food before the next band plays.”
“Yeah!” said One Word Ben.
As they moved out, Cody pulled Devin back by the shoulder. “Hang back a minute.”
Devin had his arm around Cheryl’s waist and didn’t want to let go. “Can it wait?”
“No.”
Cheryl rolled her eyes and slipped out. Devin felt the warmth depart. The back room was cool and the sweat from the lights and the performance was drying on his skin. He got ready to launch into his usual speech about how hard Karston was trying, how he’d worked all summer saving every penny to buy that bass and amp, even if it was only a four-string knock-off, how he practiced for hours every day, and how hard it was to find a bassist in Macy, but Cody didn’t let him. He just said:
“Karston’s out and you have to tell him.”
“What?”
“He’s holding us back.”
“Holding us back? We played one night here. It’s not like we have a recording contract, or even more than three songs.” Devin laughed.
Cody was dead serious. “Yeah, that’s exactly it. We’ve only got three songs because that’s all he can play. Do you know how much we can’t do because of him? I had a solo worked out for a cover of ‘Hey Bulldog’ that would’ve kicked major ass, but he can’t even handle the opening riff. He can’t even play a stupid run from a third to a fifth to a seventh without thinking about it for twenty minutes.”
There was a flat tone to Cody’s voice that told Devin he’d already made up his mind, but Devin had to give it a shot anyway.
“He’s trying, Cody, he’s really trying.”
“So what? He’s not succeeding.” He held the Les Paul out toward Devin. Its surface shone, even in the dim light. “Like the new axe? Nice, huh? I risked a lot for this guitar because I know we can make it. You heard them out there. If we could make a decent recording of ‘Face,’ we’d be getting local radio time, but we can’t because Karston sucks.”
Devin tried for something bright and shiny. “How
Cody would not be moved. “You don’t want to know, and don’t change the subject. You know I’m right. The only question is, when are you going to tell him?”
Devin’s eyes flared. “Me? Why me?”
Cody snapped his fingers in front of Devin’s face. “Because I could do it like that, just like I broke it off with my last girlfriend—what’s her name?”
“Debbie.”
“Whatever. But you’re always straddling the fence like it’s a hot girl. You never even would have asked Cheryl out if I hadn’t threatened to tell her you were ready to stalk her. I could’ve had her, too, you know, but I didn’t, as a favor to you. But your wussiness, man, it’s in your face, it’s in your voice, it’s in your music, and if we’re going to get anywhere, it’s time to step up! Testify!” Cody put his hand on Devin’s shoulder. “Look, I’m only telling you what an asshole you are because I’m your friend. I don’t want this to be a game anymore; I want it to be my life, and if you want something to be your life, you have to be willing to risk your life for it, right?”
Devin stood there, unable to speak. Cody shoved him gently backward, then headed for the door. “And you better get out of your lame moodiness and start writing more kick-ass songs, man. We’re hot. People are watching. Time to stop being a poser.”
The door opened and Cody disappeared into the light and sound beyond, leaving Devin among quiet crates and cardboard boxes. That feeling of not being quite a part of things came over him again, hard and heavy. He was watching himself, watching himself, watching.
Cody was right about Karston. Was he right about Devin? Cody was all fire. His father, a former textile worker, had been unemployed for years. Now Cody had a mean-streets rut to rebel against, and no future to look forward to except retail. What did Devin have to overcome? A comfy bourgeoisie life in a million-dollar pre-fab home, so cookie-cutter it was called a McMansion, with a flat-panel TV and Dad’s SUV to truck the band around in? What was he? What was his life? Where was his fire?
What was that? A poem? A nursery rhyme?
A song?
Oh yeah, the lullaby his grandma used to sing. It seemed to come out of nowhere to tickle the back of his head the way her hand used to. The few words and notes came to his mind easily, but the rest refused to form. There were angels in it and some kind of monster that took away bad kids. Bad kids like Cody. Was that why Devin was so lame? Because deep down he was still obeying his grandma? Ha.
The line tumbled about in his mind, repeating. Devin rolled it around his head, trying to imagine it with a backbeat. Then it was gone. He put aside the fractured bit of memory for later use, then tried to figure out just what it was he was going to tell Karston. Best to get it over with fast, if he could.
Sighing, he stepped out into the throbbing sounds of the dance floor. A DJ spun house music while the next band set up. As Devin walked along, some people he didn’t know looked at him admiringly. An older girl, maybe a college girl, smiled at him hungrily.
He smiled back, bemused, detached, until Cheryl grabbed him by the arm and pulled him onto the dance floor.
As he danced with her, smelling the shampoo in her hair that mixed with the smell of her sweat, he cast some nervous glances in the direction of the soon-to-be-former bassist. Karston, of course, was having the best night of his pathetic life. It looked like any girl who couldn’t get near Cody because he was flailing too wildly on the dance floor had zeroed in on One Word Ben and Karston. The poor guy looked awake and happy for the first time in his life, ever.
Devin couldn’t knock him off his perch, not like that. He’d never have this much attention again. No one at Argus High even spoke to the guy. Even Devin only started talking to him because they were next to each other in Bio, and he felt bad for him. Then he made the stupid mistake of mentioning he wanted to start a band.
He couldn’t fire him right now.
He caught a glimpse of Cody at one of the small tables, his hands moving quickly as he spoke to two older kids. They weren’t from school, and they definitely weren’t in college. Cody was sitting back in his chair, a stupid grin plastered across his face as the other two talked to him. He actually looked nervous. One kid was steady, too calm, like a statue. The other was tall, but there was something wrong with his shoulder. It kept twitching. When the twitchy figure tilted, the image of a razor on the back of his leather jacket came into view.
Cheryl noticed Devin stiffen. “What’s the matter?”
The Slits. Cody was talking with two members of the worst street gang in Macy. They dealt drugs, ripped off stores at gunpoint, even got into a little loan-sharking.
Oh. Was
“Nothing,” Devin said.
Couldn’t be. Even Cody wasn’t stupid enough to get involved with that crowd.
Was he?
Of course he was.
2
Moonlight flashed over Cody’s bleached white hair and ruddy face as he curled up in the passenger seat like some exotic animal. Devin dutifully maneuvered the SUV on the thin road out of town toward the more rural area where Cody lived with his father, stepmother, and five brothers and sisters.
