Battle of the Bands (2 page)

Okay, he does look at me like I'm the Precision Fender and says, “Solid, man.”

The first time, I spent the night in a graveyard. It was freaky, but I got a decent song out of it. It's called “You're Dead,” and it goes like this:

Rotten bones

Cold in the dirt

Your face has gone away.

And if I try

I might see you

Too bad there's only one way.

You're dead, you're dead, you're dead!

(we scream that chorus line)

Never thought you'd go

Didn't want you to

And now you creep me out.

Our time is done

I want to puke

You know what I'm talkin' about.

You're dead, you're dead, you're dead!

Dark in the crypt

My eyes weep blood

Did you go to hell?

If we meet again

Don't call my name

Cuz then I'll know I fell.

You're dead, you're dead, you're dead!

Not bad, eh? A tune like that has a double meaning. It could be about a relationship breakup, or it could be about a dead person. The audience can figure it out whichever way they like.

The truth is, the graveyard mostly made me sad. There was this one grave with white daisies on it. The marker said
Farewell darling angel. Willow Ann Raynor.
She was sixteen when she died. The same age as me.

Another time I went and hung out at the Skytrain station. I planned to just sit on a bench in a dark corner and watch for action, but it was cold that night so I ended up walking up and down the platform to keep warm. This old scruffy guy started walking with me, talking at the speed of
Amy. He made about as much sense as Amy does too, and he smelled really bad, like old beer. He was telling me about this vegetable garden he used to have with beans and Walla Walla onions, whatever those are. I wanted to tell him to take off, but I didn't. I was actually hoping he'd get around to saying something interesting. He never did.

I finally said, “Buddy, what is your problem?”

And then the old guy starts to laugh, and the next thing he's crying, so I put my hand on his shoulder. Right then a train pulls up and this group of girls gets off. They start staring at me like I'm some psycho, and one of them says, “What are you doing to that old man, you loser?”

Another one of the girls whips out her cell and says, “I'm calling the cops.”

I say, “Hey, I didn't do anything to him,” and they say, “Yeah, right!” and the old guy starts to sob even louder. He chokes out, “I want my onions back.” The girls look really confused, and I do the only thing
I can think of. I pull out my wallet and give him my last twenty bucks and say, “Fine. Go get some.”

He stops crying. He stares at the bill for half a second, says, “Thanks, kid, I'll have one for you,” and off he goes.

The girls start laughing, and me, I leave, fast. I still haven't got a song out of that one.

It'll be better next time. I'm planning to hang around Vancouver's downtown eastside. Scarier than the graveyard, but I'm a decent-size guy in pretty good shape. And I'm desperate.

“Don't do a Don!”

That's our band motto. Cia, Kel and I are warming up for a gig in the gym, and when Cia hisses those words, we all relax a little. We used to have a fourth member, Don, on keyboards. Every time we tried to perform, he froze. It really sucked, but the last time he played with us, he decided to do something about it. He grabbed the mike, put it to his butt and let one rip. I figured he must have flipped out, but he
said no. He just knew he couldn't take the pressure and decided to end his music career on a memorable note.

I guess our motto is a tribute to Don.

We were mad at him for a while because the teachers banned us from the next battle, but we're okay with him now. He's one of our biggest fans, and he always helps get the crowd howling for us.

This is our last performance before the big one coming up next week at the youth center. We've decided this will be like an omen for that show, and we plan to really rock today. Three other bands have already played, and we're the last ones. Going last can be a bonus. The crowd is already warmed up and ready for more music. Another plus is the kids will usually keep cheering if they think they'll get a longer lunch hour out of it.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Lunar Ticks!” someone screams from the floor. It's Amy, already bouncing around at the front of the crowd. I'm distracted because it looks like she
forgot to wear a bra, and I miss my cue for the opening number. That chick is such a pain.

I mutter, “Sorry,” to Cia and Kel. Then we start over and it's perfect. I don't think the crowd even noticed that Cia had to play her setup twice. That's the great thing about music. It can flow, just be a jam session where nothing is planned. Sure, you have to be ready, and maybe we aren't quite good enough yet to just let anything happen in a performance. Even the pros can't do much of that because the fans always want to hear the hit songs, right?

