She pulled him close again. “No. You would have protected me.”
Would he? Would he have done any better a job if it had been Cheryl?
“How’s your dad?”
“He’s been great, attentive, supportive. Even took time from work just to be with us. I didn’t know he had it in him. And then last night, he even told me I shouldn’t give up on the band because of…”
Instead of finishing his sentence, Devin stared off. Nothing had been normal since the killing. His time with Cheryl now was supposed to be a normal thing, and it wasn’t turning out normal at all.
“So what’d you tell him?” Cheryl asked. He’d nearly forgotten she was there.
“About what?”
“Torn. You’ve never actually said you want the group to go on. Do you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even want to decide.”
Nothing new about that, though, is there?
He looked at her, her skin shining in the sun, face placid.
“What about you?” he asked. “What do you want? Even with all these sick rumors, do you really think we should still have the band?”
She looked at him a moment, as if the answer should be obvious. He’d always suspected, hoped really, that she’d just joined to be with him, but they’d never actually talked about it. If that was it, here was her chance to get out. And maybe his, too. Maybe they could go to law school together.
“Well…isn’t that really the kind of thing you have to decide for yourself?” she said slowly.
“Yeah, I guess, but…I just need to think about it,” he said. “How are your parents dealing?” he asked, changing the subject.
She stood up on the uneven rock and stretched her lean form. Devin watched it against the white and blue. He wanted to grab her, but figured it wouldn’t be right, like they should still be in mourning or something.
“They’re upset, but they’ll get over it. I’m there if you need me,” she said. “But we should probably start rehearsing soon if we’re going to do anything.”
If you need me. Maybe she was only in Torn to be with him.
Wouldn’t that be something?
“Did you hear?” Cheryl asked.
“Now what?”
“Cody got Karston’s bass. He talked Allen Bates into being our manager and Mr. Bates bought it from Karston’s mom,” she explained.
Sure, Devin thought. Why not? Another icon added to the growing local legend. Haunted song. Haunted bass. Haunted band.
9
When the time finally came, Tunnel Vision was packed. It wasn’t just full. It wasn’t just standing room only. It was packed. From his view behind the stage’s brand-new curtain, Devin could see all the way to the twin exits at the back of the tunnel. Even so, all he could make out of the mob was a sea of arms, torsos, and heads pushed together so tightly he couldn’t figure out which appendage belonged to which body. He did catch flashes of blue uniforms and caps.
“The police are here, too,” Devin said. They’d seen three squad cars parked outside when they arrived. That was most, if not all, of the city’s small force.
“Yeah.” He heard Cody chortle behind him. “We’ve got a police presence, because Torn is too freaking cool.”
Devin shook his head. “It’s not because Torn is all that, Cody. It’s the murder. Remember, we’re only famous because Karston died.”
“Now, maybe,” Cody said. “But soon it’s gonna be the music.”
Cheryl sat behind her drum kit. She stretched up her long arms, folded them behind her head, and bent forward, getting her muscles ready for the gig. “Bates said we’re way over the safety limit, and they’re spilling out into the parking lot,” she said. “They’re afraid of a riot.”
Devin’s mind went to a story his mother kept telling him about a fire in a rock club years ago where ninety-six people died.
Cody eyed him. “Terrified or jazzed?”
Devin thought about it a second. He was still furious at Cody for his behavior at the funeral parlor, but if they were going to play together, he might as well talk to the guy. “Both,” he said.
Cody blew some air between his lips. “Fence hugger.” He twisted his head toward the others. “You guys?”
Cheryl also said, “Both.” There seemed something strange in the way she looked at Cody.
One Word Ben, strapping on Karston’s bass, nodded his agreement. “Both.”
Cody chuckled. “Well, I guess we are really Torn, then.”
Do you ever shut up, Cody?
“Two minutes,” someone shouted.
Devin moved back from the curtain and sat on the stool they’d brought from the garage. That was Cody’s idea, too. He figured people would recognize it from the video. Half the crowd out there had video cameras, hoping to catch the little orbs when they played. The other half had probably shown up to see the kids they thought were killers.
The whole thing made Devin queasy: the fact that the show was advertised as a memorial, the fact that it would be the first time they played “Lying to the Angels” live. The question remained: Was this really how he wanted to become famous?
But he knew, in the end, as Cheryl had hinted and Cody had said, all the accidental notoriety could only provide a boost. In the end it would be the song. His song. Well, his and Cody’s, now that the so-called chorus had been worked in.
Freaking Cody, fixing his song.
And, technically, it was his and Cody’s and his grandmother’s. Devin caught an image of Namana sitting by his bedside, stroking his head as she sang, warning him to be good, be good, be good, with a stuffed toy lying beside him on the pillow. As he lifted the Ovation, now fitted with pickups, he eyed Cody, wondering if his anger showed. “Respectful, right?”
Cody made his face somber to the extreme. “You know it.”
Cody strode to his spot behind the central mike, stretched, and yawned like a carefree dog; then he stood straight, looking…respectful.
How does he do that? Devin wondered. Does he not feel? Is part of his brain just missing?
A rush of sound enveloped them. Devin saw the curtain rope scrape against the pulley, but couldn’t hear it. The applause was too loud. The thick cloth rose and there they were, exposed to wave upon wave of approval.
They ripped through a few songs: “Face,” “If It Doesn’t Kill You,” and the cover of “Hey Bulldog” that Cody had been dying to play. With One Word Ben on bass they were tighter than ever, and they had more than enough numbers for a full twenty-minute set.
Playing without Karston was like having lead weights removed from his hands and head, a feeling that made Devin feel sick and even angrier at Cody for being right.
Through it all, through every song, the crowd kept chanting, “‘Lying to the Angels,’ ‘Lying to the Angels’!”
They were planning to do another few numbers first, but the chanting had grown too loud. Finally, Cody put his head down theatrically, then raised a single finger to quiet the crowd. After a moment, it actually worked. When the sound dropped enough, he spoke softly, somberly, into the mike, saying only, “For Karston.”
The space was flooded with sound: a torrent of slamming hands mixed with wild shrieks. It got so loud, the cops in back shifted nervously. All the while, Cody just stood there, the picture of sadness, holding his head down, letting the tip of his white hair touch the mike. Cheryl and Ben were like zombies, expressionless. Devin figured he looked the same, but also knew their dull shock would be mistaken for something deeper, like mourning.
They all waited for the new round of applause to die down. Devin had no real sense of time, but he’d have sworn it went on for five minutes. And what were they cheering for? Not Karston, whom none of them had really known. Was it all just for the creepy haunted song? Was it for death in general?