Road Rash Read online

  I almost told him, but what was the point? “He wanted your sister’s phone number,” I joked. We were always kidding about setting Kimber up, but she was evidently pretty picky.

  “Yeah, right.…”

  “Actually, we were just shooting some hoops. They thought we sounded good.”

  He nodded slowly, like there was no way he was buying that one, either. “Uh-huh … sure.”

  “Okay, except for Nate, their drummer. He was less than impressed with Justin’s tasty little solo.”

  “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said. So, what did you think of it?”

  “Justin? He was trying to show off and it sucked, big-time.”

  “Duh.”

  “But I get it. Glenn-Taylor-the-guitar-wizard walks in, so he feels like he has to prove something. He’s only a sophomore, man—he’ll get over it.”

  “Boy, you’re in a forgiving mood.”

  “Look, he’s one of us, so we have to cut him a little slack, right?”

  “I guess. But I’m starting to worry that his insecurity might get in the way of us getting somewhere. This isn’t the first time he’s choked.”

  I shrugged. “I want a deal as much as you, but I’m not gonna sweat it—this is supposed to be about good times, too.”

  He gave me a strange look.

  “Yeah. Supposed to be …”

  2

  “Kick Me to the Curb”

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty!” my dad said. “Nice of you to join us.” He held out a plate stacked with pancakes. “You almost missed breakfast.”

  I snagged four or five. “I was up late last night, working.”

  “Hey, you pig,” my little sister, Alicia, said. “Don’t take them all!”

  “I’m making more,” my mom called from the kitchen. “And don’t call your brother a pig.”

  Alicia’s idea of complying was to pull her eyelids down and push her nose up in a snout and snort at me.

  Dad ignored her, as usual. “You were working last night?” he said. “Then how come they call it playing in a band?”

  That joke was getting old. “Just because parts of a job are fun doesn’t mean it’s not work.” I was thinking about that broken freight elevator.

  He nodded. “Yeah, maybe. But speaking of work, what are your plans for the summer? School’s out pretty soon and we’re not having a repeat of last year.”

  I rolled my eyes, but luckily he didn’t see me. Okay, maybe last summer I’d kinda bailed on my promise to get a job, and I’d ended up spending most of my time with Kyle and the band. And to be honest we’d goofed off more than we’d worked, but the band had grown into something more serious now.

  Mom tried to help. “Last summer was better than the year before, when he moped in his room all day.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with him having friends,” Dad said. “But he needs to learn how to work, too.” He turned to me. “I was talking with Jerry over at Johnson’s Yard Supply the other day, and he said he could use some extra help this summer, moving plants and loading trucks. I told him I’d send you down to talk to him.”

  Whoa—time to steer this bus in a different direction. “Thanks, Dad. But I already have a summer job lined up.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Really? Where are you working?”

  “Land of Lights.”

  He pulled a face. “That laser-tag place?”

  It was more than that—it was also like the world’s biggest pizza joint, with a cool arcade attached, too. Probably the best hang in town—lots of people from school went there on weekends. And not just dudes, if you know what I mean.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Our band has a steady job there for the summer. Every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night.” What I didn’t say was that they probably hired us because we charged less than other bands. This was our first real steady gig, and we were happy to have it at any price—it sure beat scrounging for parties and one-nighters, which were all we’d had until now.

  “But if you’re only playing three nights a week, you could still work at Johnson’s during the day.”

  This wasn’t going the way it was supposed to. I tried hard to seem businesslike about it instead of whining, because I knew from past experience that wouldn’t fly. “Dad, besides doing the gigs, we need to rehearse. We’re developing our original music too—we want to make a record this summer, and that takes a lot of work. We’re serious about this.”

  Dad didn’t say anything for a minute. I was waiting for him to call BS, but once in a while he surprises me. Like when I’d asked him if I could go to that big music fest in the desert last summer, and his answer was no … unless he took me. Kyle came too, and we had a blast.