We blast our way through the first two numbers and then it's time for our final song, “You're Dead.” We've only played it in public once before and it wasn't too polished then, but this time we nail it. The gym goes nuts. They love us!

It takes a while for the vice-principal to settle things down. He makes the usual threat that the school day will be extended to make up for missed time. Nobody actually believes him because there's no
chance the teachers will agree to work longer, but we go along with him just in case. Then he calls the bands out onto the stage again, one by one. The crowd decides who wins by clapping and cheering the loudest and longest for their favorite. Sometimes it's hard to call the winner, but today there's no doubt. The Lunar Ticks score.

There are two long periods of classes to get through before we can gather in Cia's garage after school, but once we're there, it's celebration time.

“Were we awesome or what?” Kel says.

“You were awesome!” Amy tells him. Then, of course, she has to plaster her big lips on his.

“It was cool,” Cia murmurs. “Way cool.”

Amy comes up for air and sneers, “Yeah, but no thanks to you, Cia! You screwed up.”

“Whoa,” I say. “What are you talking about?”

“She was off right from the start. She couldn't wait to be first, like always. Lucky for her, nobody noticed. But I did.”

“Hey,” Kel mumbles. “That's not what happened.”

Amy draws away from Kel and plants her hands on her hips. “Damn right that's what happened, Kel! Why are you defending her?”

“Amy,” I say. But before I can explain, she cuts in.

“Cia's your biggest weakness you know. She isn't good enough. If The Lunar Ticks are ever going to be great, you're going to have to ditch her and you know it.”

Cia sucks in a breath and spits back, “What do you know? You're just a dumb groupie bitch.”

Amy's hand snakes out like she's going to hit Cia, but Kel catches her arm. I've never seen him so red in the face before. He glares at Amy and growls, “Stop it!”

“What do you mean?” Amy squawks. “You're not going to let her get away with that, are you? You know I'm right.
I've told you tons of times before, she's no good.”

A muffled little noise comes out of Cia's throat and then she's gone, slamming through the door into the house.

“Amy,” Kel says very quietly, “get out.” “What?” Amy's eyes narrow to slits.

“What did you say, Kel?”

“I said get out. I've had it with you. We're through.”

Amy grabs hold of his sleeve and tries to get her mouth near his face, but he pushes her away. “I mean it, Amy. Screw off.”

“But, Kel!” she wails.

And Kel strides away, goes through the door Cia took. He slams it so hard that Cia's cymbals shiver out a chime from their stand.

Amy looks at me, and I guess she doesn't find what she's hoping for in my face. She gives a little sniff, goes over to the door, kicks it and screams, “Bastard!” Then she spins around, marches past me again and she's gone.

This wasn't exactly what I had in mind for celebrating our win today, but all things considered, I don't think it turned out too bad.

Things seem okay with Cia. I don't know what Kel said to her, but when we meet for our next practice she grabs her sticks and starts drumming the way she always has—totally excellent. I have to admit that when it comes to sheer skill on an instrument, Cia is the best in our group. I watch her for a minute. Sometimes you get so comfortable with a person you don't really look at them anymore. They're just
there. Cia isn't what I'd call pretty or cute, but she is sharp. She has a certain style of her own that goes beyond punk. Maybe it's the way her big brown eyes study the world and don't get hard or bored. Or maybe it's that grace she has in her body, probably from drumming. I think the job of keeping the beat has worked its way right inside her. She's not my type for a girlfriend, but I really care about her.

“What are you staring at?” she snaps. She's still a tough chick.

“You,” I say. “You're damn good, you know.”

“Shut up,” she says, but she's smiling.

