Battle of the Bands (4 page)

Cia raises her eyebrows. “Are you kidding?”

And Mrs. Stanton is yelling, “That's too loud. Turn it down!”

Great. All the junk we took out must have been making a sound barrier. Shouldn't Mrs. Stanton know by now that there's no way to turn down drums?

“I think I need a cigarette,” Cia sighs.

I go home and have a nice long shower, eat dinner, figure maybe I'll just take it easy tonight. The problem is, I can't stop thinking about Rowan. I feel like I'm obsessing. I have this horrible thought that maybe this is what Amy feels like. What if I turn into someone like her, get all clingy and crazy? How nasty would that be? I decide I better do something about this and call Kel to ask if he wants to see a movie.

“Can't,” Kel says. “I have to babysit my little brother tonight.”

I call Cia and she says, “Duh. I'm grounded, remember?”

I try Don, but he's already got plans. I even consider calling this girl from school who keeps hinting around that she'd like to go out with me. Then I get really brave and think, what the hell, why not call Rowan? So I look up her name in the phone book and there's the address too. She doesn't live that far away.

I could just go for a walk, couldn't I? It's not even dark yet when I set out. I love this time of year, early June, when the days are long and everything looks new. Lawns are still bright green and the air is fresh and soft. Another bonus is that summer is almost here. Sure, there are final exams coming up, but there are still a couple of weeks before I have to worry about studying. No point in stressing over stuff like that too soon.

Summer is going to be good. Lots of sleeping in, beach parties, waterskiing at
the lake, maybe some gigs. Maybe a day in a recording studio? Yeah, if we win the battle next Saturday night, that's the prize. I wonder how many tracks we'll get to record? If it's more than two, we've got a problem. We only have two original songs and one of them is kind of bad. I need to come up with a new song.

That's what I should be doing, working on a tune or lyrics or both. I've got to find some raw material. I stop and look around, see a cat scurrying across the road.

Run, cat, run, go catch your meal.

Eating to live is a really big deal.

Meh. What else? I look up and there's a jet cruising overhead. Think, Jay, think. Let's see. Nope. Nada. Zip. No new song. Instead I wonder where those people are going. Wonder if there's a terrorist on board who will blow them out of the sky. What is with those terrorist losers anyway? What does it prove, blowing stuff up? It just makes the rest of us
think they're totally bent. So maybe they have some kind of cause, but who wants to listen to crazy killers? I mean, I can see where they might have some problems with the way things are. Who doesn't? But killing people because of that?

I'm not exactly happy with everything myself. I think the way the world runs is rotten in a lot of ways. So many people want to tell you how to live your life. Rich people are getting richer on the backs of the poor, making kids work in factories. Imagine that, little kids in Third World countries working all day for almost nothing, making stuff like runners.

Who told me about that? My humanities teacher? It's bad news because I'm looking at my feet and there's a pair of runners. They're pretty nice ones too, a popular brand. Damn. I sit down with my back against a tree and pull off my shoes. I'm checking them out, wondering about how they were put together, when someone says, “Are you stalking me or what?”

It's Rowan. I gape at her for at least ten seconds and then say, “Huh?” So lame.

“I asked if you're stalking me.”

She's sure got a high opinion of herself. I hold up one of my shoes. “Does it look like I'm stalking?”

She grins and tilts her head. Her shiny black hair slides across her face. I'd like to touch that hair. “So what are you doing here?” she asks.

I've recovered enough to say something intelligent. “We'd all like to know the answer to that question, wouldn't we? The best minds on the planet have been considering that very thing since the dawn of life.”

“I doubt it.”

“Come on. That's the big question of existence.”

“Yeah, but since the dawn of life?” she says. “I don't think single-celled organisms were asking what they're doing here. Besides, you know that's not what I meant. I want to know what you're doing sitting in front of my house.”

“Huh?” I say again. I look around. The house behind me doesn't have the right address. But the house almost straight across the street does. Figures. Stop paying attention for five minutes and wham. The universe gets you. Why is it that any flukes being handed out are never in my favor? I keep my eyes wandering, then shrug and try to sound bored. “So which place is yours?”

