Cody chuckled. “More like you owe me. It’s the first thing you ever did with your life.”
The words stuck in Devin’s head as he watched them drive off toward the setting sun. He even waited until they were out of sight before heading back to the garage, fearful Cody might change his mind and come back.
When he finally did return to the ad-hoc studio, quiet, hesitant bass notes filled the air. Karston was deeper in the garage, by the hanging tools near the steel door that led to the house’s interior. He was staring down at his shaking hands as he played his cheap bass.
In the few seconds it had taken Cody and Ben to pack up and leave, Karston’s playing had grown much worse.
Devin raised his voice. “One take, right Karston? You’re in the zone?”
“Yeah,” Karston said, nodding enthusiastically.
How long can it last? Half an hour? Devin thought as he clicked the keys on his laptop. It’s simple. It’s quiet. He’s already run it three times. Then it’s just me and Cheryl.
He turned to Karston with a reassuring smile. In a week, “Face” would be burning its way through the school, then maybe the town. And his new one was even better, more real.
Despite the attack, it was turning out to be a great night.
What could possibly go wrong?
5
Hours later, the moonlight had long gone and Cheryl, her curfew approaching, was looking half asleep. Devin found his brain echoing the screech of Karston’s mother, wishing the inept bass player had never bought the bass in the first place.
“Take it nice and easy, Karston,” he said, trying really hard to keep his voice calm. “Listen to the control track. Give it a count of four…no, you know what, forget that. You just pick a beat, any beat you want, and start playing. Just play. And don’t stop. You can do it, man.”
Karston nodded. He nodded just like he’d nodded for the last ten takes he’d screwed up. But maybe, maybe even if Karston started early, or late, or in the middle, Devin could slide the track along on the laptop screen and synch it up. All he had to do was play the right notes and the right tempo. In fact, Karston didn’t even have to play the whole damn song. If he just got one verse and one chorus, Devin could cut and paste that part of the track over like text in a word processor, and use it to fill in the rest of the song.
Boom-dah-bom-dah-boom. The low sound filled the garage.
Three notes, four… Devin counted, nodding his head in time. On the fifth, Karston hesitated, then stopped completely. It would probably be faster to record the bass line one note at a time.
“I’m sorry, man,” Karston said, shaking his head.
It had been like this all night. Maybe Devin had been wrong to get Cody out of there. When they’d started, Karston was in the zone for three runs.
The zone? Ha. Who was Devin kidding? The only zone Karston was ever in was the Twilight Zone.
Devin removed his phones and tried to look at the clock on the wall without Karston realizing what he was doing. Almost eleven. Cheryl’s parents were cool about her curfew, but even they weren’t going to let her stay out all night.
“Karston, what is it? You were doing great. What’s going on with you?” Devin asked. He was trying to sound friendly, but couldn’t quite hide the anger in his voice. He even wondered, briefly, if as his patience vanished he was starting to sound more like Cody.
The bass player shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just gone. I think maybe it’s too quiet. I can like hear the houses and I’m afraid I’m waking people up.”
Aghhh! It’s too loud, it’s too quiet. And I thought Cody was the group prima donna!
“There’s no amp!” Devin said loudly. He battled his voice back down to a whisper. “It’s just in the phones! No one can hear you except you and me.”
“I know, but you know, psychologically…”
Psychologically? Now we’re talking psychological? Should he tell him? Should he just say, You know, Cody’s dying to kick you out and I’ve been protecting you. You blow this simple stupid bass line again and I’m switching sides.
Yeah, that’d give Karston the confidence he needed.
“Okay, once more. Take a breath. I’ll cut out the keyboard and the vocal. Just listen to me and Cheryl on the rhythm and drums. Got it?”
Karston nodded. Devin clicked a button, then said, “Go.”
Karston bopped his head a few times, roughly in time. Devin watched as his fingers made for the first thick string. Then all of a sudden Karston stopped, shook his head, and pulled his headphones off.
