Torn

the whole damn song. If he just got one verse and one chorus, Devin could cut and paste that part of the track over like text in a word processor, and use it to fill in the rest of the song.

Boom-dah-bom-dah-boom. The low sound filled the garage.

Three notes, four… Devin counted, nodding his head in time. On the fifth, Karston hesitated, then stopped completely. It would probably be faster to record the bass line one note at a time.

“I’m sorry, man,” Karston said, shaking his head.

It had been like this all night. Maybe Devin had been wrong to get Cody out of there. When they’d started, Karston was in the zone for three runs.

The zone? Ha. Who was Devin kidding? The only zone Karston was ever in was the Twilight Zone.

Devin removed his phones and tried to look at the clock on the wall without Karston realizing what he was doing. Almost eleven. Cheryl’s parents were cool about her curfew, but even they weren’t going to let her stay out all night.

“Karston, what is it? You were doing great. What’s going on with you?” Devin asked. He was trying to sound friendly, but couldn’t quite hide the anger in his voice. He even wondered, briefly, if as his patience vanished he was starting to sound more like Cody.

The bass player shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just gone. I think maybe it’s too quiet. I can like hear the houses and I’m afraid I’m waking people up.”

Aghhh! It’s too loud, it’s too quiet. And I thought Cody was the group prima donna!

“There’s no amp!” Devin said loudly. He battled his voice back down to a whisper. “It’s just in the phones! No one can hear you except you and me.”

“I know, but you know, psychologically…”

Psychologically? Now we’re talking psychological? Should he tell him? Should he just say, You know, Cody’s dying to kick you out and I’ve been protecting you. You blow this simple stupid bass line again and I’m switching sides.

Yeah, that’d give Karston the confidence he needed.

“Okay, once more. Take a breath. I’ll cut out the keyboard and the vocal. Just listen to me and Cheryl on the rhythm and drums. Got it?”

Karston nodded. Devin clicked a button, then said, “Go.”

Karston bopped his head a few times, roughly in time. Devin watched as his fingers made for the first thick string. Then all of a sudden Karston stopped, shook his head, and pulled his headphones off.

“I need a break,” Karston said. “Is there any soda left?”

A break? You haven’t laid down a single note! Devin’s mind screamed, but he said, “Yeah, in the fridge. Bring me a cherry coke. Want anything, Cheryl?”

Cheryl swiped some hair and a bit of sleep from her eyes with her fingers and shook her head. She waited until Karston disappeared into the house, then said, “I’m exhausted, Devin. Sorry, but I’ve got to get going.”

“What? But…but…”

She slid off the stool she’d been on for the last half hour. “I know, baby, I know. But this is more important for you—for all of us. Got to get the song done. We all want it out there before our next gig.”

“No. It’s not more important. Don’t I ever get to decide what’s more important?” Devin protested. He stood up and made some vague gestures of frustration with his hands. She took them in hers and steadied them.

“It’ll go faster without me here. We’ll make up for it. Promise. Kiss good-bye?”

He grabbed her, pulled her close, and pretended he was just going to give her a quick peck, but then he moved back, stared into her eyes a moment, and slowly moved back in, brushing his lips against hers, back and forth, like a feather, then pressing in.

If she hesitated, he didn’t notice. He put his arms around her waist, lifted her off the ground and even closer to him. She wrapped her legs around his thighs, making herself lighter, and gave in to his frustration for a moment or two. When they heard something shift in the kitchen on the other side of the wall, she hopped down and pulled herself away.

“No,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. It was more a plea than a command.

She laughed and pulled herself away. “No. Now, be nice to Karston.”

Devin let out a low moan. “I won’t.”

“Yes, you will. You’re a good guy. Stop pouting,” she said at the garage door. “I’m not going anywhere. Even with your weird new smile.”

He grinned at that. “Okay. Want me to drive you?”

“And do what with my car? It’s less than a mile. I’m just going to head in, watch the tape of my boyfriend playing his great new song, then go to sleep. Hey, if you want me so much, write us a song about it.”

“You got it.”

“Nothing I can’t play for my mother.”

“I’ll try. But it won’t be easy,” he said.

She smiled, waved, and walked off toward her two-seat Civic. He heard her car engine start just as Karston —wussy, lame, infuriating, date-ruining Karston—emerged from the house. Once he heard her drive off, he pressed the button on the garage door and the hum of its closing sealed them off from the night.

“Okay, Karston,” Devin said with a sigh. “Let’s try it again.”

By one thirty A.M., all the energy from the earlier, successful portion of the recording session had fled Devin. And Karston hadn’t gotten any better. If possible, he was getting worse.

Devin pulled off his headphone and rubbed his temples.

“Maybe we should try again tomorrow?” Karston said hopefully.

With another bassist.

He should just tell him, get it over with, let him run home to his evil bat shrew of a mother and get used to a life retailing at Wal-Mart, where the cash registers practically operated themselves.

You wasted all your money on that stupid bass!

A thought struck him. “Karston, wait here a minute. I’m gonna…I’m gonna try to think a minute about what to do here.”

Karston nodded as Devin headed for the door.

He hit a few more off-notes: budda, bahh, thung.

Devin stopped in his tracks and shook his head. “No—don’t play, don’t practice. Just…just sit there a minute, will you?”

“Okay,” Karston said. Devin saw from the way his head went down that he suspected something was up. He had to tell him, and he had to tell him now. But he had an idea that might make it go down just a little easier.

He went through the door and closed it behind him, which left him in the small hallway that led into the kitchen. The lights were all off, but the drapes and shades were wide open, leaving the sharp corners and rounded counters of the kitchen bathed in the bug-yellow of the Meadowcrest streetlights. Twin candles sat on the breakfast table in the dining room nook, a reminder of the great romantic evening that might have been. Two filet mignon steaks were still on the counter, bits of blood from the cellophane pooling onto the blue and white dish below it.

Devin shook his head and picked up the dish. He cursed to himself as some of the blood sloshed out of the plate and onto the floor. What else could go wrong? He put the dish in the fridge and looked around for something to mop up the stain. When no sponge or rag appeared to his eyes, his tiredness got to him. Angry, he stomped his foot down into the largest drop of steak blood, grinding it into the tile with his toe.

When even the pleasure of that fled, he pulled out a few paper towels, wet them, and dealt with the mess.

It was time to deal with the other mess now: Karston.

His idea was this: His parents had left him two hundred dollars cash in a small envelope on the kitchen desk for expenses and “emergency” money. He’d tell Karston he was out of the band, but then give him the money as a down payment for the bass. That way, at least, he wouldn’t be out all his money, and the bass would stay behind. Devin might still be able to finish the song himself tonight. Maybe he and Cheryl could get together tomorrow afternoon, before his folks returned.