She points. “That one. Are you telling me you didn't know?”

“Why would I know that?”

“Hmm,” she says. “Okay. Maybe you can tell me why you took your shoes off.”

I shake my head. “Sorry. That information is top secret.”

She considers this for a moment, keeps watching me with her blue eyes. She looks disappointed. Finally she mutters, “Fine.” And she starts walking.

“Wait!” I scramble to my feet, start hopping up and down, trying to get a shoe back on.

She stops.

“I was just trying to see how they're made.”

Rowan looks back and it's hard to read her expression. “Why?”

I'm nervous now. Or should I say more nervous? I have the feeling that my answer is important. I think about making something up, like I'm planning to be a shoe designer when I get out of school. But a trace of impatience shows on her face and I blurt out the truth. “Because of the kids in the factories. I was trying to understand what it feels like, making shoes all day.”

“Really?” she says.

“Yeah.”

She walks back and does that head-tilting, hair-sliding thing again. Then she nods. “I've thought about that too. It must be harsh.”

“For sure.” I want to say more, but my mind is totally blank.

She sighs. “Well, I've got to get going. I guess I'll see you at the battle next week?”

“Yeah. We'll be there.”

“Good.” She gets this wicked gleam in her eye and says, “We could use a little competition.” Then she turns and saunters off. She doesn't look like she's in any hurry.

A hundred things I want to say flash through my mind, but none of them makes it out of my mouth. I just stand there and watch her go. And then I know exactly what I want to write a song about. Desire.

I don't get too far with this. I sit down to put my shoes back on. When I stand up to go home, there's Amy on the other side of the street, smirking. All the dizzy fizzy feelings I wanted to hold on to and try to put into words just vanish. That girl really creeps me out.

Our final practice before the battle doesn't go well. We can't get in sync. Every time we start a number, one of us blows it. Cia screws up the fill or Kel loses the bass line or I mess up the lyrics. All three of us are getting edgy, and when we go down for about the tenth time, I've had enough.

“This is useless. Let's just forget it.”

Cia fires one of her sticks across the room and says, “What the hell's your problem, Jay?”

“My problem? Since when is it my problem?”

“Since you want to just quit. What's up with that?”

“Yeah,” says Kel. “That sucks.”

I look at them glaring at me and I get a very bad feeling. Something about the chemistry in The Lunar Ticks has changed. I set my guitar down and narrow my eyes. “What's going on here?”

They flash each other guilty looks and then Cia says, “What do you mean?”

“I mean something's different. I want to know what it is.”

“Hey, man,” Kel stutters. “Everything's cool. We're just having a bad day. No need to get all worked up.”

“Yeah,” Cia says brightly. “I heard it's supposed to be good luck when things go wrong in the dress rehearsal.”

I snort. “Good luck? If we play like this on Saturday night we're going to get booed right off the stage.”

“So we keep practicing. Or we have another practice tomorrow night.”

“I already told you, I can't practice tomorrow.” I don't tell them the reason I can't practice. The full moon.

“But Jay, this is important!” Cia looks like she wants to hit me with the other stick.

“Tell me something I don't know. Like what else is going on?” I say.

“Man,” Kel moans. “It's like this...”

“Kel!” Cia snarls.

“We gotta tell him, Cia.”

“Tell me what?” I ask. But I think I already know.

“Well, me and Cia...we're sort of hooked up.”

“Hooked up?” I ask.

Cia echoes me. “Hooked up?”

Kel's long face is flushing. “Yeah. Like we're going out or something.” He looks sideways at Cia. “Right?”

Cia rolls her eyes.

Suddenly I'm enjoying this. “Is that right?” I drawl. “Since when?”

“Since a couple of days ago,” Kel says. He swallows and his Adam's apple bobs
up and down. “We were going to tell you after the show.”

“Why the secret?” I ask.

Kel swallows again, looks at Cia again. “It wasn't exactly a secret. It's just that we haven't made it official or anything. And we thought we'd see how it goes. You know. Like that.”