“I need a break,” Karston said. “Is there any soda left?”
A break? You haven’t laid down a single note! Devin’s mind screamed, but he said, “Yeah, in the fridge. Bring me a cherry coke. Want anything, Cheryl?”
Cheryl swiped some hair and a bit of sleep from her eyes with her fingers and shook her head. She waited until Karston disappeared into the house, then said, “I’m exhausted, Devin. Sorry, but I’ve got to get going.”
“What? But…but…”
She slid off the stool she’d been on for the last half hour. “I know, baby, I know. But this is more important for you—for all of us. Got to get the song done. We all want it out there before our next gig.”
“No. It’s not more important. Don’t I ever get to decide what’s more important?” Devin protested. He stood up and made some vague gestures of frustration with his hands. She took them in hers and steadied them.
“It’ll go faster without me here. We’ll make up for it. Promise. Kiss good-bye?”
He grabbed her, pulled her close, and pretended he was just going to give her a quick peck, but then he moved back, stared into her eyes a moment, and slowly moved back in, brushing his lips against hers, back and forth, like a feather, then pressing in.
If she hesitated, he didn’t notice. He put his arms around her waist, lifted her off the ground and even closer to him. She wrapped her legs around his thighs, making herself lighter, and gave in to his frustration for a moment or two. When they heard something shift in the kitchen on the other side of the wall, she hopped down and pulled herself away.
“No,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. It was more a plea than a command.
She laughed and pulled herself away. “No. Now, be nice to Karston.”
Devin let out a low moan. “I won’t.”
“Yes, you will. You’re a good guy. Stop pouting,” she said at the garage door. “I’m not going anywhere. Even with your weird new smile.”
He grinned at that. “Okay. Want me to drive you?”
“And do what with my car? It’s less than a mile. I’m just going to head in, watch the tape of my boyfriend playing his great new song, then go to sleep. Hey, if you want me so much, write us a song about it.”
“You got it.”
“Nothing I can’t play for my mother.”
“I’ll try. But it won’t be easy,” he said.
She smiled, waved, and walked off toward her two-seat Civic. He heard her car engine start just as Karston—wussy, lame, infuriating, date-ruining Karston—emerged from the house. Once he heard her drive off, he pressed the button on the garage door and the hum of its closing sealed them off from the night.
“Okay, Karston,” Devin said with a sigh. “Let’s try it again.”
By one thirty A.M., all the energy from the earlier, successful portion of the recording session had fled Devin. And Karston hadn’t gotten any better. If possible, he was getting worse.
Devin pulled off his headphone and rubbed his temples.
“Maybe we should try again tomorrow?” Karston said hopefully.
With another bassist.
He should just tell him, get it over with, let him run home to his evil bat shrew of a mother and get used to a life retailing at Wal-Mart, where the cash registers practically operated themselves.
You wasted all your money on that stupid bass!
A thought struck him. “Karston, wait here a
minute. I’m gonna…I’m gonna try to think a minute about what to do here.”
Karston nodded as Devin headed for the door.
He hit a few more off-notes: budda, bahh, thung.
Devin stopped in his tracks and shook his head. “No—don’t play, don’t practice. Just…just sit there a minute, will you?”
“Okay,” Karston said. Devin saw from the way his head went down that he suspected something was up. He had to tell him, and he had to tell him now. But he had an idea that might make it go down just a little easier.
He went through the door and closed it behind him, which left him in the small hallway that led into the kitchen. The lights were all off, but the drapes and shades were wide open, leaving the sharp corners and rounded counters of the kitchen bathed in the bug-yellow of the Meadowcrest streetlights. Twin candles sat on the breakfast table in the dining room nook, a reminder of the great romantic evening that might have been. Two filet mignon steaks were still on the counter, bits of blood from the cellophane pooling onto the blue and white dish below it.
