Daniel picked at a callus on his index finger. He stared at the posters and imagined his mother watching an experimental noise artist manipulating sounds on a laptop, a what-the-fuck expression on her face. Why was he even thinking about her?
“Cool.” He was having trouble mustering up enthusiasm to match Roland and Thad’s. Their friends read books about gentrification and food justice and spoke about the importance of community outreach and safe spaces, yet they were all college students or unpaid interns funded with credit cards paid for by their parents, and none of them had even grown up in the city. Thad’s roommate Sophie, who had turquoise dreadlocks and cooked meals from ingredients scavenged from Dumpsters, asked Daniel if he was familiar with socialist food models since he’d been born in China, and he told her was born in Manhattan. Thad had said, “It’s dope that you left school and rejected your parents’ boners for academia. It’s such a scam, college, being a professor, all of that.” Uncomfortable at hearing someone else talk smack about his parents, Daniel asked, “How’d you know they’re professors?” Thad said, “Roland told me.” Roland had told Daniel that Thad funded Meloncholia with the monthly allowance his parents gave him. “I hear your dad’s a hedge fund manager,” Daniel said. “Yeah,” Thad said, “he fucking sucks.” Daniel envied people who could take their origins for granted, who could decide to hate their parents.
Another roommate knocked on the door, shouting that there had been an explosion in the kitchen, a food processor malfunction. They were making pesto for Sophie’s cooking podcast, and this guy’s hand was bleeding all over the place. Did Thad know where the first aid kit was?
Thad stood, dusting off his jeans. “I’ll be back.”
“What do you think about the tracks?” Roland said to Daniel.
Daniel bit into the callus and tore off a piece of dead skin. “Good, I guess.” He looked at the posters again. In high school, stoned at this party in Cody Campbell’s barn, he had thought he was seeing bats, freaked out until Cody had to tell him that those weren’t bats he was seeing up there on the ledge, but shadows of gardening tools. “Chill-ll,” Cody had said. It was funny, ridiculous, the thought of barns and bats and Cody Campbell in this random basement in Queens.
“Hey, remember Cody Campbell?”
“What, that fat douche?”
He chewed on the piece of skin. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Of course you can. The past shows have been perfect. That first one was just a fluke.”
“I don’t mean shows.”
But how could Roland understand? In Ridgeborough, Roland’s last name and light brown skin had made him suspicious, but he was clearly a Lisio, too; he and his mother had the same pointy faces and thin, dark hair. Playing shows in towns where people didn’t know them, there’d been a few guys who had heckled Roland in fake, singsong Spanish—the same sort of guys who’d throw Konichi-waah! at Daniel—and then there was the time a cop had pulled them over on the highway outside Ridgeborough, ticketed them for speeding, bogus charges as the old mail truck Roland drove could barely hit the speed limit. The cop had given Roland a sobriety test even though he and Daniel were sober, Daniel terrified in the passenger seat, noting the fear in Roland’s back as he stood on the highway with his hands behind his head, the cop saying something about drunk Mexicans. When they were free to go, Roland had driven straight to Ridgeborough, and it was one of the only times Daniel had seen his friend at a loss for words. When Roland finally did speak, he said, “We have to get the fuck out of here.” And Roland had, and so had he. Still, Roland had never spoken any language other than English, never had any other name but his own, had known his whole life who his mother was and where she could be found. What had set him apart in Ridgeborough—the dead Latino father, the widowed white mom—Roland had used to his advantage. Looked as different as he could. Dressed like a freak, invited people’s stares, ate it up.
“Were you taking me and Thad seriously? I was talking out of my ass. Thad’s always talking out of his ass. We don’t have to have bring in more vocals or anything you don’t want.”
“I’m not sure if this is the direction I want my music to be going in. I don’t want it to be more layered.”
“So what do you want?” A sharper tone slipped into Roland’s voice. “This is a collaboration.”
“It doesn’t feel like it. This is the sound you want to make, to please Hutch. You write all the songs.”
“You’re more than welcome to write a song.”
Daniel was so mad his leg was twitching. “All you care about is being cool, people liking you.”
Roland looked stunned, like the time they were walking through Washington Square Park and a pigeon had shat on his shoulder. “Like you don’t care about that? Come on. I was trying to help you out.”
“Help me?”
“I could’ve found anyone to play in the band. Like there aren’t any good guitarists in the city? But you needed a reason to leave upstate.”
Daniel pushed an empty coffee cup with his foot. “I’m not your charity project.”
“Everyone likes you but you,” Roland said. “You know how many times I’ve sung onstage? Every single time I get nervous. One time, I puked in the bathroom before sound check.”
Roland’s chin bobbed as he talked, a vestigial trait from childhood, and Daniel had a flash of lost affection for the young Ridgeborough Roland. He couldn’t bail on his closest friend.
“So we’ll play with Yasmin on May 1, think of it as a warm-up, and then the big show on May 15, the one Hutch will be at. Two weeks to get it all ready.”
“Wait,” Daniel said, “what day is it?”
“Monday.”
“I mean, today’s date.” He looked at his phone. April 27. There was a missed call from an hour ago, from the person he’d been thinking of. “Hold on, I’ll be back.”
He wandered through a maze of hallways, past the kitchen, where he caught a glimpse of a countertop splattered with pesto and blood, Sophie and Thad bandaging a guy’s hand, and found a door that opened onto a gravel lot. The night was cool, a slice of moon shining over the building’s plastic siding. He unlocked his phone and called the number labeled “Mom and Dad.”
He was glad it was Kay who answered and not Peter. “Mom,” he said. “Happy birthday.”
“I called you earlier, I didn’t leave a message.”
“I know, I saw it on my phone. ”
“Your father doesn’t know a thing about this, and I’m not about to tell him, but I spoke to the dean at Carlough and she’s willing to set up a meeting with you. You could still get in for the fall.”
“Wait—”
“She said to see her in two weeks, the Friday after next. May 15. You need to be up here by that afternoon.”