Torn (4 page)

Hours later, Devin McCloud lay in his comfortable bedroom, waiting for sunrise. The house was quiet, his parents fast asleep. He was exhausted. By rights he should have been unconscious, but his brain was locked—and not on Cody and the Slits. Though the nervous energy that propelled his thoughts was probably a leftover from that encounter, his focus was on the fact that Torn was getting together in less than twelve hours to record “Face” in Devin's garage, and sometime before then, he would have to fire Karston.

Grateful though Cody had seemed because Devin had fought by his side, he had not given up on that point. Karston's bass was supposed to be there; Karston was not.

When the Slits had fled, Devin had felt exhilarated. Now he just felt tired and kind of sick. Shifting up onto his elbow on the soft mattress, he stared out his large round window at the manicured lawns and squared hedges of the gated Meadowcrest Farms housing development. As far as he could tell, the development had nothing to do with a meadow, a crest, or a farm. It had more to do with tiny, well-tended yards, and neighbors who seemed to pose as they stopped and smiled and waved. The squares, rectangles, and circles that made up the houses were tight and perfect. Everything seemed held together by money.

But even in the dim light of early morning, Devin could see exactly where the lawn mowers and hedge clippers stopped and something else began, something jagged and unkempt: a dark forest that went on for miles. As a child he hadn't been allowed to go in there; now he just didn't want to, as if all the years of comfort and security had left him too comfortable and secure.

He wasn't like Cody. He wasn't a natural. He wasn't driven. He wasn't sure. He didn't even know if he could write any decent songs. What was “Face,” anyway? What did it mean?

As his eyes half closed, a line from the lullaby
drifted back to him. It was his grandma's song; Namana, he used to call her.

Your heart beats slowly, drowsy eyes…

It was a pretty thing, the tune. Even the small bit playing in his mind relaxed him. The rest of the words and the melody licked at the edge of memory, teasing, just out of reach, like the woods. As he reached for more words with his mind, they dissipated, like ghosts.

Half awake, he found that strong images came to him more easily. He remembered being curled up deliciously cozy in Namana's lap when she babysat. There was a stuffed toy in his hand. When she started singing, he'd bury his head in the toy, hide in its darkness until he felt drowsy. He could feel the rough fur against his cheek, hear her old voice as she croaked more than sang.

Or else the wild will come for you.

And snatch bad children away? A tingling along his spine told him he was on the right track.

Be good or
else
.

By the time he was six, his mother said, he had demanded Namana never sing it again. It was too horrible—he thought it might be real, that something might really come and kill him. Stupid. But at six, you think everything might be real, everything
except real-life horrors like the Slits.

Be good or
else
.

Funny, but weren't all the lullabies and nursery rhymes like that? Lost children, cannibalistic witches? Didn't the famous ones talk about dying before you wake, or a baby falling screaming out of a treetop? Wasn't ring-around-the-rosy about the black plague? The symptoms and the fatal sneezing fit were wrapped into the cute lyrics:

Achoo! Achoo! We all fall down!

As if they were waiting for just the right moment, a few more strands of the lullaby came back. They gave him a rush more familiar than the adrenaline frenzy of his fight. This was the kind of rush that came when something inside of him filled him up to bursting, the kind he got whenever he was trying to write a song and he was on to something. This was something.

Your heart beats slowly, drowsy eyes…

Devin thought maybe he could call Namana, visit her, ask her how it really went. The senior care facility was just an hour away. She'd love it. No one ever visited. But no. He didn't want to deal with that place, or with her being old and feeble. The last time she hugged him (two years ago at Christmas?) her hands and arms felt so thin against
his neck, it was like being grabbed by a skeleton.

Besides, it would ruin it if he knew the real song. This was better. The less perfectly Devin remembered it, the more he was free to make it his own.

He snapped on the light by his bed, plugged in his amp, slipped on his headphones, and played, fumbling around for the right notes, finding them more and more often. He paused occasionally, scratched down some chord progressions with the nub of a pencil, crossed others out, and filled in the missing parts with his own inventions.

As he worked, it came to him faster, as if he were in a welcome trance. Sitting there, sleepless, working on a dream, reminded him why he'd helped Cody form Torn in the first place, why he was so worried about not being worthy. Because sometimes, like right now, working on the music made him forget all the hesitancy, all the guilt, all the fence-straddling.

In an hour, he was finished, and he liked it. It wasn't like “Face” or any of his other songs. This was soft, but it had something edgy to it, too. Cody's voice alone could make it ache. And when he imagined Cody singing, Cheryl on drums, him
on rhythm, and Ben on bass, it made Devin feel more than real; it made him feel like he was on fire.

