August and Everything After Read online

  It’s taking me too long to respond, apparently. Malcolm texts a row of question marks. I reply.

  If I do this, you have to promise to keep your drunken ass out of my bed

  What if I’m sober???

  Malcolm!

  Promise

  And you can’t try to kiss me

  Then don’t try to save me

  I’ll have my lawyer draw up the papers

  You have a lawyer?

  I don’t even have real drums

  So you’re in?

  I’m in

  And just like that, me, the drumless drummer, agrees to join Malcolm Trent’s band. Now to figure out how I’m going to explain it to Auntsie.

  ELEVEN

  “Absolutely not.”

  That’s what Auntsie says when I rouse her from her usual spot on the couch and tell her about Malcolm’s plan.

  It was reassuring to see her there when I walked in. We haven’t seen too much of each other since Sunday, and I was beginning to think I was the reason she’d been leaving the house early and coming home late every night this week.

  “He wants to talk to you about it,” I say.

  “When?”

  “Our first practice is supposed to be Thursday night. Before then I guess?”

  “Tell him to come to dinner on Sunday. I’ll make linguine and clam sauce.”

  Somehow I envisioned this talk sans pasta. But I get it. Her house, her rules.

  “Okay.” I hold up the book Malcolm gave me in an attempt to win him more points. “Look, he left this at Keegan’s for me.”

  Auntsie swings her legs off the couch and sits up. “Patti Smith, huh? I love that book.”

  I smile inside and stop twisting my bracelet. “You’ll like him. I know you will.”

  “Your sister can help me render my verdict on Sunday.”

  My sister?

  “You’re inviting Evie to dinner?”

  “She’ll already be here. Remember? She’s coming tomorrow morning with her friend Kate.”

  That’s right. I totally forgot. “How’re they getting here?” Translation: Is Mom coming?

  “Kate’s sister Ashley is dropping them off. Your mom’s picking them up Wednesday.”

  Mom’s a paralegal for a law firm. She works a gazillion hours when one of her attorneys is on trial, but her bosses are also very generous with the comp time. Especially in the summer, which is good for my sister. Evie will be a junior in the fall, but kids in New Jersey can’t drive without a parent until they’re seventeen.

  Maybe I can work a double shift at the Ben Franklin on Wednesday.

  Auntsie reads my mind. “You and your mother are going to have to talk sooner or later.”

  “Why? Her icy tone and my sarcasm translate fine via text.”

  Auntsie sighs. “What about Malcolm? She needs to know.”

  I panic. “About the bed thing?”

  “God no! Let’s leave that out. About joining his band.”

  Phew. “So you’re okay with it?”

  “We’ll find out Sunday, won’t we?”

  I guess we will.

  Upstairs I flip through the book Malcolm gave me. I can tell by the cracked spine and handwritten notes in the margins that it’s been read carefully. I normally don’t approve of defacing books, but in this case, I can’t resist following Malcolm’s breadcrumbs. Like listening to his music, it’s another chance to poke around in his mind. So I start reading.

  It begins with a death. Three pages in, Malcolm has made a thin black line under the words providence determined how I would say goodbye. I keep reading, as much to see what happens as how Malcolm reacted to it. I make it to page twenty-five before I get tired and start to read with one eye, resting my brown eye first before switching to the blue. But I fight exhaustion and keep reading because I’m afraid that when I fall asleep, I’ll dream about Lynn.

  Sometimes I dream about the accident, the parts I remember anyway. The soul-piercing squeal of brakes, the thud of metal hitting metal. Other times, I dream Lynn is alive. I run into her unexpectedly in some everyday mundane location: the band room at school, our kitchen, the mall. The places change, but one piece remains constant. I’m always carrying something heavy; a bass drum, a case of water, bulky packages. She always smiles, holds out her arms, and says the same thing: “Here, let me help you with that.”

