Rules to Rock By (10 page)

“Matt, tighten up your bass line on the verses,” Jackson said. “And Darren, I want those snare hits on the chorus to be flams. We’ve got two trophies to defend, gentlemen. Show some pride.” I could almost see him snickering. He didn’t seem to really
mean
a single thing he said, and yet every sentence he uttered was a step away from a threat.

The room went quiet for an instant. Then the drummer counted four fast beats with his sticks, and Raising Cain pounded out a blistering version of “Search and Destroy,” an old Stooges song. Jackson growled out the first verse.

I have to admit, Raising Cain seemed to have mastered the Rules to Rock By. Jackson’s guitar scraped and scratched like glass against the sidewalk. The bass was a deep, evil rumble. And each crack of the snare drum sounded like the deafening pop of a firecracker. But the band’s power was in the way all the parts came together. Raising Cain was a single unit, strong and sleek, a wild beast about to bust out of its cage.

I couldn’t help it. I had to have a better look. I stuck my head all the way inside. Jackson stood in the center of the room, his back to the door. He was wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt with the band’s named etched in Gothic lettering. Original? No. But intimidating nonetheless.

Jackson stood with his legs spread wide and aligned under his shoulders. He slung his black Flying V guitar all the way down to his knees and barked into the microphone with a focused, controlled rage.

Then Jackson stopped suddenly and flashed the time-out sign to the band.

“Matty, I know you love your Heavy Metal pedal, but didn’t we agree that you’d wait until the second verse?”

The kid looked at him blankly.

“Please nod your head. This is what is called an affirmation.” Jackson used big words, like a public radio DJ or a major nerd. But the way he spoke them gave a completely different feeling. He sounded angry, but very, very controlled, making sure to keep the anger just underneath the words. “It indicates that we’ve had this conversation seventeen times and that while you’ve momentarily forgotten, you intend in the future to do as I say.”

The bassist just nodded dumbly.

“Good boy … okay, let’s start this thing up in a— What’s that?”

It was my cell phone! I pulled it out as fast as I could—Abuela had chosen this moment of all the moments in the world to call me back—but by the time I had silenced it, it was too late. We were busted.

Jackson turned around calmly, grinning with satisfaction.

“Well, if it isn’t Crackers ’n’ Cheese and Beatles Girl. If I’m not mistaken, we’re holding groupie auditions
tomorrow
, right, Darren? So what brings you two here today?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but all that came out were a few broken syllables.

“We were just coming up to use the piano. We didn’t know you were here,” Christine mumbled, almost inaudibly.

“Umm, sorry, Crackers von Crackerton, I must be hard of hearing. Were those words coming out of your piehole?” He turned to the drummer. “The child’s mouth moves, yet I hear no sound.” Laughter from the goons.

“Hey, Jackson, we have just as much of a right to this room as you guys do. Actually, we have more of a right.” This time, Christine spoke loudly—I was surprised she had it in her—and pointed to the sign-up sheet on the wall. “See, that’s my name. I had a reservation from twelve thirty to one.”

“Oh my, an oversight,” he mock-whimpered. “But what are the consequences? Is Principal Michaels personally going to eject us? Or perhaps the fetching new Spanish teacher? No? No one outside with a court order or a battering ram?”

Okay, so he was daring us to go tattle on him. I’d seen his type before, and that was not a challenge I was going to take him up on. I kept my silent-as-a-mime routine going, feeling powerless, like a complete idiot. And Christine’s moment of courage seemed to have passed.

I looked around the room. The bass player was playing an Eastern-sounding scale up and down his fret board. He was probably bored by this stuff, had seen it a thousand times. But I recognized the drummer: it was Curly Burly, looking straight at me with those heavy-lidded eyes. He twirled a drumstick up in the air, then pointed it straight at me.

“I know you,” he said. “You’re the one from the hall. You’re the one—”

“Darren, you’re acquainted with Beatles Girl?” Jackson said.

Curly Burly’s name was Darren? How could a dude that tough-looking, with the wallet chain and the heavy metal duds, be named
Darren
?

Jackson sat down on his amp and crossed his legs. “This chance meeting will be a happy reunion, I trust. How did you meet?”

“She made eye contact,” Darren said. “First day of school. She—”

“Darren, you need to learn how to express yourself in—Far. Fewer. Words. Work on it, please.” Jackson squinted and rubbed his chin. He strolled over until he was standing right in front of me, looking me over like a piece of merchandise he had decided wasn’t worth legal tender. “Check out the trembling lip on Beatles Girl. She really does look terrified. You’ve done your job well, motormouth.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Well, shall we crank it back up, then?” Jackson signaled Darren, who ripped off a pounding drum fill. Jackson and the bassist dug into their strings, and Raising Cain resumed its merciless attack. Christine and I looked at each other in disbelief.

