“That’s a funny name,” Dad admitted. “What are you going to do in the band?”
“I’m going to be the singer. I’ve been writing a lot of lyrics, and Fern and Edgar have been working on music. We’re going to rehearse next week.”
I was very surprised that they hardly argued with me, beyond the usual crap about being careful. In fact, after a while of talking about how it wouldn’t mess up school in the fall, they were pretty supportive.
“You’ve always been good with writing, and I think it’ll be great for you to have something to channel that into,” Mom said.
Dad agreed. “I don’t mind this idea at all.”
“It’ll be a fun hobby,” Mom said. All right. So they weren’t going to take it seriously, that was fine by me. They could look at it as a silly little project. And if they looked at it as something that I could do that would keep me off the streets and away from the dreaded booze ’n’ drugs, even better. It still irritated me that they had such little faith in me, but that was fine. Didn’t matter. We had a drummer! We were going to jam next week, and I would finally get to show them how I could wail. I laughed to myself, thinking of Socks and how ridiculous and good-natured he seemed. We had a band. I went to my bedroom and looked up at a poster of Marie-Lise. Sweat poured off her face, makeup smeared, hair flying as she clutched her bass, one booted foot braced on the stage monitor in front of her. Maybe that would be me one day.
xXx
I felt rejuvenated, and for the next few days I threw myself into the housework I’d been assigned. As I weeded the back garden I listened to music on my headphones, studying the vocals, noticing what I liked and disliked about different singers, and making mental notes on what to try at rehearsal. As I hung up the winter blankets from the back closet to air out on the clothesline, I fantasized about being onstage, with people screaming and cheering and knocking each other out in the mosh pit. It was fun, trying to imagine what I would wear and how I would style my hair and do my makeup. Of course I envisioned myself as being the ultimate in coolness, flanked by Fern looking gorgeous and Edgar looking tough, bounding around the stage with his dreads flying. And Socks in the back, looking mean, growling behind the drum kit.
It was all good to think about these things, but before rehearsal as I waited for Socks, I actually felt nervous. He’d picked up Fern, Edgar, and their gear first, and I sat on the front lawn with my lyric book in my lap. I knew it was silly to be nervous: it would be our first rehearsal together. None of us knew what we were doing. Fern had expressed my exact worry on the phone the other night: “What if I suck?”
It was reassuring to know she was just as nervous as I was. I mean, I’d sung along with my CDs in my room, with the stereo blasting loud enough that my family couldn’t hear me shrieking along, but how would my voice sound by itself? What if they didn’t like the lyrics or thought I couldn’t sing? I recalled how Socks had said that a band is only as good as its singer. What if they wanted to find someone else?
I shook my head, trying to calm myself. The band was mine and Fern’s. If Socks or Edgar didn’t like it, well, we would find other people to play with.
The van pulled up, and Fern grinned at me through the passenger window. Edgar pulled open the back door for me and I climbed in beside him.
Everyone was happy and excited, and we chatted the whole way to Socks’s house, blasting some DED on the car stereo.
“This is gonna be great,” Edgar said to me over the loud music. “I can’t wait. Me and Fern have five songs all ready to go, all we need is Socks to get into it with the drums and for you to put your vocals in.”
I nodded and smiled, still afraid that I was going to dis-appoint. Fern turned around in the front seat and stuck her tongue out at me. I grinned and stuck mine out back.