by JL Bryan
“Get ready to play your best on Thursday,” Mitch said. He punched Jason’s shoulder. “Now you’re acting like a rock star, Jayce!”
Jason rolled his eyes.
Chapter Eight
When school let out Thursday, Jason caught a ride with Dred from school, which meant riding around while she dropped off a couple of other girls that she always took home. He stashed his bike in the cargo area behind the back seats. When they reached Mitch’s house, Jason parked the bike in Mitch’s garage to make room for Dred’s drum kit and Mitch’s collection of keyboards and synthesizers.
Jason helped Mitch and Dred load the back of the van. He was doubly worried today. He’d told his dad it was his first day back at the car wash, and he’d been so busy wondering if he’d get caught by his parents that he’d almost forgotten to be nervous about the audition itself. Packing up the van, he started to think about playing in front of actual big-city club owners, and he felt a little cold and shaky.
Erin’s boyfriend Zach dropped her off, and Jason looked away fast when she kissed him good-bye. Jason didn’t need to feel jealous and sad, on top of everything else.
“Are we ready?” Erin asked as she joined them in the garage.
“All packed up.” Dred tossed her keys in the air and caught them. “Let’s go blow some minds.”
As they drove out of Chippewa along Highway 29 to Minneapolis, Erin looked more cheerful than Jason had ever seen her.
“So where are you guys going to live when we’re big stars?” Erin asked. “Dred?”
“I think Oregon,” Dred said. “Seems like a cool place. You can live near those giant redwoods where they put the Ewok village.”
“Mitch?” Erin asked.
“Mick. And I’m thinking Malibu. Swimming pools, movie stars…”
“Yeah,” Dred snorted. “You only want to live there so you’ll be close to Claudia Lafayette.”
“I happen to think she’s a great vocalist who does some amazing, experimental things with her melodies.”
“I guess ten million middle school girls can’t be wrong,” Dred said.
“All kinds of people listen to Claudia Lafayette!” Mitch said.
“All kinds of female people between the ages of ten and fourteen,” Dred said.
“What about you, Jason?” Erin asked.
“I don’t really listen to Claudia Lafayette, or Britney Spears, or anybody like that. I like classic rock, old blues…” Jason said.
“I mean, where would you live if you were a rock star?”
“Oh!” Jason thought about it. “I think an island. Out in the Caribbean, maybe.”
“That’s pretty cool,” Erin said. “But I think I’d want to live in New York, or London, someplace where everything’s happening, and you can do anything you want.”
“I could try that for a while,” Jason said.
Erin smiled and blew a quick, bright tune on her harmonica. “Who wants to warm up?”
“My stuff’s all packed up,” Mitch said.
“I think I can play.” Jason took the guitar from its case. He wished he’d brought the fairy instruments now, so they could at least check them out on the long ride to the Cities. He could have come up with some story about where they came from. Too late now.
Erin played a blues riff, and Jason followed her with his guitar. She improvised a song, continuing the harmonic part between the lines:
Jason likes the blues,
(wah-waah, wah-wah)
Mitch hates the news
(wah-waah, wah-wah)
“It’s Mick,” Mitch said. “But that’s accurate, you know. I think it’s pointless to get your news from the television, or even establishment newspapers—”
Erin sang and played:
(wah-waah, wah-wah)
Dred drives the car
(wah-waah, wah-wah)
Gonna take us far
(wah-waah, wah-wah)
“Yeah, where would this band be without my van?” Dred asked.
Erin sang:
Without the van,
(wah-waah, wah-wah)
There is no band.
Erin played out a long phrase on her harmonica, while Dred snickered.
Jason and Erin played most of the way, occasionally getting into one of the band’s actual songs, but Erin kept improvising new lyrics. She had a radiant smile today.
The Patch was located in the old warehouse district in Minneapolis, near a number of larger, more popular clubs. The club occupied one sliver of the bottom floor of a refurbished brick building, where the ghosts of the words “Great Northern Railway” were visible across the second story.
They arrived with about fifteen minutes to spare. It was still daylight—the club itself wouldn’t open for several more hours.
The four of them walked to the front door. Jason wanted to knock, since the place was obviously closed, but Dred pushed open the heavy black door and walked inside like it was her own house.
“Hey, anybody here?” Dred shouted into the darkness.
Mitch looked at Jason and Erin, then shrugged and followed Dred inside. Jason and Erin shared a nervous smile before following.
The interior of the club was small and dark, with an eight-seat bar along one wall, scattered tables and a few booths at the back. The stage was tucked into one corner, and looked barely big enough to hold a two-piece band.
“We’re closed,” said a young woman who emerged from the door at the back. She was dressed in black leather pants and a high-collared white shirt.
“We’re the Assorted Zebras,” Dred said. “We’re supposed to have an audition today.”
“Oh, you’re the one who keeps calling?” The woman turned her head and shouted at the open door from which she’s emerged. “Hey, Freddy! Those pushy hick kids are here with their band!”
The man who came out next was hugely obese, wearing a bright flowered shirt and a green pork-pie hat. He stood next to the young woman and folded his arms while he looked over the four of them.