“What was he talking about?” she said.

I just shook my head. I still didn’t have my words back. It was like one of those bad dreams where you’re trying to yell or scream but the sound just won’t come out. I touched my face. My lower lip was definitely not trembling! I was a little nervous; that was all. Okay, more than nervous. Freaked out. Slightly humiliated. But mostly, just really annoyed!

Another Annabelle rule:

Rock stars are not intimidated by rival bands.

TURKEY MEATBALLS

When I came home, Ronaldo popped up on IM.

EggMtnRckr:
wassup Belle?

Bassinyrface:
hey, R.

EggMtnRckr:
I read your email. He seriously said EYE CONTACT? Like he doesnt let anybody look him in the eye? I guess he thinks he’s Prince William or something, and not the loser leader of a middle school cover band.

Bassinyrface:

EggMtnRckr:
Listen, just stay out of his way. Lay low.

Bassinyrface:
I know, but there’s something about this guy that just makes me want to …
I dunno.

EggMtnRckr:
what?

Bassinyrface:
Make him stop being so full of himself. And mean.

EggMtnRckr:
No matter what you do, u cant change that about him. Trust me!

Bassinyrface:
More wisdom from the professor, eh?

EggMtnRckr:
you know it.

Bassinyrface:
YOU are a know-it-ALL sometimes, you know that?

EggMtnRckr:
Maybe. Just trying to help! I’ve had my share of that kind of guy before. U don’t think I’ve gotten guys like that messing with me? with how
I
dress?

Bassinyrface:
I know, it’s true. You have more bully experience than me.

EggMtnRckr:
I’m not saying run away. I’m just saying keep a low profile, girl! Is that so hard?

Bassinyrface:
no.

EggMtnRckr:
Actually, I know you! Staying mellow is gonna be almost impossible for you, huh?

Bassinyrface:
Heh. Maybe. We’ll see …

“Come here buddy, I got a message from Abuela today. You wanna listen to it?”

X skated over to my bed and sat next to me.

“Doesn’t that violate your grounding, little man?” I asked. “Skating in the house?”

“Not if you don’t tell Mom and Dad about it,” he said.

“Good point. Mum’s the word. Unless you mess with me, that is.”

I set the phone to speaker and started the message.

“Annabella and Chabito”—this was her special nickname for X—“this is your Abuela, your grandmama, calling you to say hello. Annabelle, I sorry I do not call you before. Things very busy, and the recorder no work no more. Consuela she giving me the message but it’s gonna be too late.

“I miss you. I miss our family like it once was. And I know you do also. But things will be good. They will be better. I promise you, okay?”

Abuela paused, and I thought I could hear the scratchy rasp of one of her old lady friends in the background, probably barking at the TV.

“This is what you need to do, okay,
mis angeles
? Don’t do a lot of things wrong for you fathers. And you need to try to make the family happy, make the family proud, always be good boy and good girl. Be beautiful, and then the world, it will be beautiful for you, too. Okay?
Besos, besos.
” Abuela’s smacking kissy sounds. “And Chabito … he can hear me, Annabelle? Chabito, you try to live more normal for me, okay?”

X shrugged as I closed the phone.

“Normal, shnormal,” X said.

“Whatever, Trevor,” I said, sighing. Why couldn’t she have moved here with us? She said she was too old to move anywhere at her age, that she would have to literally be dragged out of her apartment when she died. I couldn’t even think about that. All I knew was that, without her, we were falling apart.

That night, Mom put on a big show of making dinner for the whole family, including Shaky Jake. I could smell the good-food-cooking smells from my room/personal area. I could hear the sounds of pots and pans clanging, and instantly I knew exactly what was going on: she was trying to win our hearts back through our stomachs.

Making turkey meatballs was one of the only actual momlike things Mom ever did, and back in Brooklyn I used to feel lucky if it happened once every couple of months. Abuela was the cook of the family, and Mom knew how to prepare two, maybe three dishes. So if Mom was cooking, it was usually to make a point: that a woman who had once been called the “ice princess of indie rock” by
Blender
magazine could also roll up her sleeves and transform herself into a regular stay-at-home type—or, as in this case, to make up for something horribly irresponsible that she had done earlier that day.

