“Hey Britney. How’s it going?”
“Hey, sweetness.” She stands on her tip-toes to kiss him.
The guys head into the living room and start getting ready. Britney isn’t in the band, so she just sits on the couch and plays with Steve’s hair. LeighAnn returns, wearing cutoffs and a tee, no shoes. Microwaving a chicken thigh, she glances around the kitchen and says, “You cleaned.”
“A little. Also, I walked the dogs.”
“Great. Were they good boys?”
“Sure were.”
“So you still feeling bad for calling me nasty names?” Her voice is calm, conversational, just like it was this morning.
“A little.” My face starts burning, and I focus hard at the floor.
LeighAnn punches me in the chest, stepping into it like a pitcher. Icicles stab down to my elbows. They freeze muscles, and I can’t get a breath. Clutching my chest, I drop to my knees on the freshly swept linoleum.
“How about now?” she asks.
“Think I’m over it,” I croak.
“Awesome.” The microwave dings. She gets her chicken, then steps over me. Walking into the living room, she yells, “All right! I’m feeling all Motörhead tonight. Let’s set it off!”
They sit and stand in a half circle, starting with a song called “Catatonic State Marching Band.” They play fast and loud, first Max singing, then everybody joining in more or less together. They make the window panes rattle in their frames, and I think I know why a neighbor took a baseball bat to their mailbox.
In between practicing the song, they sip beer, talk about other bands, and joke around, filling the night with laughter. Of course, while Tyler’s playing, we’re not doing anything to help you, Holly. We’re not getting any closer to figuring out what’s going on. I’m not any closer to getting to go home. Tyler will see his parents, sleep in his own bed tonight, so what does he care about me?
They start into the same song again. Ultimate Steve bangs his drums, sweat flying from his hair and beard. He holds his drumsticks with the scarred stump of his finger sticking out like he’s sipping tea with the Queen of England.
What was that Banana Hammocks song, Holly? “Chainsaw Girl.” No, “Chainsaw Heartbreak”? Something stupid like that. And then one time Steve decided to add a chainsaw solo, revving it in rhythm to the song. I bet the audience loved that right up until he cut off his finger.
The next day you told me about it. “Then he picks it up off the stage and just sticks it in the cooler.” Your eyes were wide and all your words rushed together. “Just down in the ice with the drinks. Then he goes back and finishes the gig.”
“Gross, gross! How could he do that? That’s so gross.”
“But he finished the gig! They did, like, four more songs, and Steve never missed a beat! He had blood running all down his—”
“Ew, don’t tell me. Why didn’t Tyler and them take him to the ER?”
“They did afterward, but it was too late. Doctor couldn’t reattach it.”
“So wait, if he’d gone to the ER right away, they could have?”
“Well, yeah. Maybe. But … ” We stared at each other, neither understanding the other. We might as well have been speaking different languages. “Jane, he finished the gig! Just sticks it in the cooler and sits back down at his kit and counts off the next song. Blood running all down his arm, and he never missed a beat.”
And somehow that made him a titan of rock, not a total lunatic. Somehow that made him the Ultimate Steve—all other Steves mere imitations. And somehow I wound up hiding here with these losers.
Quit, quit it. I’m being nice.
Still, the noise fills the whole house. It fills me, every boom-cha-boom rattling my bones. I wish he’d chopped off his whole hand, not just a finger.
Nice. Be nice.
After an hour or so, Stratofortress switches to a new song, “Poppy Red, Moth White.” It’s a twangy little song about a girl who never stays in any one place for long. Standing in the doorway, I watch Tyler’s fingers on the strings. I watch Max’s Adam’s apple quiver up and down as he sings; LeighAnn, her whole body swaying back and forth like a metronome.
The fear and frustration that have held me tight all day—the worry about you, about my parents—starts to slide away. There’s something hypnotic about watching musicians play, following their small, certain motions as they find that groove. They carry you into the groove without you realizing it, without you really even wanting to. I look down and see I’m tapping my foot.
Remember all those afternoons I sat around and watched you practice, Holly? I thought we were just wasting time. If I was ever impatient with you, I’m sorry. Now? I’d give anything for one more hour, watching you pull music out of your pa-paw’s rumbling old guitar.
The song they try next is called “Cheers.” I sit on the couch beside Britney while Max pulls out a notebook with all his songs in it. The front is covered with pictures of angels drawn in ballpoint pen. He shows the chords to Tyler. When Tyler’s ready, Steve marks time on his snare, and the others fall in. Just as Max opens his mouth to sing, though, Tyler hits the wrong chord. He corrects himself, but now he’s off-time, tripping everybody else up.
“Sorry,” he murmurs in the sudden quiet.
“No problem,” Max says. “Just remember you have to drop to D after the intro.”
Tyler nods. “I know, I just … sorry.”
“No problem.” Max points to Steve, and they start again.
Then again.
Max takes Tyler’s guitar from him and shows him the piece really slowly, then in the correct time, then they start again.
Then again. Under Tyler’s fingers, the song flutters around with one broken wing.
“Tyler, come on, man.” Peeling off his shirt, Steve mops his face with it. Everybody’s tired. Everybody’s hot. With the amps turned on—and the carpeted walls adding an extra layer of insulation—the heat sucks on us like candy.
“Sorr—”
“Stop.” Max cuts him off, annoyed and trying not to show it. “Don’t apologize. Just … it’s back to A for the bridge.”
“I know!”
“If you know, then do it!” Max yells.
“All right, everybody take five,” LeighAnn says, pulling her guitar strap over her head.
“No. I want to get this,” Tyler says.
“No,” LeighAnn answered. “Take five, go get some water or something.”
Tyler sets down his guitar without a word. I try to catch his eye, but he avoids my gaze and walks into the kitchen. I follow him and watch him fill a glass with tap water. I’m not sure what to say, but I know I have to say something.
“I’m having fun listening to you guys practice.”
Tyler snorts. “You didn’t hear me keep screwing up?”
“You got the first songs, no problem.” I shrug.
“Those are easy, three and four easy chords. ‘Cheers,’ it’s got an F barre chord, a bent note right before dropping into A. Then—”
I wave my hands and shake my head. “I don’t know anything about that, about bent bars or anything. I just know that I used to spend a lot of time listening to Holly practice, and, um, I’ve missed it. I didn’t really even know how bad I missed it until tonight. So, you know, whatever happens with this one song or with you playing with Stratofortress, I’ve had fun tonight.”
He gives me a fake rock-star grin and shoots a finger-gun at me. “Always looking out for the fans.”
“Stop.” I laugh and push his hand away. “And just, um, I was sort of a B-word yesterday, when I got mad at you for wanting to come by here. But I’m really glad Steve called you after Holly died. And I’m really glad they kept you playing music. They’re pretty good friends.”