I have him. I’m going to write about Gideon Lee, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
Lark Singer #2
Chapter One
THE GUYS ARE impatiently waiting for me. Bean’s foot jiggles so fast; it appears as if a current of electricity runs through him. We have to be down at Pearl’s by seven.
We’re all geeked about playing on stage, I can tell. Performing at Pearl’s gives us the face time we need for when it’s really going to count. The real event — the competition — is only a few weeks away. I pick up my pace, we have three hours to jam and grab some food before we go on stage.
“Come on, Chickie,” he says, gesturing with his sticks as he settles into position behind his drums.
Rushing forward, I plug in my amp. As I crank out a few chords to warm up, that old energy buzzes through my veins. After a couple of licks, I’m ready and my nimble fingers tingle. I’m wired. I love playing in front of a live audience. “Which one are we jamming on?” I look over at Bean and wait for his answer.
His brow creases as he tries to decide. “This one here.” He holds up the lead sheet and waves it impatiently in the air.
I squint to see it. It’s the one we titled “Secrets.” Pointing to the lead sheet sitting on Stevie’s stand, I get into position. I had taken a few minutes and titled Stevie’s lead sheets for him the other day.
He nods. “Thanks.”
Bean slams his sticks together and counts out. “One… two… three.”
We’re off, filling the garage with musical energy. My body’s rigid, as if every muscle’s flexed and ready for action. Screaming chords fill the air, as my nimble fingers crank on my Gibson. I feel like I’m a live electrical wire, popping and snapping with unrestrained energy.
When we’re done with that song, no one speaks. Instead, Bean holds up another lead sheet and then we’re off again. Tonight’s performance is going to be epic. I can tell just by how we’re coming together. I grin in spite of my intense concentration; my confidence is growing by leaps and bounds. We are so ready for this competition that I can feel it all the way down to my bones.
After the second song, I hold up my hand and say, “Our sound smokes. But don’t you think we should play some of the music we’re going to be performing tonight?”
Bean snorts. “Yeah. Probably.”
We take a few minutes and discuss some of the songs we want to play. We usually crank out tunes that were big hits in the seventies and eighties, a lot of Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, and Rolling Stones. They’re more mellow than what we’ve been playing, but they’re still good melodies and the crowd at Pearl’s digs that classical sound. Playing this type of music broadens our musicianship, but there’s nothing like cranking out our own songs. After choosing a few of the harder tunes we immediately start jamming.
We’ve chosen “Hotel California” by the Eagles. It’s a dark tune about moving to California and I love the melody. My guitar howls out the chords and I feel that quiver inside as I sing the lyrics. After cranking out three more Eagles’ songs, we change it up for a few Fleetwood Mac and Rolling Stones’ songs. They’re great dance tunes and we know we’ll get people out on the floor with these.
After the last melody, we take a break. The garage seems to hum with the absence of our music. As if it was vibrating at a rapid rate and is slowly winding down because the music stopped. We all take swigs from the water bottles Bean brought out earlier and then sit in the folding chairs by the wall.
“What time is it?” Stevie asks, screwing the cap back on his water bottle.
“Time to get going,” Bean answers after a quick glance at his watch. “My brother should be here any minute to help me get my drum set down to Pearl’s.”
“Cool. I guess I’ll ride down with Francine.” I grimace as I say this and Bean exchanges a look with Stevie.
“I’ve got my parents’ Toyota for the night. You could ride with me,” Stevie offers with grin and a shrug.
“Awesome.” I smile at him as my heart swells with gratitude for my band mates. The truce between Francine and me has been extended, mainly because I’ve been
avoiding her and there hasn’t been an opportunity to wage another war. So I welcome any opportunity to keep the avoidance plan going.
A horn sounds off in front of the house. Moving to the garage door opener, I press the button. The Brown Turd sits in the driveway, rumbling and vibrating.
“There’s my ride,” Bean says. “Can I get some help?”
No one talks as we all gather around Bean’s drum set and help him disassemble it. It takes us about fifteen minutes to get everything in the car, but when we’re done, Bean’s satisfied with our work. He gives me a wink and says, “I’ll see you down there, Chickie.” Shifting his focus to Stevie, he says, “Later, dude.” They exchange a quick knuckle bump, and then Bean jumps in the car.
As they pull out of the driveway, Stevie gives me a nudge. “Come on. Let’s get going.”
I follow him back to the garage, where we grab our equipment and stow it in the backseat of his parents’ green sedan. Then we hustle inside and grab our coats. On my way out the door, I glance at my watch and realize we’ll just have enough time to eat before we play. Since we don’t charge for our performance, the owner of Pearl’s gives us our meal on the house. We’re okay with that because we need the face time and the food at Pearl’s is epically awesome.
After we climb into the car, Stevie starts it and pulls away from the curb. “What’re you going to get?” he asks after adjusting his mirror.
I tilt my head and think about it before I answer. “Probably a wet burrito.” I smile and face him. “How about you?”
