Thunderbowl - Lesley Choyce [10]
“Germy,” Drek greeted me. “What’s wrong with you?” He had on wraparound sunglasses that made him look like an alien. Al was in the driver’s seat.
“What are you guys doing here?” I asked. I wasn’t going to mention the report card to them. They would just laugh, think it was a hoot.
“We both quit our day jobs,” Drek said.
“You what? Why?”
Al laughed. He reached out the window and banged on the roof of the van. He let out a wild war cry and then said, “Get in, let’s cruise.”
I hauled myself into the back of the van and Al drove off. Something weird was happening. Al was grinning from ear to ear. I had never seen him like this before. “Tell him, Drek,” he said.
Drek took off his shades. He squinted at the light. “It’s like this, my man. We’re about to bust into the big time.”
“Yeah, really?” They were putting me on.
“Yeah, really!” Drek said. “Stewy got a call from a scout from one of the record companies. The dude’s coming to check us out next week.”
“Sounds good, but it might be nothing, you know,” I said. I was a real downer.
“Come on, this is our big break, the chance we’ve been waiting for,” Al said, leaning on the horn to move some pedestrians out of the way. “We’re good. You’ve seen how the audience at The Dungeon reacts. Besides, Stewy thinks we’ve got a shot. He says we’re original.”
Drek tilted his head back smugly. He was acting like he was the mastermind of the whole thing. “You see, it works like this. If the man likes us, we talk options. The company takes us under its wing, sends us on some backup gigs with bands that have CDs out. We learn the ropes and make a few bucks.”
Al cut in, “And if things go well, we get a platinum record and a beach house in Malibu.”
“What if the guy doesn’t like us?” I asked. “What if we screw it up?”
“So we’ll still have the job at The Dungeon. We’re making real money. It’s time to unload the day work and get on with some serious music.” Drek sounded so confident he almost got me believing it. Almost.
When I got home I set my report card down on the table in the kitchen and went up to my room. Later, when I came downstairs to dinner, my parents looked like a death squad. I was about to be lectured to death, the cruelest torture of all.
“Hard day at work?” I asked my old man. My voice was sarcastic. I didn’t mean it to be.
“I’ve had worse,” he grunted.
“We’ve looked at your report card,” my mother said, getting down to the nitty-gritty.
“Would you pass the mashed potatoes?” I asked.
My father looked ready to explode.
“Okay. Forget the potatoes,” I said. Smart was not the way to play it, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Your grades are a disaster, Jeremy. You might not even pass this year. This is terrible,” Dad said, staring down at my report card on his plate.
“It could be worse,” I said.
“Jeremy, you’re not taking this seriously.”
“Look, I know what I’m doing,” I lied. I tried to make it sound convincing, but my brain was scrambled eggs. I was confused. All I wanted was out of this conversation.
“Tell us then,” he said. “What exactly are you doing?”
I took a deep breath. “I’m quitting school to work full-time with Thunderbowl.”
I saw tears welling up in my mother’s eyes. My father’s face was going through all the colors of the rainbow.
“We already have work, Okay? We play four nights a week at The Dungeon.”
“That’s where you’ve been going?” he asked. “You’ve been working in a bar?”
“Yeah. And making good money.”
My father was still trying to absorb what I was saying. “You think playing music in a bar is working? Well, let me tell you, you’ve got some thinking to do!”
“How can they let a kid play music in a bar? He’s only sixteen,” my mother asked him. She was wiping her eyes with her napkin. Dad ignored her. He was too busy glaring at me.
“You should come and hear us sometime,” I said. “We’re really good. We won the Battle of the Bands and we’re one of the best bands in town.”
My father looked flabbergasted. “I am not taking your mother