A little giddy, he sang it to himself, in his head so as not to wake his parents, to make sure it all worked. As he sang, a chill went up his spine and settled heavily on his shoulders—as if there were suddenly something right behind him, something thick and dangerous. The feeling was so strong, so pointed, he even stood up and stared out his window.

As he scanned the line where the woods began, he thought he saw something move, but it was only shadow bumping into shadow as the wind twisted the branches of the trees.

He laughed as he realized he'd spooked himself. He'd written a song that actually spooked him!

Was that cool, or what?

Now all he had to do was fire Karston.

 

Saturday had arrived in earnest. With only a few hours' sleep behind him, a resolute Devin drove the good-old monster SUV across the abandoned tracks into Karston's lower-class neighborhood. As he did, he was struck by how everything here
seemed held together by wood—old rotting wood that was frayed at the edges, badly painted, and ready to give. Things were shaped like houses and stores, but really they looked like they were ready to call it quits and go back to being forest.

Despite his resolve, driving slowly in the huge car Devin again felt undeserving, conspicuous, and after the Slit attack, unsafe. He also felt annoyed with himself for feeling all of the above. He'd driven here before without any problems, but today everything seemed sharp and pointy, like it was ready to cut him.

It was probably just the lack of sleep.

The block that held the shotgun shack the bassist occupied with his single mom was easy to find; there was an old refrigerator on the corner that no one ever bothered to clear away. It just sat there as if waiting for the bus. The door was missing, so there was a clear view of the brownish stains inside that may once have been some sort of food.

After making the turn, Devin parked in front of a garbage-strewn lot across the street. Before popping open the door and getting out, he gave himself a moment to chill. He looked at his oblong
face in the rearview mirror, examining the bump in the center of his nose that his mother suggested he have removed when he was older. His light brown hair looked stiff and stringy. Pleased by how much stubble he had on his face, he rubbed it thought-fully. The little garnet earring in his upper right ear always looked weird to him, but it, and the piercing, were a gift from Cheryl.

He realized he looked like he felt: terrible. But what did that matter? It was time to do the deed.

Cody could be a crazy son of a bitch, but he was right. Devin really did need to do this. Karston, in the end, would be better off finding out sooner rather than later that he didn't have what it takes…right?

Still looking at himself, he remembered something Samurai warriors did before going off into battle. They would look at themselves, then make some sort of ridiculous face to distract their minds. Following suit, Devin stuck his tongue out at himself, then hopped from the driver's seat and punched the Lock button on the keys.

The avenue was quiet, since most folks were sleeping off Friday night, so the chirp of the locking car seemed horribly loud. He winced at the
sound, but no one else seemed to have heard.

His sneakers crunched along the decaying asphalt as he approached the chain-link fence. Its silver paint bubbled in spots and the poles were marred by reddish rust. Stalky dead plant-things stuck out along the bottom of the fence, threatening to claim the sidewalk. On the other side, a gray walk led to wooden stairs and a porch littered with beer bottles, most empty, some stuffed with cigarette butts.

He would do it, Devin thought; he would get it over with now. He thought about buying himself a new DVD as a reward, but just before his foot hit the first step, he heard shouting.

“I just can't believe what an idiot you are! How old are you? When are you going to grow up? You're wasting your life hanging out with crooks and sluts!”

Devin knew the voice. It came from Karston's mother, a short, pit bull of a woman. She had a kind of back-of-the-throat dying-animal screech that brought up phlegm at the end of every sentence. Even when she was saying something nice, like asking Devin if he wanted some water, you could hear the hate.

“I keep telling you I was with the band! We played at a club! We were really good!” This was Karston. His voice had volume, too, but there was no anger, only a wimpy, surrendering tone.

“Did they pay you?”

“A little.”

Even though he was outside, with the walls of a house between them and no windows open, Devin could hear her disapproving “Tch.”

More whining from Karston: “They invited us back next week to play a full set. I'm recording with the group this afternoon!”

“Recording, right. Makes me sick, all that money you wasted and you can't even keep that thing in tune. Watch. The two crooks and the slut will dump you first chance they get, just as soon as they can get that bass away from you. That's all they want.”

Devin felt something in his gut tighten. It was true. Except the slut part.

A long pause followed, as if Karston were considering. Finally, he said, “No. Devin would never do that.”

Great.
Devin
would never do that. Cody would. Cody would do anything. But not Devin. He was
the nice guy. The good kid. The knot in Devin's gut twisted.

“Oh, Devin! Devin, Devin, Devin. You trust that spoiled brat?” the shrill voice shouted. “You're going to wind up just like your father!”

For the first time, anger appeared in Karston's voice. “Keep my father out of this!”

Frozen at the rusted gate, Devin heard footsteps moving on a wooden floor. The next sound was a hard slap of skin against skin, followed by Karston's whiny, “Ahh! Don't hit me!”