I sat at the edge of the kitchen and watched her, dirty blond hair in a ponytail, furiously chopping onions and mixing them into a big ball of goodness in the mixing bowl. She shaped the mixture into tight, rounded balls and began to cook them to a delicious golden brown. It was a smart strategy. One whiff of the air in that kitchen was enough to make me swoon.

But would I let her get away with this? Let her buy my forgiveness through my taste buds? Perform emotional bribery with oregano and bread crumbs? No way. It wasn’t going to work this time. Parents couldn’t just bail on their kids in the middle of the night, recording or no recording. And they couldn’t make up for it with one meal, however yummy.

It was my goal to say no more than ten words during the whole dinner.

“Someday I’d like to mix our whole catalog in surround sound,” Dad was saying as we all sat down.

“Interesting,” was Jake’s reply, although he didn’t actually sound that interested.

Dad was in outer space. I knew that, and I didn’t have the unrealistic expectation that he would feel bad about what he had done. Bigger storms had come and gone without him noticing a cloud in the sky. Mr. V said the other day that the definition of insanity is doing or seeing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. No matter how many times I heard Dad obsess about music over the dinner table while barely nodding hello to his own children, I hoped things would be different. But they never were. So I guess that made me crazy.

I decided to concentrate all my silent fury on my mom. She was clueless, but not as clueless as my dad. She wasn’t too clueless to be made to feel guilty. I wanted her to feel
bad
, and for a good long while.

“So, how was school?” Mom asked, taking off her apron. She wore a sheer periwinkle shirt. The short sleeves had pretty frills at the ends, and tiny white butterflies decorated the fabric.

“Fine.” I sat down at the table, not meeting her eyes.
One word. One out of ten.
X sat across from me with his clapping monkey.

I twirled pasta around my fork, making sure my expression wasn’t sad or angry. I just went for emptiness, wide-open emptiness that would keep Mom guessing. I was good at this.

X was inhaling his pasta and making rhymes about his two favorite foods, orange sherbet and Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda. These two items had been mostly off-limits in Brooklyn, when Abuela was in charge of the shopping and cooking. Abuela used to let X have orange sherbet on holidays and other special occasions, and once a month or so she’d go all the way to a Lower East Side deli to buy a six-pack of Cel-Ray, a soda that actually mixed in celery flavor along with the regular five pounds of sugar. Back then, these things had been only once-in-a-while treats. Now X wanted them every day. My mom had pretty much caved in when it came to the orange sherbet, letting X have some every night after dinner. But she couldn’t find Cel-Ray anywhere.

“Sunday, Monday, X wants a Cel-Ray,” X chanted. “Tuesday, Wednesday, I know my mom’ll find a way!”

Mom succeeded in calming Xavier down after a while by squeezing a lime into his ginger ale and giving him her most serious enough-is-enough stare. Then she got even more ambitious, trying to get
me
to talk again, to answer questions with more than one-syllable answers. She admitted that going to the mastering studio had been “bad judgment” and that she’d start being “more aware of” X’s and my “needs.” She tried to puncture my armor with these measly peace offerings. But it wasn’t going to work, and she knew it. She shifted tactics.

“Are you still enjoying that English class you said you liked? The one with the funny teacher?”

“It’s fine.”
Three.

“Have you been looking for bandmates?”

“No.”
Four.

“Have you made any other friends?”

“Nope.” That made five words that I’d spoken since dinner had started. Mom put her fork down and leaned over, trying to get me to make eye contact. I gave her a glance that lasted less than a half second.

“Belle, not all your friends need to be musicians, you know. I’ll bet there are all kinds of neat kids at Federal Hill.”

Neat kids?

“Whatever, Mom.”
Seven.
Bad move. She couldn’t offer me advice and parental wisdom on the same day she had abandoned me in the middle of the night.

“Belle’s never been great at making friends,” said my dad, as if I weren’t sitting right there in front of him. “She’s a loner, like me, dreaming about music.”

Then he turned to me. “Annabelle, I love the way you’ve taken after me with your music. It’s something that’ll stay with you for the rest of your life. But you need to work on making friends, too, and keeping them. Maybe you need to … I don’t know, soften your edges a little bit?”

“What are you talking about? I don’t have any edges!” Enraged at the fact that my dad had made me go over my word count by seven, I picked up my plate and headed toward the sink. But now that my plan had been shot to pieces, I couldn’t resist coming back to the table to stir things up a little. I guess I hadn’t fully mastered the art of sulking.