  TWELVE

  Evie arrives in dramatic style the next morning, pouncing on my bed like Tigger in a bounce house. I panic for a moment, not knowing where I am. But then my heart slows when I realize I’m at Auntsie’s and I didn’t dream at all last night.

  “You’re missing a perfect beach day!”

  I cover my head with a pillow. She’s the one who’s all about the sun and the sand. Not me. I’m about places I can wear my Doc Martens and cutoff overalls in the summer. I reach for my phone and drag it under the pillow with me.

  “Evie, it’s not even seven! The sun is barely awake.”

  “Kate’s sister wanted to get an early start. It’s her only day off this week, so our plan is to stay on the beach until dark. Are you coming with us?”

  I toss my pillow aside and sit up. “Can’t. I’m working at the Ben Franklin today.”

  Her lower lip curls. “Bummer. Boardwalk tonight? I want to ride the new free fall tower. Have you done it yet?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet. It’s not as tall as the old one.”

  The free fall tower, Jet Star roller coaster, and the old Ferris wheel were all victims of Superstorm Sandy. It’s the second summer since the storm, and although some things on the shore are getting better, they’ll never be the same.

  Evie jumps off the bed. “We stopped at McDonald’s. I got you hotcakes and hash browns.”

  Ever since we were little kids, Evie’s been dreaming up ways to lure me out of bed at the crack of dawn on weekends. She was always like: I heard a noise in the kitchen. I need help with the toaster oven. That band you like is on the morning show.

  But she’s finally learning. I’ll always get up for hotcakes and hash browns.

  “What the hell are you wearing?” Evie screams when I enter the kitchen.

  I look down at my cotton shorts and tee.

  “Pajamas?”

  “I meant on your face,” Evie says.

  I adjust my frames. I forgot. Evie hasn’t seen me in my new glasses.

  “They were Grammy’s,” I say.

  Evie huffs. “I can tell. Even she wears contacts now, you know.”

  I move to the counter and pour myself a cup of coffee. “I know.” Grammy said the contacts improved her golf game. She and Pop play all the time now that they live in Florida. Even before the contacts, she always wore snazzy frames. Auntsie said the ones I’m wearing were Grammy’s in high school.

  “Honestly, Quinn. It’s like you go out of your way to make yourself unapproachable.”

  Ashley and Kate offer me sympathetic looks.

  “Hey,” I say and smile to both of them. They give me a “hey” back.

  If I’d known my hotcakes came with psychoanalysis instead of syrup, I would have stayed in bed. Wasn’t she the one who thought I needed protection from The Nobodies?

  “I’m wearing glasses, not barbed wire,” I snap back.

  “And what about this boy?”

  “What boy?”

  “Auntsie says there’s a boy coming to dinner tomorrow.”

  Oh lord. Sometimes I forget that inside Evie’s petite sixteen-year-old body is a forty-something PTA mom dying to bust out.

  I shoot Auntsie a look.

  “What? All I said was you’re having a friend over.”

  “Did you tell her why?” I ask.

  “Nope. Figured I’d leave that to you, Taylor Hawkins.”

  I loo
k at my aunt smiling smugly in her Foo Fighters T-shirt, and wonder if she’s ever going to join this millennium. I should point out that her Foo Fighters drummer reference is lost on everyone but me, but why bother.

  “I’ll never be as good as Taylor,” I mumble instead. I launch into my explanation of Malcolm’s plan for me to record some songs with him. I include his backstory, the tragic accident, and hopes for a comeback. For obvious reasons, I leave out his stint in rehab and the bit about my bed. Kate and Ashley are sorry for his loss—who isn’t?—and curious about his music. But Evie looks worried.

  “You didn’t kiss him, did you?”

  “Pfff. No!”

  “Quinnnn?” She drags out my name like I’m a puppy caught chewing the rug.

  I bite my lower lip. “Okay, so what if I did? It doesn’t matter anyway because we agreed it can never happen again. Not if we’re going to be working together.”

  “Wish I could spend my summer in a rock band,” Kate says through a mouthful of Egg McMuffin.

