finally I ditch homework and practice my song. We do get to do two songs for the contest, and my song is better than a drum solo. I sing it again. I hate my voice. Then I have a really bad thought. Lisa is going to like Denny’s song better than mine. Oh man, Denny’s going to be all over her.
I haven’t told Denny about Lisa. I found her on Facebook and sent a friend request. I’d imagined playing my song to her in the music room and her loving it. And me. Now I don’t think I want to.
What I have to do is make my song better—except I don’t know how. How can Denny write like that when I can’t? I sing mine again. I still hate my voice.
I can’t help it; I check Denny’s Twitter feed: dr. D writes monster incoming hit 4uall sensstionel.
I can feel my teeth grind. To get my mind off it, I hunt around for some music to play to. I’ve left my mp3 player at school. Darn. There aren’t many cds around the house. Mom’s are awful.
Then I remember Chuck’s. I haven’t listened to it in a million years. I go downstairs and grab one from the box. I’m using Chuck’s gear, so he won’t mind if I listen to his album too.
The front cover says RAZORBURN: Mullet Over.
The picture shows a guy’s head and back, with a long blond mullet hanging down under a straw cowboy hat. The back of the cd shows the same guy without the hat. He is bald on top. That was Chuck for you. Liked his hats. Usually wore his hair back in a ponytail.
I peel off the shrink wrap and pop the cd in the player. The first two tunes are yawner country rock. We must have listened to this when Chuck was around, but I don’t remember these songs at all.
I play along a little. They’re boring but easy. I’m getting better at guessing what chords go together. Hey, that means I’m learning my keys. That makes me feel a little better. I skip ahead. The third tune is a horrible ballad. The fourth is more pop. It has a guitar riff that’s okay, and the intro sounds familiar. Maybe Chuck used to play it. The singer starts in:
Used to run, but now I walk
Used to sing, but now I talk
Used to dock…
Wait a minute.
Used to rock but now I sway
Used to gleam but now I fade…
It sounds very familiar. And all at once I know how Denny did it.
Chapter Eleven
It’s lunchtime on Monday before I see Denny. I’ve been stewing about the song rip-off the whole time. I don’t say anything while we eat, because other kids sit with us. Besides, Denny is blabbing a mile a minute about the video club girls. Then we all start playing Frisbee. One by one the other guys leave, and there’s only Denny and me left. I can’t take it any longer.
I’ve planned it to casually say, “I listened to Chuck’s cd yesterday,” but now I’m too mad from waiting.
What comes out is, “You stole the song.” Then I throw the Frisbee back to Denny. Hard.
“No, I didn’t,” Denny insists. “Not exactly. Ow!” He shakes his hand and throws back too high.
I jump for it and miss. I walk to get it. I’m not running for Denny. I turn around and say, “You changed the words around and sped it up. Big deal. It’s still a rip-off. And you stole one of Chuck’s cds.”
Denny laughs. “Oh, come on, Ace. I borrowed it. You can have it back.”
I throw the Frisbee back to him, harder. Now I’m almost yelling. “That’s not what matters, and you know it. No wonder your song was so good. You cheated. I really wrote a song.”
“Hey, not so loud, okay?” Denny says and looks around.
I snap, “What? Are you afraid the video girls might hear?”
“Yeah,” he says. His throw goes high again. I have to jump for it. “I’ve been hanging with them. They’re getting interested in a project.”
“Right,” I say. I throw too low.
“No, they are. Who knows what might happen?” Denny wiggles his eyebrows. He throws high again. I jump to my right and miss.
“Don’t change the subject. You copped the song. I wrote one.”
Denny sighs and says, “Look, Ace, no offence but, which one was better? Huh? I don’t mean your song sucks. There isn’t time to write a good song. The contest is next Friday.” He throws. This one I catch, even though it’s way over my head. Denny is as crappy at Frisbee as I am. I’m surprised he doesn’t have someone throwing for him. I throw back another worm burner.
“We’re going to do your song too,” Denny says.
I moan. “Aw, for—”
“My bad,” Denny says.
Denny’s throw has gone really wild this time. The Frisbee is hanging from a tree branch. We jump for it, but it’s just out of reach. We’re not supposed to climb the trees at school, but this one is easy and it’ll take a second. I start for it, but Denny scrambles up first. He reaches for the branch.
“Look, Ace,” he says from above, “we’re in this together, right? It doesn’t matter who wrote the song, as long as it’s ours, right? And we’re all working to learn how to play it, right? So we’re all kind of writing it. With Chuck. We’re getting his song heard, and we’re making it better. It’s not like we’re ripping him off for money.”
I don’t say anything.
“We don’t have to say it’s mine,” Denny says. “
It’s ours. Okay?”