Devin shook his head and picked up the dish. He cursed to himself as some of the blood sloshed out of the plate and onto the floor. What else could go wrong? He put the dish in the fridge and looked around for something to mop up the stain. When no sponge or rag appeared to his eyes, his tiredness got to him. Angry, he stomped his foot down into the largest drop of steak blood, grinding it into the tile with his toe.
When even the pleasure of that fled, he pulled out a few paper towels, wet them, and dealt with the mess.
It was time to deal with the other mess now: Karston.
His idea was this: His parents had left him two hundred dollars cash in a small envelope on the kitchen desk for expenses and “emergency” money. He’d tell Karston he was out of the band, but then give him the money as a down payment for the bass. That way, at least, he wouldn’t be out all his money, and the bass would stay behind. Devin might still be able to finish the song himself tonight. Maybe he and Cheryl could get together tomorrow afternoon, before his folks returned.
Tired though, he couldn’t make out in the near dark the white envelope they’d left him on the desk, so he flipped the light on. It was there, shoved under an old Pennysaver.
He counted the bills and stiffened. Forty bucks were missing, and he hadn’t touched the envelope since his father had given it to him. Someone had taken it. No one else had been in the house today. The doors were locked. That only left the band.
Cody needed money. Would forty bucks have made that much of a difference to him? Maybe. One Word Ben was so into his Christianity the guy never even lied. Cheryl was out of the question. Karston?
Devin stormed back to the door, opened it, and stood half in the kitchen, half in the garage. He knew his face was full of suspicion, but he didn’t care.
“Karston? Did you see an envelope on the desk in the kitchen?”
Devin didn’t have to say another word. Karston picked his head up, eyes wide open like a deer caught in headlights. At first he shook his head no, but then his eyes started darting back and forth. He scowled, then scrunched up his face like he was going to cry or something. Finally his head went back down and he sort of slithered off the stool and put a hand slowly, deeply, into his front pocket and withdrew two twenties.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Devin,” Karston said, holding it out. “I was going to use it for some lessons.”
Devin felt sheer rage explode in his gut. It rose into his chest, rippled out into his head and arms. He was going to start screaming, tell that stupid son of a bitch exactly what he thought of him, tell him about all the times he’d stood up for him, how tonight he’d ruined things with Cheryl for his sake, then kick his sorry ass out of the band, out of his house and into the street where he just didn’t care what would happen to him.
The first in a long torrent of abusive, ugly words was about to erupt from Devin’s mouth when…
WHUNK!
Something heavy slammed into the garage door so fast and loud it made them both leap a foot.
“What the hell was that?” Devin said, taking a step forward.
In a flash, Karston was on his feet and next to Devin. “An animal?”
Devin shrugged. “Squirrels and raccoons come for the trash sometimes, but nothing that…”
WHUNK!
The garage door rattled visibly. It looked like some of the vinyl slats had actually bent from the force of the blow.
And then, all the lights went out.
6
“Okay, so maybe not a squirrel,” Devin said softly.
The garage door rattled again, but this time it wasn’t a short, sudden noise. The white slats kept shaking, first the ones low to the ground, then higher and higher, making a more and more awful racket with each slat. After reaching eight feet, where the door met the ceiling, the shaking stopped.
“Crap, how tall is this thing?” Karston whispered.
Devin, more familiar with the sounds of his home, shook his head. “It’s not tall. It’s climbing.”
There was a bit of a creak, then a light thud, like a jumping child or small man landing. A skittering went across the roof, sounding like long nails scraping against the tiles. Devin and Karston looked up into the darkness, trying to follow with their eyes. It slowed, tapped lightly, rushed to the far end of the garage roof, which connected to the rest of the house, then fell silent again.
“Call someone,” Karston said.
“No,” Devin said, making a face. “It’s just an animal. Raccoons can get pretty huge. And the lights…”
A vaguely muffled explosion of splintering glass issued from above. Whatever it was, it had smashed a window.
Not an animal.