“Like that, eh?” I say. I cross my arms, crunch down my eyebrows. “I don't know if this is such a good idea. It seems like it might affect our band.”

“Yeah,” Cia says glumly. “We thought of that.”

“And that's why we were waiting,” Kel says.

“Right. So you two are all hot for each other and you figured no one would notice?”

Kel looks relieved. “That's right.”

I have to ask. “What happens if you get in a fight?”

“Aw, man. We won't get in a fight.” Kel seems to actually believe this.

Cia isn't quite as certain. “Look, Jay. We're not stupid. We know it could cause
problems. But what are we supposed to do? Pretend it isn't real? Because it is, and I'm not into being phony.”

Kel nods his head vigorously. “That's it, Jay. We want to be real.”

“Honest?” I ask.

“Yeah. Honest.”

I can't argue with that. I just wish I could say the same about me. Like maybe I should admit that I might not be able to write any more songs. I should tell them the truth. And I should tell Rowan the truth, that I want a chance to get to know her. I don't say any of that stuff to them. I don't tell them my next thought either—that somehow Amy knew about their attraction before they did.

Instead I say, “Cool. Don't worry about it. We're still going to kick ass on Saturday night, okay?”

They grin and say okay. They look at each other all goofy and happy. I'm really grateful they don't start making out in front of me. I take off before that can happen. I have some plans to make for tomorrow.

Vancouver's downtown eastside is not for wusses. It has a scary rep. Drug dealers, prostitutes who disappear, violence. I get off at the nearest Skytrain station, hunch my shoulders and march in.

I head up Main Street and start looking around. This is tricky because I don't want to make eye contact with anyone. Better to be invisible, try to blend in. Maybe I do the blending too well because a guy leaning
against a wall steps into my path. He says, “Hey man, ten bucks, good crank.” I shake my head and brush past him.

I make a quick right turn and find myself in an alley. It reeks of pee and I stop dead. Then the Dumpster beside me starts to rattle. My brain says
Run!
but before my feet can react, a wrinkled face pops out of the garbage. A skinny arm snakes out and the hand forms a fist. This guy says, “My bin!” I say, “Okay, no problem. All yours.” Would he actually fight me for the bottles? A feeble, sick-looking guy like that?

I get out of the alley and call a halt on a street corner. I need to get my bearings, but right away a panhandler comes by and asks for money. He doesn't exactly ask. He says, “I need some cash, dude. Now.” Greasy strings of hair hang in front of eyes that are too bright, and he's sweating.

“No problem,” I say. I dig in my pocket and come up with a couple of bucks.

He steps closer. “That's it?”

“Yeah,” I croak.

He grimaces, and I see he's shy on teeth. “Thanks, man. Catch ya later.” And he's gone.

I lean up against a building and breathe a sigh of relief. The street is dark and strangely quiet. Some of the buildings have boards over the doors and windows. Almost everywhere there's graffiti. I'm thinking about moving on when I hear footsteps approaching and muffled voices. A half block down, a big group of guys appears on the street. I slide around the corner fast and back into a recessed entryway, hoping like crazy they didn't notice me. I have to remind myself what I'm doing. “You're getting a life, Jay,” I mutter aloud.

“Say what, hon?” I didn't even notice her sidling up beside me. Maybe she was hiding in the entry too. This girl doesn't look any older than me. Okay, in some ways she doesn't look older. Her body is model thin and she's showing it off in tight clothes. She's wearing lots of makeup, and at first I think she's pretty.
But when I make eye contact, I want to take off. Her eyes are empty. That's the only way I can describe it. It's like whoever lived behind those eyes has gone away.

“Um,” I mumble, “I guess I was just talking to myself.”

She laughs, a high-pitched screech, and says, “We get a lot of that around here, don't we?”

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess.”

Her laugh cuts out and she puts a hand on my arm. I catch a whiff of stale perfume and bad breath. She sticks out her tongue and runs it slowly along her red lips, showing off her piercing. “You sure you weren't asking me about doing a little something?”