  But I was still surprised when he said, “Okay, Zach, I can tell you’re serious. Sharla, what do you think?”

  Mom raised an eyebrow at me as she spoke to Dad. “I think they should have some sort of schedule. So they stay on track.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “To both you guys. We’re definitely going to make things happen this summer.”

  Q: DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THE DRUMMER WHO FINISHED HIGH SCHOOL?

  A: ME NEITHER.

  Monday morning I looked for Kyle before school started—I wanted to talk to him about getting a schedule together for the band. What I’d told my folks about our summer plans wasn’t exactly fiction, but I felt like I ought to try to get something more, uh … concrete arranged.

  Kyle wasn’t in any of the normal spots but I ran into Toby holding court on the senior lawn. The dude’s always onstage, whether he’s fronting our band or hanging before school. Today he ignored me even more than usual, if that’s possible, so I gave up and went to class.

  In language Ms. Lovell continued with her painful dissection of Huck Finn. This cracked me up, because at the beginning of the book Mark Twain himself says, “Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.” But when I’d suggested that maybe he was directing this at language teachers, she didn’t seem to see the humor. Still, her mostly-one-way discussion did give me a chance to sit in the back and get started on a band schedule, so it wasn’t a total loss.

  Next I had Spanish, where the groove wasn’t as smooth. Mr. Arrez walks around the room as he lectures, which makes it difficult to get any “outside projects” done.

  But in social studies we were watching a movie about the Great Depression, which was exactly as exciting as it sounds, so I decided to keep my mood elevated by working on my band stuff instead.

  So by the time I was through my first few classes, I had a pretty detailed schedule hammered out, with times and dates. The basic plan: Mondays and Wednesdays we could practice in the evenings, probably at my place like usual. (If you’re the drummer, it’s worth hosting practice—beats hauling your stuff to someone else’s place.) Then we could meet on Saturdays and have songwriting sessions—our gear would still be at Land of Lights through Saturday night, but we could just get together with acoustic guitars and a cajon and work on arrangements and stuff. And working on our originals was important, because on Sundays we would focus on that whole business of making a record.

  That was really the big unknown. Sure, any nerd with a computer can “make a record,” but it usually ends up sounding exactly like what it is: homemade crap. The trick is to make it sound pro. I’ve been playing around with recording for a few years now, and I’ve gotten to the point where I can make some fairly decent-sounding tracks, assuming the other guys do their part. Of course, it’d help to have a good tracking room and some better equipment, but we manage.

  The second trick is to actually get your music distributed and not just buried somewhere on the internet, where no one even knows it exists.

  The answer to that is to partner with someone. As in, a record label. Forget the majors—they’re dinosaurs. But there are plenty of indie labels out there, and we’re hoping to
convince one of them that investing in the Sock Monkeys could be a win-win. Okay, that’s not easy—you’ve got to be unique and good—but that was our goal. Which is why we need strong original material. Who wants to be in a cover band forever?

  Anyway, I was feeling pretty good about my planning … right up to fourth period.

  “Yo, li’l sis,” I said as I walked into my next class. Kimber turned and made a face. Kyle and I are seventeen and she’s still fifteen, and she hates it when I remind her of that. So of course I do, every chance I get. Not that she’s a total kid—she’s way smart, which is why she was in my math class as a sophomore.

  “How’s it going?” she asked.

  “Fine. I didn’t see Kyle this morning. Is he here?”

  “Oh sure, we rode in together. I saw him talking to Justin by the cafeteria this morning.”

  That was weird—usually we met up before school started. But I didn’t have time to think about it because we were neck-deep in quadratic equations for the next fifty minutes.

  At lunch I grabbed a sandwich and headed over to the tables by the lawn, where I thought I saw Kyle talking to Toby and Justin. But by the time I got there, it was only Justin and Toby.

  “Hey, guys, what’s up?”

  Toby just shrugged, too cool for school. Justin said, “Not much. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Where’d Kyle go?”

