Still…
I know what you’re thinking. “No! No ‘Still…’ ‘Still…’ is a terrible direction for your mind to be moving. The man cannot be trusted!”
But there’s a small part of me that wants to believe that Blake might actually have good news to deliver. Don’t get me wrong. I’m still furious about what he did to Audrey. Yet if you believe the reason he said he did it, it kind of makes sense, right? I’m not saying that I wanted to break up with her. That’s not what I’m saying at all. Please don’t stop reading this book because you’ve suddenly lost sympathy for the narrator. That’s not remotely the point I’m trying to make here. What I’m saying is that in Blake’s dark and twisted excuse for a brain, his reasoning makes sense. If he’s not lying, maybe the other band members and I will be happy about what he has to say. (And please don’t stop reading this book because you now think I’m too naive to root for. I know perfectly well that he could be lying.)
Am I babbling? I apologize. Look, I should probably lock myself in my bedroom and never speak to Blake again, but I’m going to take a major risk and play along one more time, okay? If it goes horribly wrong, you can shake your head in disappointment and say that you told me so.
I text Clarissa and Mel and ask if they can come over. They can, but they both need a ride. I tell Blake that I’m not willing to share a moving vehicle with him right now, which I assume will start another fight, but he says that he understands and that he’ll be waiting when I get back. He doesn’t say it in a spooky way: “I’ll be here when you get back.” I mean, that’s what he says, but it’s not foreboding. He’ll just be home when we get back.
(I’m starting to feel like I should hire somebody to cowrite this book with me, just to help until I get my mind sorted out. This last page or so hasn’t been my best work. But it has a raw honesty to it, right? Life, like punk rock, is messy.)
“How are things going with Audrey?” asks Mel as he gets in my car.
“She broke up with me.”
Mel nods. “I heard you were writing poems for other girls.”
“I was framed.”
“I assumed so. Gretchen posted the poems online, and they’re pretty awful. Everybody’s making fun of them. Glad to hear it wasn’t you.”
“Let’s save the talking until we get back to my house,” I recommend.
I pick up Clarissa, who also wants to talk about Audrey and who will cover the merch table now that we’re not dating. She suggests Blake. I reject this suggestion.
When we get back to my house, Blake has poured everyone a glass of cold, refreshing lemonade. Clarissa and Mel gratefully accept the beverages. I reluctantly take the glass, checking carefully for evidence that he spat in it. I don’t see any froth at the top, so he probably didn’t.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you here,” says Blake.
“I thought Rod called us here,” says Clarissa.
“No, it was me.”
“Oh, I’m even more intrigued then.”
(Warning: cliffhanger chapter ending approaching!)
Blake clears his throat. “I’ve called you here to…”
21.
“Let you know that I’ve booked three Fanged Grapefruit gigs for this weekend.”
Clarissa and Mel look at each other.
“We can get our own gigs,” I say.
“Not decent ones,” says Blake. “You’ve been playing at the same dismal club for too long. We’re going on a road trip.”
“No, we’re not,” I inform him.
“Yes, we are,” Blake corrects. “Friday night you’re opening for Fist Knuckles.”
Clarissa and Mel stare at each other again. Fist Knuckles is one of our top five musical influences. When we saw them live last year, the police had to turn a fire hose on them. (The band, not the audience.) It was a great show.
“No way,” says Mel.
“Very much way,” says Blake.
“No way,” says Clarissa.
“Mucho way,” says Blake.
“There’s no way,” I say.
“When Blake Montgomery manages your band, your band gets managed. And it’s a paying gig.”
“How much?” asks Mel, ignoring the horrifying part where Blake implied that he’s now our manager.
Blake tells us. I’m not going to repeat the amount because I’m not sure what your expectations are for how much we’d get paid for opening for Fist Knuckles at a medium-sized club. The reality is probably less than what you’re thinking, so I don’t want the number to be a distraction. Let’s just say that it’s not really going to change our overall financial state but that it’s an extremely fair amount. And it’s more than paying for free.
“Sweet,” says Mel.
“Saturday night, you’re the middle act in a three-act bill of Don & the Keys, Fanged Grapefruit, and Krab Salad.”
“Wait…Don & the Keys are opening for us?” asks Clarissa.
“Yes.”
Clarissa and Mel exchange a high five. Don & the Keys (formerly the Donkeys) beat us in a talent show once, and they were obnoxious jerks about it. If they’re opening for Fanged Grapefruit, their careers are going nowhere. Ha ha.
“Is Krab Salad spelled with a K or with a C?” asks Mel.
“With a K.”
“I love them!”
“How much for that show?” asks Clarissa.
Blake tells us.
“Whoa,” says Clarissa.
“I know, right?” says Blake.
I hate to be Mr. Dubious, but Blake is a long way from having earned my trust. “How do we know you aren’t making this up?” I ask.
“You can check the websites,” says Blake. “But don’t do that yet because I haven’t told you the best news. Sunday night, you’re headlining.”
“Headlining?” asks Mel. “Are you serious?”
“Completely serious.”
“At a tiny, disgusting club?” asks Clarissa.
“Nope. It’s not Madison Square Garden, but this place holds five hundred people.”
“Where?” I ask, suspicious of Blake.
“Miami.”
“We can’t play in Miami on Sunday night. We have to go to school the next day.”
“Only part of that is correct,” says Blake.
“Are you saying we don’t have to go to
