Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [48]
Meanwhile, I sat by the window, engrossed in a biography of Kurt Cobain I’d checked out from the library. It was the story of a life so heartrending that I wanted to hug every member of Dumb just to show I truly cared.
I figured we’d split after the three hours were up, but then a pizza delivery guy arrived and Will said, “Now you all owe me another hour,” and no one disagreed. I couldn’t decide if I was more amazed that Will had had the forethought to order pizza, or that he had expressed an opinion, but either way, it worked. And when the extra hour was up, nobody mentioned it, and Dumb pressed on for an hour after that. Maybe it was because they knew that the next full rehearsal wouldn’t be until Friday, but even so, it felt momentous, like everyone had finally taken responsibility for making this thing work.
For the first time, Dumb’s five flavors were mixing, blending, and forging something altogether greater than the sum of its parts. And I didn’t need perfect hearing to know they realized it too.
All of this meant that I was in a pretty good mood on Monday. I even tolerated Dad’s eye rolling and steering wheel slapping on the way to school without uttering a single sarcastic remark. There should be medals for that kind of self-control.
At lunchtime I met up with Ed for a game of chess. I was finding it hard to concentrate on anything but the band, so I set goals to help me focus: checkmate in twenty moves or under (not too difficult); execute checkmate through a bishop-queen skewer (significantly harder); mustn’t smile—even a small one—when I pulled it off (close to impossible). My assignment worked—for twelve minutes I was focused on nothing but the game, and met every goal except the last one.
Usually Ed was the first to start setting up the pieces again, but for once he just sat back, lost in his thoughts.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded. “Just got a lot on my mind.”
“I get that. We’re still two songs shy of a set, and I want to start selling us as an opening act.”
Ed’s eyes grew wide. “Why?”
“Well, how else do you think we’re going to make any money?”
“But ...” He broke eye contact.
“But what?”
Ed leaned back and gripped his hair in his hands. “Do you honestly believe that’s going to happen anytime soon?”
I wasn’t sure I liked where the conversation was going. “It might.”
“But it can take years for a band to develop that kind of a following.”
“We don’t have years.”
“I know, but . . . what about Kallie?”
“What about her? I was wrong. She’s actually really nice.”
“That’s not the point. She’s not ready to play in public. And unless she and Tash plan to meet with Finn every lunchtime, I don’t think that’s going to change.”
I wondered if I’d misheard him. “What did you say about Finn?”
“I said Kallie and Tash are meeting with him, to go over the songs.”
“How do you know?”
“Finn told me during morning break. He wanted to check a couple chords out with me.”
I was struggling to come to grips with this revelation. “Where are they?”
“In the practice room.”
I jumped up and began jogging over there, Ed following close behind. I don’t know what I expected to find as I peered through the small window in the practice room door, but the one thing I was certain I wouldn’t see was Tash and Kallie hanging on Finn’s every word.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised: Finn had been playing guitar since he was eight. He’d even taken lessons for five years, until his teacher brought things to an end over a “philosophical difference” that was never fully explained. I think by then Dad had an inkling he’d soon