“I wish. I’m getting us a tour bus for the weekend. We’ll drive home each night. Sunday night, you guys will do the show and then get some sleep on the way back. We’ll be back by 3:00 a.m. You’ll be fine.”
“A tour bus will cost more than we’re making,” I say.
“The bus is my treat to make up for my past behavior.”
“Our parents will never go for this idea,” I say.
“I can’t speak for Mel’s parents or Clarissa’s parents because I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting them. But I’m pretty sure Aunt Connie will understand what a fantastic opportunity this is for you, and since you’re not actually skipping school and you’ve been maintaining a high GPA and you haven’t gotten into any trouble recently—at least not that the principal notified her about—I think she’ll say yes.”
“I think I could sell my mom and dad on it,” says Mel.
“I think if I ask my dad first and let him plead my case to my mom, my parents will say it’s okay as long as I promise to answer my phone even if my mom calls while we’re onstage,” says Clarissa.
“Perfect,” says Blake. “It’s Fanged Grapefruit’s first tour!”
“You’re not our manager,” I tell him.
“Can I be your roadie?”
“No.”
“I think he’d be fulfilling the duties of a roadie,” says Mel.
“Do you two really want to succeed so badly that you’ll let somebody as poisonous as Blake be involved in our future?”
“Pretty much, yeah,” says Clarissa.
“We’ve had no luck setting up shows,” says Mel. “Blake has only been here for a week, and he’s managed to get us three good gigs. Clearly, he’s doing something right.”
“He’s probably bribing them. Dude has too much disposable income.”
“Look, I’m not trying to cause strife between the three of you,” says Blake. “The only fair way to handle this is for you to put it to a vote.”
“Sorry,” I say, “but you don’t get to decide if we put something to a vote. Only the founding members of Fanged Grapefruit get to decide if something goes to a vote.”
“My mistake.”
I don’t want this to go to a vote because I know that Clarissa and Mel will vote in favor of playing these venues and I’ll vote against it, and there will forever be the knowledge that I voted against three sweet gigs. I’ll always be the band member who wasn’t as committed to our success as the others.
“All in favor of taking these gigs, raise your hand,” says Mel.
He raises his hand. Clarissa raises her hand. Though it suddenly feels like it weighs fifteen hundred pounds, I raise my hand.
No way does this end well.
• • •
“Sure, you can do that,” says Mom, robbing me of my chance to get out of this madness and blame a parent. “This can’t become a weekly thing, but once in a while, of course.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s good to see that you and Blake are finally getting along.”
“Yep.”
Mom narrows her eyes with concern. “You look upset. You should be happy. Is everything all right?”
“Audrey and I broke up.”
“Oh no! What happened?”
“We drifted apart.”
“Oh, Rod, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“Do you need a banana split? I’ll make you one.”
“No, I’m fine.”
• • •
The worst part of this arrangement is that I have to spend the next week pretending that I don’t find Blake completely abhorrent. I speak to him as little as possible, but when we pass each other, I’m forced to nod politely. And we have to make conversation during meals. As Blake said approximately six thousand years ago, he’s not a fan of small talk, so dinner conversation tends to focus on subjects like the national debt and the meaning of our existence. I think Mom is impressed.
Yes, he’s in the garage every afternoon when we practice. And, yes, he makes suggestions. And, yes, Mel and Clarissa think his suggestions are oh-so-wonderful. And, yes, I will grudgingly admit that not all his suggestions are entirely worthless. But, no, I will not call him our manager.
Of course, I have to see Audrey every day in biology, and gosh, that’s not awkward at all. It’s also not the least bit awkward when I see Gretchen, Bernadette, Lorelei, Shannon, Melissa, and Jennifer. Nope, not at all. Jennifer does look like she feels guilty, though apparently not guilty enough to confess her role in Blake’s plan.
I should be all bouncy and giddy over these upcoming shows, but how can I trust that Blake is really trying to help? How do I know he won’t release a thousand sewer rats into the club as we take the stage? (Would that hurt our reputation or improve it? I’m not sure. Either way, I don’t want to find out.) How do I know he didn’t hack the venue websites to say we’re playing? How do I know he won’t purposely let the bus run out of gas so that we miss our show and damage our credibility?
I try to improve my mood with the realization that Blake has already been here for almost two weeks, which means that there are only two months and two weeks left to go! That’s way better than having three months left. I have to take joy in the little things now.
Unrelated to Blake, what if Fanged Grapefruit isn’t good enough to open for acts like Fist Knuckles and Krab Salad? What if we’re booed off the stage? What if the audience stands there, bored? What if the club owner has to come out and apologize to everybody for letting them down by booking such a low-quality opening band? What if we finish our set and I look over to see the lead singer of Krab Salad shaking his head with disappointment? I’m not one to be plagued by self-doubt, but these all seem like realistic potential outcomes.
I force myself to be excited. This could be our big break!