  Justin tilted his head toward the science wing. “He went to see Mr. Jacouri about something, I think.”

  “Ah. So, we’re on for practice tonight, right?”

  Toby glanced over. “I want to have a band meeting instead of rehearsal. My place, seven-thirty.”

  “Cool. I have some things I’ve been working on—I’ll bring them tonight.”

  After school I fired up my computer and made my roughed-out schedule look good, with different colors showing rehearsal times and gig times and writing sessions. There was a semi-steady crowd at Land of Lights and we couldn’t do the same songs in the same order every night. So I put together a spreadsheet with all the songs we knew and created different set lists for different nights, varying the songs between nights, as well as the order we’d play them in. While I was at it, I made a table tent asking people to follow us online. That way we could direct them to our band page and post announcements throughout the summer to try to build some buzz. Then I printed out four of everything, hole-punched them, and put them in folders so everyone had their own copy.

  Okay, so that was totally anal, but I felt like I’d done an A job of it.

  I pulled up at Toby’s house at 7:20—it’d be pretty stupid to be late to a meeting about getting organized.

  Toby’s mom answered their massive stained-glass door and let me into the foyer. “I think the boys are in the garage,” she said. “Just go on back, Jack.” I let it go. It must be genetic.

  I walked into the garage to find Justin sitting on an old exercise bicycle, just barely spinning the pedals, and Toby throwing darts at the board across the room.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”

  Toby spoke without turning from his darts. “What’s up is you’re out.”

  “Huh?”

  “Out. As in, no longer in the band.”

  “What are you talking about?” I looked around. “Where’s Kyle?”

  “Kyle’s been and gone, man.” He threw another dart and spun toward me. “You’re always late. You don’t take it serious. We want to get somewhere, and you don’t. So you’re out.”

  “What the hell? Yeah, I was a little late getting my gear set up on Saturday, but we started on time.” No freakin’ thanks to you, I thought. “And I take this real serious. Look.” I held out the folders. “I made a schedule for the band this summer. Gigs, rehearsals, writing sessions, set lists … How can you say I’m not serious?”

  He ignored them. “Look, numbnuts, let me give you a clue. You’re not the boss of this group, and we don’t wanna see your stupid little schedule.” He snorted. “You’re out!”

  I went from stunned to furious in about two seconds. “I don’t believe this! Glenn Taylor asked me to join Bad Habit the other night, and I turned him down.” I was yelling now. “I freakin’ turned him down! And you know why? Because I was loyal to this band.”

  The second it was out of my mouth, I regretted it. Toby gave his patented sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, right. Nate Travis can drum circles around you. You’re not just a screw-off, you’re delusional.”

  “So that’s it? No discussion, no vote, nothing?”

  “We did vote—it was two to one, so you’re gone.”

  Well, that made me feel a little better, to know that at least Kyle was taking my side. Maybe he and I could put something else together.… “So you guys are looking for a new drummer and a new bass player, then? Good freakin’ luck!” Kyle and I were a rock-solid rhythm section, and these guys were going to have a hard time finding decent replacements in time to make the gigs at Land of Lights.

  He gave me an exaggerated sigh. “God, are you like the retard from hell? Kyle’s not leaving—we got stuff laid out for the whole summer. Shit, we’re playing a big-ass party Friday night.”

  Friday night? This Friday night? Man, was I a mushroom or what? “So who’s my replacement?”

  “Don’t worry about it. We found someone who can actually play the drums, not just play at them.” He turned back to the dartboard. “See ya … mate,” he said over his shoulder as he threw. Thwack. Bull’s-eye.

  I walked out. Justin hadn’t said a word the entire time.

  3

  “It’s Not the Fall That Hurts”

  I called as soon as I got home. Kyle didn’t answer his cell, so I called his house. His sister answered.

  “Hi, Kimberly. This is Zach. Is Kyle around?”

  “Kimberly?” she said. “Wow … what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Can I just talk to Kyle?”