I look up at Denny. He’s got his big goofy grin on his face. “We want to win, right? Video club girls, right?”
I think about winning. Forget the video club girls. I imagine Lisa thinking that I helped write the song.
I nod. Denny shakes the tree branch. The Frisbee drops into my hand like a big fat apple. I look up. Denny’s already tweeting.
Chapter Twelve
I get to be Facebook friends with Lisa. It’s stupid, but I am too chicken to ask if she wants to meet up at lunch one day. I tell myself she’s too busy anyway, that her band is probably practicing. I’ll see her at the contest.
The contest is coming up fast. We’re supposed to be practicing too, but really I am the only one who practices.
Pig is “busy.” With what? Who knows? His hair is even shorter, and now he wears aviator shades all the time. Denny, Mister Showbiz, is too busy tweeting. All he ever talks about is Alison and Jessica and the other video girls. He’s late all the time. Do they care about this, or what?
Meanwhile, I keep working on my song. I mean, how cool would it be if mine got so good that it won? Then it wouldn’t matter about Chuck’s song. I get all the duhs out of my lyrics. I decide to call it “Sleeping in the Backseat.”
I like my tune so much that I’m almost okay with playing it for Mom. I don’t want to tell her that though. Instead I strum Chuck’s guitar a bunch when she’s around, in case that gives her the idea to ask about my song.
I’m playing guitar in the kitchen on Tuesday when she comes in. She’s carrying red flowers—roses I think. She’s all cheery and fussing around, cutting the stems and putting water in a vase.
“There’s another math test next week,” I tell her. Strum, strum.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Mom says. She puts the vase on the kitchen table and starts to stick the flowers in it.
I say, “Yeah, can’t start studying till after the contest though.” Strum, strum, strum.
“Mm,” says Mom. “Is that on Friday? Oh, darn. I hope I don’t have to present an offer on a house that night.” She doesn’t sound very upset. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I play some more, running through my chord changes. “Well,” I say, “guess I should go practice…” Strum, strum.
“Okay, sweetie.” Mom kisses me on the top of the head. Then she flips open her cell phone. “Just have to check my messages, then we’ll talk about dinner.” She heads off to the living room, smiling like summer holidays started. I guess the real estate market is looking up.
I go to the basement and sing “Sleeping in the Backseat” loud enough for Mom to hear. When I finish, I hear her laughing and talking on her phone. Rats. I thought being a songwriter would make me a chick magnet, but right now not even my mom is listening.
Even worse, Denny and Pig haven’t heard my tune lately either. They don’t know how I’ve changed it. When we finally practice on Wednesday, Denny keeps messing up the new lyrics. He puts the stupid duhs back in instead.
“I’ll sing it myself,” I tell him as we pack up.
“No sweat,” Denny says. I’m surprised. Denny likes being the lead singer. He likes being lead everything. “What we really gotta decide,” Denny goes on, “is what we’re going to wear on Friday. I’m going grunge, but with style.”
I say, “Such as?”
“New Converse,” Denny says. “What are you wearing, Pig?”
Pig shrugs. He’s been unscrewing cymbals and stacking them neatly to take with us to the contest. Now he unzips his backpack and puts his drumsticks in. I have to look twice. His textbooks in there are each covered in plastic. Finally Pig says, “What I’m wearing.” He’s wearing a T-shirt that says Cleared For Takeoff. I hope we are.
“I’m going dark,” I say. I decide to go with my acid-wash jeans and the tight dark blue shirt. I think dark blue goes with bass. It’ll make me look like a serious musician. I’m not going to shave, either. You can tell now when I don’t, kind of, right on my chin. I rub my chin right now. It feels a little prickly. Or maybe it’s all of me that’s feeling prickly. Thinking about Friday is making me nervous.
Chapter Thirteen
Friday night Pig’s dad gives us a ride to the youth center. We have to haul amps and cymbals and the snare and foot pedal for the drum kit, plus the guitars. Pig’s dad doesn’t talk any more than Pig does.
“There will be beautiful women watching. I know there will be beautiful women.” Denny’s motormouth is in overdrive. He must be nervous. Plus he’s texting or tweeting or something.
Pig’s dad laughs. I say, “Yes, Den. And they’ll all be watching you.” By now my right foot is bouncing like my own rhythm section, and I’ve got elevator stomach. I’m thinking about a million things at once. Will we win? Will Lisa love my song? Will Lisa love me? Does getting a ride from someone’s dad counts as a road trip? It has to count more than moving drums on the bus.
The youth center hasn’t changed much. I used to go there to play floor hockey when I was little. The first thing I see is lots of guys in dark blue shirts. Darn. There are parents here too. Luckily, Mom has to present that offer on a house. That’s one less thing to worry about.