That was it. Devin turned around, got back in his father's car, drove home, and spent the rest of the afternoon fiddling with the melody to his new song, trying to get it just right, wondering if it would ever be bright and shiny enough to distract the adamant Cody, if only for a little while.

Once Devin's parents gave him the long list of warnings for his weekend home alone, declared their faith in his maturity, and finally left, the afternoon slipped by quickly and the time for the recording session neared.

Karston, of course, showed up first. It was a mystery how he got around, but he always showed up and never dared ask anyone for a ride. Speculation was that he hitched, or took some bizarre combination of public transport. After exchanging hellos, Devin explained that he had to pick up some soda and left the bassist alone in the garage.

By the time Devin returned, Cheryl was there.
She had her own car, and had driven over from the nearby development where she lived. As he stepped back in, she looked up from her half-assembled drum kit, made a face, and said, “You look different.”

Before he could begin to wonder what she meant, Cheryl stepped out from behind the drums and walked closer, filling Devin's field of vision with smooth, beautiful skin, straight blond hair, and natural energy. By the time she stopped coming closer, he had a good view of the faint freckles on her cheeks.

What could it be? Had his encounter with the Slits magically matured him overnight? Was it finally writing a song he felt good about? Or both?

Whatever it was, she scanned his face, brow furrowed. “You look more…rugged,” she finally said. Her eyes continued their investigation, questioning his features, focusing on his lips. “Reminds me of someone. Cody?”

He frowned, so she went up on tiptoes to kiss him. “Mmm. Nice mix. Sexy.”

He was going to grab and kiss her again when he caught a glimpse of Karston over her head. His eyes were hidden by dangling hair, but he was
watching. Remembering they weren't quite alone, Devin stepped back and smiled. “Maybe I'm just excited about tonight,” he said.

Cheryl shook her head slowly. “No. That's not it. Did something happen?”

“Yeah,” he said in a low voice. “Tell you later.”

“Let's get this party started,” Cody howled as he and One Word Ben walked in. For a second, Devin hoped Cody had forgotten about Karston, or at least was willing to let it go for one night. But when Cody spotted Karston, he spun and glared at Devin with a malevolent twinkle in his eyes. His voice was flat and earnest as he said, “But first, Little Devin's got something very special to say to K—”

Before Cody could complete the name, Devin held up his hand. “Yeah. Yeah, I do have something to say.”

And then Devin went silent.

“What?” said One Word Ben.

Good question,
Devin thought. He turned to look at Karston. He was already bracing himself, already expecting something was up.

“I…I've got a new song I want you all to hear,” Devin said. Now was as good a time as any, so he
pulled up his acoustic Ovation, sat on a stool, checked the tuning, and started to play.

The last finger-picked notes from the guitar reverberated against the cinder-block walls of the two-car garage. As the echo melted away, Devin slipped the Ovation from his arms and leaned it against the stool. He cupped his hands in his lap and watched and waited. It was a risk playing anything on acoustic in front of Cody, but he wanted to sing it in a range his own voice could barely touch, and the softer guitar sound let his weaker vocal come through more clearly.

The late afternoon sun was just above the tree line outside the open garage door, making Devin's band-mates appear in silhouette. They just stood there a little while, looking at him, but he couldn't see any expressions on their faces.

Finally Cheryl held up her hand. “Wait,” she said, then ran out.

In her absence, Cody twisted his head to the side in a kind of apelike way. “It's a ballad,” he huffed.

“So?” said One Word Ben.

Karston shifted his position so he was standing nearly behind Devin. It was as if he was aware something was up and sought protection. Cody looked like he was about to say something when Cheryl raced back in, her camcorder in hand.

“Okay,” she said, putting the viewfinder to her eye. “Play it again. Just the same way.”

Devin looked at her. “On tape? Why?”

“I want a recording of our first hit song.”

Devin laughed, figuring she was joking, but when not even Cody said anything, he did as asked and ran the song again, screwing up some of the picking in the middle as he became too aware of the camera.

When he was done, Cody said, “It needs a chorus.”

Cheryl shook her head. “It's amazing.”

“I didn't say it was bad or good. I said it needs a chorus.”

But does Cody like it?
Devin wondered. They needed more songs if they were going to fill a set,
and Devin was confident this was as good as any they had, even if it wasn't exactly nu-metal. Had it worked as a distraction, though? Would Cody give Karston another night?

Cody lifted the strap of his Les Paul over his shoulder, but he still wasn't giving anything away. As he plugged into an amp and started tuning, he said, “We've only got until nine because of your big bad date, right, sweetie pie? Can we get started with the recording?”

Phew!