“Who’s the one that keeps calling?” Freddy asked.
“That’d be me.” Dred raised her hand.
“Well, stop calling. Lissa here is my entertainment director,” he said, and the young woman smiled. “She’s also my bar manager,” he added, and the woman’s smile faltered. “Anyway, this is your one chance to convince us that you’re good enough to play The Patch. Go set yourselves up, and don’t make too much noise doing it.” He waved at the tiny stage.
“Thank you!” Mitch said. “We really appreciate this opportunity—”
“Don’t talk to me until you’re ready to play,” Freddy said.
They carried the equipment and quickly set it up, plugging into the club’s sound system. Freddy and Lissa sat in a booth at the back of the club, going over a stack of paperwork.
When they were set up, Erin spoke into the microphone: “Are you ready?”
Freddy the club owner waved a pudgy arm without looking at them. He was still in conversation with Lissa, ignoring the band.
“Okay,” Erin said. “This first one’s called ‘Nuclear Morning.’”
Dred counted off the beat, and then Jason and Mitch joined in.
Erin sang:
I woke up on nuclear morning,
Last night they gave the last warning,
Nothing left but crying and mourning,
All alone on nuclear morning…
They played three songs straight through, and neither of the two people in the booth looked up at them the entire time.
“Okay,” Erin said, “This next one is called ‘Remember’—”
“Wait, wait.” Freddy pushed himself to his feet and waddled toward the stage. “Look, you seem like nice kids. You’ve got some talent.” He looked right at Erin. “Maybe a lot of talent. But you’re too green and raw. You don’t have your sound together. I’d say give it another year of practice before you’re ready to play live shows.”
“A year?” Erin asked.
/> “Nobody gets successful overnight,” Freddy said. “You’re young. You have plenty of time to practice. Don’t take it personally. Now get your junk off my stage.”
Mitch frowned. Erin’s face scrunched up for a second as if she were going to cry, but she fought it down and made it into a hard glare instead. The band members looked at each other. It was one more failed audition.
Freddy started chatting with Lissa again. After a second, he looked up and said, “Get going! We have a business to run here.”
The four of them packed up their gear and carried it out to the van, speaking very little. On the drive home, the mood was quiet and somber.
“We’ll get the next one,” Mitch said as they drove out of the city.
Nobody replied.
Back in Chippewa, Dred dropped Erin off at home. When the rest of them arrived at Mitch’s, it was close to eight o’ clock. Jason got his bike and his backpack from the garage.
He said good-bye and pedaled home.
His dad was waiting at the kitchen table, reading his paper. Jason heard his mom and Katie upstairs, doing something in Katie’s room. Maybe cleaning up—Katie could turn any room into a wreck in a matter of minutes.
Jason poured himself a glass of milk.
“How was your first day back at work?” his dad asked, without looking up from the paper.
“Oh,” Jason said. “Fine. Pretty good. I’m pretty tired now.”
“Wash a lot of cars?”
“Yep.”
His dad looked up. “You didn’t wash mine.”
“Oh…did you want me to?”
“I did. That’s why I took it over to Manny’s Car Wash this afternoon, about five-thirty. Guess who wasn’t working there?”
Jason looked down at his shoelaces.
“In fact,” his dad continued, “I talked to Manny, and he said you never even asked for your job back. Says he hasn’t heard from you in a few months. Now how is that possible?”
Jason sighed. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“Where were you?”
“We had that audition today.”
“You were with those kids? In Minneapolis?”
“It didn’t go well.”
“I don’t care how it went. I told you no more band. And now you’re going all the way to the Cities and back, with a teenage driver, and not telling anybody where you went?”
“It was a bad day,” Jason said. “If that makes you feel better.”
“It’s not about how I feel, Jason. It’s the way you’ve been acting. Disappearing all night? Lying to your mother and me? This isn’t like you, Jason. What’s going on with you?”
Jason shrugged. “I just like being in the band.”
“You’re getting irresponsible,” his dad said. “You’re going to be a senior next year. You need to start acting like an adult. Set a good example for your sister.”
“Okay. I will.”
“And why should I believe anything you say?” his dad asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re still grounded, and you said you’re not going to prom, so I’m running out of ways to punish you. And, at your age, it shouldn’t be about punishment. You should be more mature. You should know to be honest, responsible and considerate of others. Especially your little sister, who you left all alone.”
Jason didn’t know what to say. His dad’s disappointment filled the room like a thick, cold cloud.
“I’ll do better, Dad,” he finally said.
“I hope you do. Until you show me a little responsibility, I’ll just think of you as somebody who can’t be trusted at all.” His dad started reading the paper again.
Jason trudged up the stairs to his room, feeling worse than he had in years. His parents hated him, and there would be no more band practice. No more afternoons and weekends with Erin.
He collapsed on his bed, put on his headphones, played the Lead Belly collection on his iPod, and closed his eyes.
Chapter Nine
Aoide slept in her woven-grass hammock, with the doors of her rear balcony open to catch the cool breeze through the trees. She was completely relaxed, her translucent purple wings stretched out to either side of her. When the fist pounded on her front door, she startled awake.