We haul everything into the gym. It’s set up with a low stage with mikes and stands and a drum kit that looks as if it has been attacked by gorillas. A spotlight shines down. The Twisted Hazard guys from Battle of the Bands are setting up.
My elevator stomach jumps twenty floors. We’re really going to do this.
I see more kids from Battle of the Bands, but it’s Lisa I’m looking for. Then I spot her. She’s across the gym, behind another girl and three guys. They seem to be all talking at the same time. I wave, but I don’t think she sees me. That’s okay. She’s busy. I’m busy too— busy being nervous.
We sign in at the judge’s table. We are going to be on fifth, out of ten acts. Is that good or bad? I don’t know. Denny keeps asking what time they think we’ll be on. I don’t care about that. “What number is No Shirt No Shoes No Service?” I ask.
“They’re right before you,” says a bald guy who is one of the judges.
We go to tune up. It feels good to have something to do.
Twisted Hazard kicks off. It’s hard to tell about their songs. They pretty much all sound the same, especially with earplugs in. One song is either about macaroni or mayday homey. But it’s not rap, so homey doesn’t make sense. Macaroni? Who knows. They’re loud and they rock though. I look at the judges. They’re writing stuff down. Is that good or bad?
The second band is called Death Star. They’re pure metal, sort of like Iron Maiden but dumb. One song has the word troll in it a lot, and the other is something about hammers. The judges write more stuff down. They can’t like troll songs, can they?
Third come two guys with acoustic guitars. I don’t catch their names. They play exactly the same thing and take turns singing about a magic potion. They sing so high they squeak.
I’m starting to feel better. I know “Sleeping in the Backseat” is better than these.
Now No Shirt No Shoes No Service is up. I know Lisa’s song is good. If we don’t win, I want her band to win and us to come in second.
“Let’s tune again,” Denny says. He’s looking at his watch. Then he looks all around. “Beautiful women, beautiful women,” he keeps saying. Pig is drumming the wall. He’s got his aviator shades on. How can he see anything?
“In a minute,” I say. I push forward. A guy is plugging in a keyboard. The other girl is the drummer. There’s a guy on bass, and Lisa and the other guy on acoustics. Lisa looks incredible. She’s got on soft boots and leggings and this short skirt with her jean jacket. The little green stone in her nose catches the light. She pulls the mike down to her level and looks out at the crowd in front of the stage. I hope she sees me. I don’t want to do anything dorky like wave. She looks my way, and I think she recognizes me. Just then the guitar guy counts, “Two… three…” and they start.
&nb
sp; Hey, when you see me
Don’t act so dreamy…
But Lisa’s song has gone from being a cool indie rocker to a drippy emo ballad. The power chords are gone. The drummer loses a beat. The guy on keyboard messes up a wimpy solo. The bass player uses one string, and none of the bits I showed Lisa. Lisa’s voice wobbles with the slow time.
I hang in long enough to clap at the end of the tune. Lisa doesn’t look happy. I head back to get my bass.
“They suck,” Denny says. He’s bouncing on his toes. He has his Teleporter slung on. Pig is still drumming the wall.
Denny’s right, but I don’t want to say it. “It’s a good song though,” I say.
“Ours is better,” Denny says.
“Ours are better,” I snap. “Tell me about it.” I plug my bass into the tuner as their second song begins. I may sound okay, but my fingers are shaking. Tuning seems to take forever. I slip the bass strap over my head. The patch cord is coiled in my hand. Now I hear clapping as Lisa’s band finishes. They announce that Incoming is next.
“Let’s do it,” says Denny. I follow him and Pig. I almost stumble on the one step to the stage. The amp is heavy. The lights are hot. It takes me two tries to plug in. Then I turn and look out from the stage.
I have to squint in the glare. Pig’s shades suddenly seem like a good idea. This may be the youth center, but it feels like Madison Square Gardens. There are a lot of people here. There is also a microphone right in front of me. I’d swallow but there’s nothing to swallow. My elevator stomach lurches into a free fall.
Behind me, I hear Pig setting up. He rumbles around the kit and moves something. I fumble out a couple of bass notes. Denny is messing with his distortion pedal. Now he smacks a test chord. From out front there is a buzz of voices. I look at Denny. He’s grinning like he lives on a stage. I start to feel it too. We’re a team. I want this. Maybe I’ve been waiting for this my whole life and not known it. My stomach stops before the basement. I take a deep breath and run a few more notes on my bass. Pig is still fussing. Now Denny’s waving. I look to the back, and coming in the doors are Alison and Lucy from the video club, then Jessica with a camera up in front of her. What the…?