He'd gotten away with it, for the night anyway. Now it was up to Karston to make it through the recording session. Relieved, Devin flipped the switch that closed the garage door, and they got to it.

 

It was Torn's first effort at recording tracks. The method was twenty-first-century crude. Devin had downloaded a mixing program called Track It! for thirty bucks. It would supposedly let them lay down as many different tracks as his laptop's memory could hold. Then they'd mix down and convert the file to the coveted MP3, which Cheryl, Torn's webmistress, could upload to their site.

As they worked, the thought of the kids at Argus High School bopping with “Face” in their earbuds got Devin even more excited. With Karston and the new song on hold at least for the moment, they ran through “Face” twice, then recorded it whole hog through a single mike plugged into his laptop. The idea was that then they'd play individually, listening to the control track through the phones. That would give them one instrument or vocal per track, which they could mix to their heart's content.

As for Karston, maybe his mother's tongue-lashing had set him straight, because he played through the song all three times flawlessly, or as close to that as he could come. It was always a little easier for him during rehearsal, when he was free to stare down at his fingers the whole time.

As the evening progressed, Devin was thinking that not only had he dodged a bullet, they'd also be finished in plenty of time for his big date with Cheryl. With his folks gone, the band had agreed to split up at nine, to leave the two alone.

But then a technical problem set in. The laptop, wicked cool though it was, couldn't play back more than four tracks at a time without losing
synch, freezing, or crashing. Thinking fast, Devin decided they could mix down the rhythm and drums, add two more tracks, mix them down and so on. It was even cruder than they'd planned, but it could work.

Cheryl and One Word Ben were naturals, knocking out their parts in two takes. Taking this as a challenge, Cody put down a lead in one. It was nothing like what he'd ever played before on the song, but it was great. It was like the guy hated playing the same thing twice.

“Now the bass,” Cody said with a nearly imperceptible sneer.

“No,” Devin said. “I'll have to mess with the equalizer to get a decent bass sound. How about vocals? With the vocals the settings are practically there already.”

He could see an evil twinkle in Cody's eye. “You're the techno-geek.”

The lead vocal was fine in the first take, but Cody insisted on two more, which brought them right up against the nine o'clock deadline with just the harmonies and the bass track to go.

Devin looked at the clock. “And that is time.”

Everyone moaned. Cheryl sighed.

“Dev,” she said sweetly, “nine thirty is just as good as nine for us, isn't it?”

But Devin was thrilled to have an excuse for separating Cody and Karston. He shook his head. “No, no. Time to pack it in. Karston can come back and add the bass tomorrow.”

Which will be perfect,
Devin figured. Alone, Karston could stare at his fingers, pick his nose, sacrifice to Zeus, whatever, and he wouldn't have Cody breathing down his neck. But more moans and groans issued forth. Even Karston opened his mouth. “Come on, Devin, I can do it. I feel really on tonight.”

Sheesh! Don't you know when to shut up?

“Yeah,” Cody echoed with more than a little sarcasm. “Karston is so on.”

“Finish,” One Word Ben chimed in.

Devin shook his head and started shutting down the laptop. “Deal's a deal.” He was a little hurt that Cheryl didn't seem as eager as he was to be alone. But what came next made him feel better.

“Don't worry boys, I'll handle this,” Cheryl said. She'd dressed in an orange blouse he'd always liked that showed some of her cleavage, and a tight pair of low-cut jeans. As Devin idly clicked a
few laptop keys, she walked up, twisted him around, and pressed her lips against his. He felt her tongue poking at the ridge of his teeth in a way that made his head explode.

She pulled back and said again, just as sweetly, “Dev, nine thirty is just as good as nine, isn't it?”

“Nine thirty is the most amazing thing in the whole world,” Devin answered dreamily. “It's my favorite time ever.”

Devin moved to kiss her again, but she pulled away. Cody gave her a wicked smile.

“Okay,” Devin said, surrendering. “How about this? We'll finish recording tonight and mix tomorrow. Why don't we pack up Cody and Ben and they can take off. You're driving Cody back, right Ben?”

“Right.”

“Cool. Then Cheryl and I will finish recording Karston. Deal?”

Cody gave Devin another knowing look, but Devin just shrugged in response. Still staring at Devin, he unplugged his axe and moved to put it in the case.

“Dev,” Cody said, too sweetly, “can you help me load up the amp?”

As they walked toward Ben's minivan, out of
earshot of the garage, Cody shook his head. “You get one extra night, that's all, and it's just delaying the inevitable, man. He's killing us.”

“It'll be fine,” Devin insisted.

“Don't think I won't know it if you play the bass for him,” Cody said as he slipped his guitar case into the back.

“It'll be fine. Come on, you owe me for helping you with the Slits,” Devin said.

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?