The rush of fear hit Devin hard and fast. It was stronger even than it had been when the car had cut him off in the road. This felt as if something in his chest had grabbed his heart and was trying to force it out of his mouth.
Human?
“This isn’t over.”
Could it be the Slits? Had they followed him?
Above and deeper inside the house, it sounded like the furniture was being pushed around in the master bedroom suite.
“It’s inside,” Karston squealed, his thin voice whiny and afraid.
The racket in the master bedroom grew. More things were being thrown around, as if in a rage. Devin wondered how he would explain the mess to his parents, then realized what a stupid worry that was right now.
Could Cody be playing some kind of sick joke? No. The Slits. It had to be. They were making some kind of point, taking revenge for messing with them. Even though he was still very much afraid, the thought focused Devin, made him angry. All he had to do was call the police. Response time for the local cops to get to Meadowcrest Farms was like two seconds. They’d show up in force and arrest all their criminal asses. There were advantages to having money.
Devin slapped his side, fingers feeling for his cell phone, then he remembered he’d left it outside in the car.
“Give me your cell,” Devin hissed, turning to Karston.
Karston looked at him like he was nuts. “I don’t have a cell phone.”
Right. In addition to all his other attractive qualities, Karston was also one of the only kids in Argus High School who didn’t have a phone.
A loud bang from above made Karston shake worse than the garage door had. “What is that? I’m starting to freak,” he said loudly.
Devin grimaced and spoke quietly. “Shh! Calm down. Stay quiet. The stupid genius Cody borrowed money from the Slits for his new axe.”
Karston’s eyes popped. “The Slits? The Slits? Let’s get out of here!”
He raced over to flip the switch for the garage door, but with the power off, nothing happened. Idiot. Still, it was the right idea. Devin could grab the phone from the car and run to a neighbor’s. He went up to the door and pulled. It rose an inch, but the bent slats wedged into the guide rail and the door stuck fast.
<
br /> Oh crap.
The thrashing became more distant. Whoever it was seemed to be taking their time, maybe trying to do the most damage possible. Should he just bolt the door and wait it out until morning? But then they’d wreck his room, his things. His father’s study, his mother’s collection of Hummel figures. He and Cody had beaten them once before. He could do something. But what?
“I’ll go get the phone in the kitchen,” Devin said. “I’ll have to be fast, before they come downstairs.”
He was talking to himself, really, but Karston heard. “I’m not waiting for you alone in here! What if they get you?”
Karston was looking more frightened with each passing second. Devin wasn’t doing much better; his heart was beating fast and his breathing was short and frantic.
“Okay, we’ll both go in. I’ll grab the phone,” Devin said slowly, trying to catch his breath. “You open the sliding door off the dining room. Once I dial, we’ll go out onto the deck and head for a neighbor’s house. I won’t even have to say anything; the police will come and they get here in like less than a minute.”
“Really? Mrs. Wroth next door once called and it took two hours.”
“Different neighborhood, Karston. Got it?”
“Got it.”
His own hand shaking, Devin moved for the door, but Karston pulled him back.
“What if they come downstairs before I get to the door?”
Devin clenched his teeth. “Then hide. Just hide. And stay quiet.”
“Where? Where should I hide?”
Devin whirled on him, furious. “Geez, man! There’s a cupboard and two closets in there. I dunno! Fold yourself up and put yourself in the freaking toaster oven! Hide! This isn’t like playing the bass, Karston! You’ve got to pull yourself together.”
Karston nodded, but it was the same nod Karston had given him a hundred times that very night, right before he loused up the simplest bass line in the world. And here was Devin doing what he always told Cody not to, yelling at him, making him more nervous.
A sick feeling in Devin’s stomach made him wonder if he might really die for this pathetic sack of self-consciousness. Whoever the Slits sent this time had to be worse, right? No. No, no, no. Everything would be fine. The sounds were still upstairs. The phone and the door weren’t that far. He just needed Karston not to freak out.
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