  “Okay, hang on. I’ll get him.”

  While she went to find him, I tried to figure out what to say. I mean, beyond the obvious question of what the hell.

  Kimber’s voice came back on the line. “Zach?”

  “Yeah …”

  “Umm, Kyle’s not available right now.”

  “As in, he’s in the shower or something, or as in, he doesn’t want to talk to me?”

  She didn’t answer, which was all the answer I needed. Finally, she said, “What’s going on?”

  “Not a freakin’ thing, apparently.” I hung up.

  The next morning, instead of looking for Kyle, I avoided him. If he didn’t want to talk, that was fine by me. The more I thought about the whole thing, the more pissed I got. And confused. I mean, WTF …? Where do they get off saying I’m not serious? Was all that from my offhand comment to Kyle about having a good time, with or without a deal?

  No, this must have been in the works for a while. They already had a big gig lined up, and that doesn’t happen overnight. Plus, they’d have to work the new guy in, and that takes time, too.

  So I felt kinda … naked as I went to my classes. I’m not like a super popular guy at school or anything, but the people who do know me probably think of me as Zach, the guy who plays drums in the Sock Monkeys. And all the people I usually hung with were either the guys in the band or friends of the band. So who was I now?

  I didn’t feel like talking to Kimber, either, so I slid into my seat in math just as the fourth-period tardy bell finished ringing. Ms. Littleton gave me the eye, but she let it slide. She’s actually pretty cool for a woman who spends most of her day solving for X. She saw us playing at an outdoor festival once, and the next day she said she’d enjoyed it and was impressed with my “percussive skills.” She’d even told the class that drumming could be considered a great example of applied mathematics.

  But now I was just another loser at school, trying to follow Ms. Littleton’s discussion of polynomials. Then my phone vibrated. Someone was texting me. It couldn’t be Kyle, could it? I mean, it w
as a total bust to use a phone during class, and Kyle was in history. Unless he’d cut …?

  I decided to sneak a peek. It was Kimber. She almost never texted me, and never in class. I heard. Totally unfair!

  I glanced over at her. She was watching me. No smile, no wave. Just looking. I sent a quick Thx and looked up … straight into the gaze of Ms. Littleton.

  “Well, Zach, what’s the answer?”

  Answer? I didn’t even know the question. Hell, I didn’t even know there was a question. “Um … I’m really sorry. I completely spaced. What was the question?”

  Instead of repeating the question, she slowly said, “Mr. Ryan, I would really appreciate it if you could manage to unspace yourself for the next forty minutes or so.” I nodded. Whew … I got off easy.

  Then she continued, still looking straight at me, “Ms. Milhouse, I’m sure you can answer the question.” Crap. We were totally busted.

  Kimber just shook her head. “I’m sorry.…”

  God, Ms. Littleton was still looking at me. I tried to act normal and not squirm as I thought about how I was going to manage without my phone. Oh, I could get it back the next day, but only after my parents had been called down to collect it. And then they would take it, and for a lot more than a day.

  Finally, she relented and turned to another student. “Mr. Ruiz, can you please answer the question?”

  He could, and he did. And that was the last she mentioned it—until class was over.

  “Zach,” she said as I was packing up my stuff. “Can I see you for a minute? And Kimberly, you too?”

  As the class emptied out, I looked over at Kimber and nodded toward the front of the room. “I don’t want you to be late for lunch—go ahead.” I hung back by my desk. When everyone had gone, Ms. Littleton spoke to Kimber for a minute, then Kimber left.

  I made my way to her desk. “Look,” I said. “No excuses. I’m sorry.” I handed over my phone. “It wasn’t Kimber’s fault. I texted her, so it was my bad.”

  For some strange reason this made her laugh, then she sort of coughed and got serious. “Thanks, Zach.” She looked at me for a second, like she was deciding what to say. “You’ve studied and practiced for a long time to get your drumming abilities where they are, right?”