  “Mmm hmm,” Ashley agrees.

  Evie’s “nobody” detector must sound like an air-raid siren in her head.

  “I’m pretty sure this is not what Mom had in mind when she said you needed a solid life plan by the end of the summer.”

  It probably isn’t. But short of becoming Evie, I’m not sure what Mom wants from me. I don’t say that though. It wouldn’t be fair. Evie’s not a good girl because she’s trying to make me look bad. I recognize playing music with Malcolm and Liam isn’t exactly going to make me look good, but the idea stirs an unfamiliar excitement that I’m unwilling to let go of. I can’t remember the last time I looked forward to anything.

  I grab my hash browns and stand to go.

  “I’ve got to shower before work. Have fun at the beach today.” Then I retreat to the safety of my room, undeterred by Evie’s lack of support. Tomorrow’s dinner with Malcolm should be interesting.

  THIRTEEN

  Malcolm arrives on Sunday afternoon bearing vinyl for my aunt and drums for me.

  “Figured I’d bring the hi-hat in now. The rest is in my truck.”

  I take the hi-hat, which looks like two cymbals facing each other on a stick, and set them down by the door.

  “Come in,” I say without making eye contact. My mouth’s been stricken with a sudden dryness that’s making my lips stick to my teeth. Why am I so nervous? It’s like he’s meeting my father for the first time, even though Auntsie’s a woman, and I’ve never even met my father, not really. I’m glad Evie and Kate ditched an early Sunday dinner in favor of more beach time.

  “You look nice,” Malcolm says as he leans in to hug me. He smells nice, like soap and cologne instead of a cocktail or tobacco.

  “You too,” I say as I smooth my navy blue cotton sundress. I’m wearing it with combat boots, to make sure it doesn’t look like I’m trying too hard, which, I am. I even scrubbed twice with shower gel so I’d smell like “Honolulu Sunshine” not wet shelter dog. Auntsie and I worked a double shift this morning walking, feeding, and beautifying two pit bull mixes, a beagle, and my Reggie.

  But if I’m trying hard, so is he.

  He’s wearing a cool vintage bowling shirt with the name “Hank” stitched over the left breast pocket, and just-right fitting jeans with a tear over one knee. His beard looks more coiffed than usual, and his still-wet hair has been swept away from his face.

  “This is for you,” Malcolm says to Auntsie as he hands her an album.

  Auntsie holds it up. “Revolver? Thank you.”

  “I tried to find something alt-rock, but then I figured, you could never go wrong with the Beatles, right? I really like the cover art.”

  Auntsie studies the album. The jacket has a cool pencil drawing of Paul, John, George, and Ringo and that whole ’60s psychedelic vibe going on. She smiles, but in a way that makes me think she’s saying “suck-up” to herself.

  “Very cool, thank you. You guys mind if I play it?” She’s being nice, but not her usual warm self.

  “Promise to play the Ramones next?” Malcolm asks.

  “You got it.” He’s speaking her language, and I can tell she’s torn between being my surrogate parent and a fangirl. She’s going to break soon. I know it. Auntsie powers up the stereo and places the album on the turntable. The crackling needle heightens our anticipation as we watch the record turn and wait for the opening guitar sounds.

  “‘Taxman,’” Auntsie announces. “Track four is one of my favorites. ‘Here, There, and Everywhere.’”

  Malcolm turns to me. “You should listen to that one. It’s got that steady, in-the-pocket, understated Ringo drumming.” Then he turns back to Auntsie. “I kinda dig the last track.”

  I’m wondering what the last track is when Auntsie reads it off the jacket.

  “‘Tomorrow Never Knows.’”

  Mutual understanding then awkward silence passes between us. Auntsie’s icy exterior begins to thaw.

  “Let’s eat. Your sister and Kate said they’ll be back in time for dessert.”

  I’m sure they will. Evie’s not going to miss an opportunity to spy for Mom.