“All right,” I say. “Game on.” And we go. And go. No Amy delays, no smokes, no Mrs. Stanton kicking us out. It's amazing. We push on and sweat starts running down my back and still we play. The tips of my fingers are numb when we reach a point that feels like a wall. I lean into my guitar, feel Kel practically vibrating beside me, look across to see Cia biting down on her lip. A feedback loop I've
never heard before comes sliding out of the amp and we all snap our heads up, meet each other's surprised faces, keep going. We're all grinning like fiends now, and then there's one more riff, a low line of bass from Kel, a fade-out roll from Cia and we're done.

Silence. No, not quite. There's us breathing like we just ran a mile. It's as if we're all afraid to speak and break the spell. What we just did was magic.

Kel's the first to comment. He puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles, sharp and loud.

“Too right,” I say and slap him on the shoulder.

“Cool,” Cia adds.

“You know what?” I ask. I don't wait for an answer. “We're going to win that battle next week. We're finally gonna be on our way.”

Cia wrinkles her nose. “You think?”

“Yeah, I think.”

“What about Indigo Daze?” Kel asks.

“They'll be there.”

“Don't worry about them. They're not going to beat us this time.”

Kel shakes his head. “How can you be so sure?”

“Cuz I am,” I say quietly. “If we can play like this...”

“You don't think this was a fluke?”

“Kel, my man, you have to believe me. Tell you what, though. I happen to know that Indigo Daze is playing in their school battle tomorrow. Want to go check them out?”

“How are we going to do that? “ Cia asks.

“We go to their school at lunchtime and we just mingle with the crowd and that's it. Simple.”

Cia looks doubtful. “We'll miss class. If I get caught skipping again, my mom will ground me for life.”

“So we won't miss class, okay? I'll get us a ride and we'll leave the minute lunch starts and be back by the time lunch is over. It's only five minutes away by car.”

“Who's going to give us a ride?” Kel asks.

“Don. I figure he still owes us. He won't mind driving.”

Kel grins, but Cia keeps frowning. “Isn't there some rule about how many passengers he can take with a new license?”

“Yeah, but it's a short drive, and a couple of us can lie down in the backseat or something. It'll be okay.”

And it is okay, at first. Don says no problem, he'll take us. Next day we go in his car, and we're at the other school in time for the first band's opening number. We spread out, try to act like we belong. A couple of kids give us sideways looks, but nobody asks us what we're doing there.

Me, I don't even pay attention to the other bands. They're bad. What I do is try to catch sight of Rowan. What is it about that girl? I should be cold toward her because she's like the enemy, but for some reason I just wish I could talk to her. I think I see her once. There's this flash of silky black hair on the far side of the gym
and I crane my neck. But no. Suddenly I get a strange prickle down the back of my neck and I turn, and there she is.

Rowan is looking at me with that same little half smile she wore in the music store and there's this jolt in my gut. She knows who I am, I can tell. This time I try to smile back. I feel like a little kid who's been caught doing some dumbass thing like passing a note in class. A note that says, “You're cute,” or something really lame like that.

She tilts her head to one side and I think she's going to say something, but then the crowd starts this chant, “Raynor! Indigo! Raynor!” Rowan looks startled, but then she's gone, slipping away like water through fingers.

Raynor? What does that mean? And why does it sound so familiar? I don't have time to figure it out, not totally, because there she is on stage. Her guitar is hugged close to her body and, damn, I'm jealous of a guitar! The crowd is still chanting, “Raynor! Indigo! Raynor!” When Rowan
puts up her hand and everyone cheers, I get it. They're calling her Raynor. Duh. That's her last name. So she's Rowan Raynor. Something else about that still bugs me, but when she lays into her guitar, a Gibson Firebird, and the sound comes alive, I forget about that. I just listen.

That girl can play. Her fingers dance over the strings so swift and easy I'm hit with an image of leaves in the wind. It looks so natural, so right. And then she starts to sing and her voice is like a comet flying, burning its way across the galaxy. Burning its way into me. I'm so into her color that I barely catch the words. Color? Yeah, the sound is like gold and purple, intense. She's singing about loss and goodbye and I feel sad, so sad I might start crying. How can she do that to me? I swallow and look around and everyone is caught in her fire. Some girls, guys too, have tears on their cheeks.