She fluttered her wings and hopped out of the hammock, landing gently on her bare feet. The fist pounded on the door again.
“I’m coming!” she yelled. She yanked on a vine hanging from her ceiling, and the hammock folded up and pulled away into a knothole overhead.
Aoide opened the small porthole in her circular front door and looked out through the smoked-glass window. She could see out, but no one could see inside.
Her apartment was on the south trunk of a huge old sugar maple tree, the third door up. Like most fairy homes, she had a landing porch outside her front door. From there, a woven spider-silk bridge connected to the trunk’s main walkpath. The walkpath itself alternated between more of the spider-silk rope bridges, little stairwells molded inside the trunk itself, and limbs trained to grow at just the right distance to serve as stairs.
Now, Aoide’s view of the hustling, bustling walkpath was blocked by cold-eyed male fairies in black armor, with the Queen’s Seal on their breastplates.
Aoide held her breath. This could be good news. She’d reported their instruments stolen, and maybe the Queensguard had found them. It didn’t feel like good news, though. They weren’t carrying any musical instruments, either, just the iron swords in the ornate scabbards at their hips.
Aoide lifted the smoked-glass window.
“Happy morning!” Aoide said. “I must have eaten a luck-clover, to have three such lovely and handsome boys on my landing porch today.”
“You are Aoide the Lutist?” asked the Queensguard fairy who stood closest to her door, in front of the other two. He had long hair the color of polished gold and glittering sapphire eyes.
“I am she,” Aoide said. “I certainly hope this is about the stolen instruments. Did you find anything?”
“Her Majesty the Queen sends you this.” He held up a black rose in full bloom.
Aoide’s fingers covered her lips, but she tried not to gasp or look too frightened in front of them. A black rose could mean good fortune or ill.
He held the rose close to her face, as if expecting her to accept it on the spot.
“Oh, I cannot possibly go to court looking like this!” Aoide said. “I’m still in my sleeping-dress. And my hair!” She put a hand to the tangled violet-streak mess of her hair and backed away. “I’ll be right back! Promise!”
Aoide stepped back into her sleeping room and drew the brightly painted dressing-screen across the doorway. She cranked her music box to play a song while she got ready, and then opened her rosewood clothes trunk and looked for a suitable dress. Then she noticed her sleepy, unkempt self in the round mirror on the wall. There wasn’t time to fly over to the bath garden, but she needed to wash up.
She stepped out onto her back balcony to collect fresh water from her baby blue dew-pitcher flowers, and then gasped when she realized someone had landed there. One of the Queensguard fairies stood on her balcony railing with his arms crossed, quietly watching her. He’d flown over to the back of her apartment, as if they expected her to flee.
“Happy morning, good sir!” Aoide said. She tilted one of the water-filled, pitcher-shaped flowers forward to rinse her face, then brushed the water back through her hair. “Mind looking away while I dress?”
“My order is to watch this door,” he said.
“This door, and not me, then?”
“Yes.”
“Good!” Aoide slammed the pink shutters and slid the peg-lock into place.
She changed into her best dress, made of specially pressed and preserved violet petals. She stained her lips with a little elderberry juice, then raked her seashell comb through her hair until it looked sort of presentable. Then she pulled on her matching violet-petal slippers, since the Queen, joyless stickl
er that she was, insisted people wear shoes in her presence.
She stepped out into the front porch and smiled at the Queensguard fairy who’d first spoken to her. “I suppose I’m ready as I will be,” she told him.
He held out the black rose toward her. Aoide steeled herself, then touched her finger to the bloom.
There was a smell like burning pitch, and then she and the Queensguard fairy stood in a small, hexagon-shaped side chamber of the Queen’s court. The floor tiles were hexagonal, too. The tiles just below Aoide’s feet depicted a large black rose.
Porting in through one of the black rose chambers was the only way into the palace. Most visitors ported in from the guardhouse at the outer wall, located where the front gate had been before the Queen ordered it sealed. Between the outer wall and the inner complex of palace buildings lay a vast labyrinth of deadly traps and foul monsters, which no one intruder could hope to survive.
“This way.” The Queensguard fairy stepped out through an angular, arched doorway.
Aoide tried not to shiver as she followed him. She was terrified, but she didn’t want anyone to see it.
They emerged into a great golden space that looked like an enormous cavern built of six-sided golden tiles, from floor to glittering roof. A thick swarm of fireflies radiated gold and purple overhead, where they lived on the pollen of flowering vines growing down from the ceiling.
Fairies came and went everywhere, dressed in their finest. Aoide and the Queensguard fairy walked up a long, wide carpet made of sewn-together rose petals, past groups of courtiers, ambassadors, merchants, costumed musicians and dancers, and more Queensguard men in their black armor. Tapestries depicted the Queen’s past war victories, and the vast room was decorated with statuary and artwork from all over the realm.
Far ahead of them, at the end of the carpet, the queen’s golden throne overlooked the room, atop staircases and terraces. From here, Aoide could see the glitter of her crown, and the theatrically huge skirts of her black and gold dress draped down over the terraced stairways beneath her.