“That does sound pretty good. I’ll probably get one of those too.”
We share a giddy laugh and then zoom down the road. I love Friday nights at Pearl’s, the relaxed atmosphere and the friendliness of the staff. The owner of the bar, whose actual name is Marge, always welcomes us with a smile. Her grandmother, the original owner, was Pearl.
Marge is a rotund woman with big boobs and an even bigger heart. When I was a young girl, I’d been afraid of her. Afraid that I’d get lost in that big pillowy chest and suffocate.
I snicker every time I think about that now and chalk it up to irrational fears of childhood.
As we pull into the parking lot behind the bar, I turn to Stevie and say. “Hey, did Bean tell you we have a name for the band?”
Stevie shakes his head as he puts the car in park and shuts it off. “Nope. What is it?”
“Starlight.”
Stevie grins and fiddles with his glasses. He repeats the name a couple of times, then turns to me, and says, “I like it.”
I let out a squeal of delight. “I do too.”
Stevie laughs because I’m not the type of girl that squeals. I’m much more levelheaded, but I can’t help it. We have our songs picked out and we have a name for the band. And the fact that we’re getting face time tonight is just frosting on the cake.
“Where’s Bean?” I ask, scanning the parking lot for the Brown Turd.
Stevie frowns. “I don’t know. He should be here by now.”
“Well let’s get the equipment into the bar. Maybe by the time we’re done, he’ll be here.”
“Okay.”
Climbing out of the car, I scrutinize the area again and still no Bean. Disappointed, I sigh and grab my Gibson and my amp, then carry them inside. Stevie’s right behind me with his gear in tow.
We trudge through the back door and find ourselves in a dimly lit hall. It’s narrow and smells of slimy grease and stale cigarettes. I figure this is where Marge’s staff comes when they want to have a smoke.
Traveling down the narrow corridor, we pass a bathroom on the right and the kitchen on the left. Coming from the kitchen is the sound of meat frying on a hot grill, the clatter of dishes, and the barking of orders as the staff hustle around trying to get through the dinner rush.
Inhaling a big whiff, I catch the scent of chipotle and cayenne pepper. Must be a Mexican dish is the special tonight, and my stomach rumbles in anticipation. We skirt
the main dining room and enter the bar area. At seven, Marge opens the divider between the two rooms and we’ll start cranking out the tunes.
There’s a small stage at the back and we head in that direction. I flick on the light. It flickers before the room lights up. Booths with cracked upholstery line the walls, and there are tables sporting red plastic tablecloths with candles in the center of them. Surrounding the tables like troops taking a bunker, are chairs with the same type of upholstery as the booths.
Stevie bangs into a table with his Fender and curses under his breath. I make it up on the stage and place my equipment on the left. Stevie likes the right side and Bean sits center stage, about five feet behind Stevie and me. There’s a small platform for him that sits about ten inches higher than the stage. This way Bean isn’t lost behind his drums. Stooping, I arrange my stand and amp so they’re out of the way, but accessible. Stevie does the same thing, and we’re quiet as we work.
After I get everything situated, I glance toward the door and frown. Still no Bean. My stomach flutters. If we don’t have a drummer, we can’t play. I catch Stevie’s eye. “I’m getting nervous.”
Stevie gives me a smile and says, “Chill. He’ll be here. You know Bean, he’s always running late.”
Just as Stevie finishes speaking, Bean rushes in the door. He’s carrying one of his snare drums and his brother’s following behind him carrying his cymbals. I’m so glad to see him that my heart swells in my chest. The overwhelming urge to run up and hug him is so strong, that I have to clench my hands to stop myself. I play it cool and say, “Hey. We were wondering where you were.”
He gives me a wide grin and says, “We had to make a quick stop.” He’s pumped — I can tell by his energetic motions and bright, shiny eyes. “I’ll be right back with the rest of my drums.” He winks at me and then turns to Stevie. “Would you care to help, kind sir?”
Bean and Stevie share a laugh at Bean’s silliness, then leave to carry in the rest of the drums. Brian waves to me and bounds. We are so ready for this competition that I can feel it all the way down to my bones.
After the second song, I hold up my hand and say, “Our sound smokes. But don’t you think we should play some of the music we’re going to be performing tonight?”
Bean snorts. “Yeah. Probably.”
We take a few minutes and discuss some of the songs we want to play. We usually crank out tunes that were big hits in the seventies and eighties, a lot of Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, and Rolling Stones. They’re more mellow than what we’ve been playing, but they’re still good melodies and the crowd at Pearl’s digs that classical sound. Playing this type of music broadens our musicianship, but there’s nothing like cranking out our own songs. After choosing a few of the harder tunes we immediately start jamming.
We’ve chosen “Hotel California” by the Eagles. It’s a dark tune about moving to California and I love the melody. My guitar howls out the chords and I feel that quiver inside as I sing the lyrics. After cranking out three more Eagles’ songs, we change it up for a few Fleetwood Mac and Rolling Stones’ songs. They’re great dance tunes and we know we’ll get people out on the floor with these.