  I turn to Malcolm and explain. “My sister and her friend are here until Wednesday. They’ve been soaking up the sun like solar panels since yesterday morning.”

  “I’m more of a nighttime person,” Malcolm says.

  “Me too.” Auntsie motions to the tats on her arms. “If I don’t wear a long-sleeved swim shirt and SPF one hundred, these fade.”

  Malcolm takes a step closer and nods approvingly. “I like the Celtic knotwork design. I’ve always wanted to get a cross like that on my back.”

  “I know an excellent artist if you ever decide to do it. There’s a six-month waiting list for her, but she’s worth it.”

  Yep. Auntsie is definitely opening up.

  Once we’re seated around the small kitchen table, Auntsie asks Malcolm more questions than that guy with the swoopy hair from World News Tonight. I twirl my linguine around my fork and watch the volley between them.

  Where is the rehearsal space?

  Across the bridge.

  Recording studio?

  Atlantic Trax in Asbury Park.

  Fancy.

  Yeah. Last time my label paid.

  Did you hire a producer?

  Ricky Keyes.

  Auntsie drops her fork. “Holy shit, are you kidding me? Ricky Keyes?!”

  “Yep.” Malcolm looks pleased. Hard to tell if it’s because he hired this Ricky person or because Auntsie knows who he is. I’m not sure who to be impressed with. “He’s coming up from Nashville. We only have him for seventy-two hours though, one long weekend. So we’ll need to be efficient.”

  Auntsie turns to me and clears up my confusion.

  “I interviewed Ricky back in the day. He was with a band called Amethyst. They had one radio hit. When the band broke up, he went solo, but he also went on to write and produce songs for big names like Weezer, Pink, Keith Urban, Katy Perry. He’s a big deal.”

  Wow. Who knew my aunt was Ricky Keyes’s biggest fan?

  She turns toward Malcolm. “How on earth did you get him?”

  “Friend of a friend. Ricky is doing me a huge favor. Having him onboard means everything. I know this demo will turn out awesome.”

  “What do you plan to do with the demo when you’re finished?” she asks.

  “Have copies pressed.”

  “CDs or vinyl?” Auntsie asks.

  “Both. I want to sell copies at my merch table. I’m lining up a solo tour for the fall,” he says.

  “A solo tour? Where?” I blurt out. The thought of him leaving suddenly makes me nervous.

  I caught him as he was taking a bite of Italian bread, so I have to wait for him to chew and sip his water before I get an answer.

  “Coll
ege towns between here and Florida. It’s the tour I never…” He clears his throat and focuses on his bowl of linguine. “Yeah, so anyway, I also want to send a copy to this A&R guy I’m still in touch with. Try to get my label interested in me again. He says if he likes what he hears, he’ll send someone out to our Labor Day weekend showcase at Keegan’s. Even if it is in Jersey.”

  Auntsie shakes her head. “New York music snobs. Typical.”

  My palms start to sweat. “What’s an A and R guy?”

  “A&R stands for artists and repertoire—they’re like talent scouts for record labels,” Auntsie explains.

  I look at Malcolm. “Are you sure you want me as your drummer? You should get someone better.”

  Malcolm clears his throat. “When I started my band, Gatsby, I was the only one who had any chops when it came to playing an instrument. The rest of those guys? They had some work to do. But the vibe felt right between us, ya know? Same thing this time around. It’s about the vibe, and I have a good feeling about our power trio.”

  “But I’m going to make mistakes.”

  Malcolm waves away my protest.

  “Trust me, it’s going to be all right. Producers like Ricky can work miracles in the studio, and we still have plenty of time before the gig. If we need to, we can make it an acoustic set at Keegan’s, and you can play percussion.”

  Auntsie chimes in. “I’ve always wanted to play tambourine in a band. Either that or the cowbell. How cool would that be?”

  “If you’re not a cow? Not very,” I say.

  “Oh, come on. It would be awesome,” Auntsie says.

  “Is that a hint?” Malcolm asks.