After the last melody, we take a break. The garage seems to hum with the absence of our music. As if it was vibrating at a rapid rate and is slowly winding down because the music stopped. We all take swigs from the water bottles Bean brought out earlier and then sit in the folding chairs by the wall.
“What time is it?” Stevie asks, screwing the cap back on his water bottle.
“Time to get going,” Bean answers after a quick glance at his watch. “My brother should be here any minute to help me get my drum set down to Pearl’s.”
“Cool. I guess I’ll ride down with Francine.” I grimace as I say this and Bean exchanges a look with Stevie.
“I’ve got my parents’ Toyota for the night. You could ride with me,” Stevie offers with grin and a shrug.
“Awesome.” I smile at him as my heart swells with gratitude for my band mates. The truce between Francine and me has been extended, mainly because I’ve been avoiding her and there hasn’t been an opportunity to wage another war. So I welcome any opportunity to keep the avoidance plan going.
Starlight #3
“AWESOME JAM session!” announces Bean as he twirls his sticks in the air.
“We are so ready!” I exclaim. The competition is just a week away, but I’ve never been so ready for anything in my life. We have the smoking hot tunes. Four of them, and they’re full of positive energy. And we have the smoking hot name. Starlight. I love the way it rolls off my tongue when I say it.
For a brief second, I think about who we’re up against for the competition and Duh-Wayne’s face floats into my consciousness. I shake my head to wash the image away. Nothing is going to ruin this chance for me, not even Duh-Wayne.
The competition. It’s my one chance to get out of this town, to have the musical career of my dreams. The winner gets a paid-in-full opportunity to audition for American Singer and the winner of that gets a recording contract. I can almost feel the contract in my hand.
Turning my attention back to the task at hand, I unplug my guitar. As I put my Gibson back into its case, Bean moves from his perch behind his drum set and squats next to me. “Hey, I’ve got to give Stevie a ride home, but after that would you like to go for a cruise?”
“Yeah.” I give him a smile. “I would.”
“Bean. Come on, I’ve got to get home,” Stevie says in a tone that’s not quite impatient.
I stand. “Just let me put this away,” I say, patting my guitar case. I hustle inside and run my guitar up to my room.
When I return to the garage, I hit the button and then sneak under the door as it makes its descent. Stevie’s standing just outside the passenger door, waiting for me to climb into the car next to Bean before he gets in. He’s thoughtful that way.
I climb in and give Bean a nudge and a grin. He grins back and his eyes have that special twinkle that’s just for me.
Stevie scrambles in and closes the door. “Let’s go.”
Bean backs out of the driveway and heads down the road. The Brown Turd rumbles and backfires as he steps on the gas. I’m surprised Mr. Szasbo hasn’t made an appearance, but then I remember his cat. Ever since I saved his kitten, I haven’t heard a complaint from him. Maybe he has warmed toward me.
It takes us fifteen minutes to reach Stevie’s house. A brick ranch with a long front porch and attached two-stall garage. The house doesn’t seem to match my friend. I expected him to live in some bungalow by the sea. Instead, he’s in small town suburbia and it dawns on me that I don’t even know what his parents do for a living.
“I’ll catch you guys tomorrow,” Stevie says with a wave, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Yeah. Tomorrow,” I say with a quick smile. I can’t wait for him to leave so I can be alone with Bean.
“Later, Dude,” Bean yells before rolling up his window. I snuggle up to him as he steps on the gas and heads toward downtown. “So where do you want to go?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Let’s go someplace where we can talk.”
He winks at me and says, “I know just the place.”
“Where?”
“You’ll see.” He gives me a mischievous smile that sends my heart racing. I love it when he looks at me like that.
We make small talk while he drives to our destination. I’m shocked when we pull into a cemetery. “What are we doing here?”
“You said you wanted to go someplace to talk.” He snickers. “We definitely won’t get interrupted here.”
“No kidding,” I say as I stare out the window. The grave markers go by and I can’t help but think about the people lying beneath the ground. I wonder what kind of lives they had. As I think about these things, I realize there’s a lot of history in this cemetery.
“So, what did you want to talk about?” Bean asks as he grabs my hand. The familiarity of the rough calluses on my skin warms my heart. He stops the car and turns the engine off.
“My mom admitted it.”
“Admitted what?” Bean shifts in his seat and slouches against the driver’s door.
I shift and turn toward him. Before I speak, I rub my fingers along the scar above my right eyebrow. It’s my bastard stamp. I got it the day Duh-Wayne called me a bastard and then laughed when I didn’t know what one was. As I recall the horrific fight we had, a shudder runs through me as I tell him. “She admitted that Jared Miller is my father.”
“What?” Bean sits up straight and bumps his head against the window. Rubbing it he says, “When did all this happen?”
“Last night.” I brush a curl away from my face.
