Jesse's Girl
Page 6
I smile. I love hooking up with him, though I wish we could be more. He doesn’t want to ruin the dynamic of the band by starting a relationship. I get that; a bad breakup could mess up everything, and I won’t risk the success The Fringe has had so far. Not many kids can say they’ve played at two clubs in Nashville.
None of the other band members know we fool around. They think Nate tutors me in geometry, which is true because I suck at it. But our “study sessions” are mostly kissing, and sometimes we go further. I just wish he’d use his tutoring skills on me more often.
I’m fixing to open the side door to the garage when I see Hannah dragging her black fingernails up and down Nate’s arm. I hold my breath, watching as her fingertips then stroke his face, tracing his eyebrow ring. He hates when I touch it. He always pushes my hand away. He just smiles at her.
So it’s okay if Hannah does it?
“Hey guys,” I announce. “What’s going on?”
They jump apart.
“Hey, Maya,” Hannah blurts. She turns on her synth and plays a scale to warm up, avoiding my eyes.
Weird. Hannah always says that we spend too much time “dicking around with unnecessary warm-ups.” She doesn’t have to spend time tuning a keyboard like I do with my electric Fender Strat.
Nate turns on the mic and plugs his guitar into the amp. I do the same and begin running through licks to warm up my fingers. I glance at the set list Nate prepared for practice. I sigh when I see it’s only metal songs. I love music, so I’m willing to try anything that my band likes, but the thing is, metal doesn’t make me tingle. Sure, the vibrations shake my body, but they don’t touch my soul.
When Reed and Brady arrive and start settling in, I clear my throat and speak loudly over the drums. “Guys, I have something to talk to you about.”
“Like how you’re BFFs with Jesse Scott?” Nate asks with a laugh, and everybody joins in except me. Nate smirks, almost imperceptibly, but I keep my back straight and proud. Take that, buddy. I won’t let him see that he hurt my feelings.
“No, but Jesse reminded me of something I want us to consider.” I strum my strings slowly. “I think we should audition for Wannabe Rocker.”
Hannah abruptly stops playing keyboard. Reed’s drums go silent.
Nate crosses his arms on top of his guitar. “Why?”
“I figure we have a good chance of making the semifinals.” My voice shakes like the cymbals. “We’d get to be on TV. And who knows? We might even make it further! We could get a record deal.”
“The people on that show never end up playing the music they want to,” Brady says. “You have to perform a different genre every week.”
Reed starts nodding. “Like that rapper Ansel Richard. He had to sing that Titanic song during Celine Dion week and bombed in front of a billion people. Never would’ve done that if he’d just stuck to rap.”
“We’d be selling out,” Nate adds. “We’d be giving up our artistic freedom.”
“But it’s an opportunity to put ourselves out there and get recognized. Think of what it would be like to record an album!”
“Is money all you care about?” Nate asks.
“Come on. You know I care about the art. I love music…I only wish we played more than just the hard stuff all the time. That’d be another great thing about the TV show—we could really stretch ourselves. We need to experiment with our sound and try new things.”
My band looks everywhere but at me. Finally, Nate says, “Maya, can we talk outside?”
“About?”
“The band.”
“Shouldn’t we all be here if you want to talk about us?”
Nate glances from Reed to Brady. “We feel you don’t have the same vision for The Fringe. You keep trying to make us play music that’s just not us, and it’s wasting our practice time.”
What in the world is he talking about? “We were supposed to be an eighties tribute band,” I say. “You’re the one who wants to play heavy metal.”
“I’d rather play metal,” Reed says, and Brady nods.
Nate nervously adjusts his leather wristbands. “We’ve been talking to Bryan Moore about taking over as lead guitar.”
I carefully place my Fender back on its stand before I’m tempted to smash something, and it’s what’s in reach. “I’m lead guitar! This is my band. I started it!”
Hannah’s eyes grow wide at my outburst.
“Hannah?” I ask, but she looks away silently, confused and upset. I get the feeling she didn’t know about this. But why isn’t she speaking up?!
None of the other band members know we fool around. They think Nate tutors me in geometry, which is true because I suck at it. But our “study sessions” are mostly kissing, and sometimes we go further. I just wish he’d use his tutoring skills on me more often.
I’m fixing to open the side door to the garage when I see Hannah dragging her black fingernails up and down Nate’s arm. I hold my breath, watching as her fingertips then stroke his face, tracing his eyebrow ring. He hates when I touch it. He always pushes my hand away. He just smiles at her.
So it’s okay if Hannah does it?
“Hey guys,” I announce. “What’s going on?”
They jump apart.
“Hey, Maya,” Hannah blurts. She turns on her synth and plays a scale to warm up, avoiding my eyes.
Weird. Hannah always says that we spend too much time “dicking around with unnecessary warm-ups.” She doesn’t have to spend time tuning a keyboard like I do with my electric Fender Strat.
Nate turns on the mic and plugs his guitar into the amp. I do the same and begin running through licks to warm up my fingers. I glance at the set list Nate prepared for practice. I sigh when I see it’s only metal songs. I love music, so I’m willing to try anything that my band likes, but the thing is, metal doesn’t make me tingle. Sure, the vibrations shake my body, but they don’t touch my soul.
When Reed and Brady arrive and start settling in, I clear my throat and speak loudly over the drums. “Guys, I have something to talk to you about.”
“Like how you’re BFFs with Jesse Scott?” Nate asks with a laugh, and everybody joins in except me. Nate smirks, almost imperceptibly, but I keep my back straight and proud. Take that, buddy. I won’t let him see that he hurt my feelings.
“No, but Jesse reminded me of something I want us to consider.” I strum my strings slowly. “I think we should audition for Wannabe Rocker.”
Hannah abruptly stops playing keyboard. Reed’s drums go silent.
Nate crosses his arms on top of his guitar. “Why?”
“I figure we have a good chance of making the semifinals.” My voice shakes like the cymbals. “We’d get to be on TV. And who knows? We might even make it further! We could get a record deal.”
“The people on that show never end up playing the music they want to,” Brady says. “You have to perform a different genre every week.”
Reed starts nodding. “Like that rapper Ansel Richard. He had to sing that Titanic song during Celine Dion week and bombed in front of a billion people. Never would’ve done that if he’d just stuck to rap.”
“We’d be selling out,” Nate adds. “We’d be giving up our artistic freedom.”
“But it’s an opportunity to put ourselves out there and get recognized. Think of what it would be like to record an album!”
“Is money all you care about?” Nate asks.
“Come on. You know I care about the art. I love music…I only wish we played more than just the hard stuff all the time. That’d be another great thing about the TV show—we could really stretch ourselves. We need to experiment with our sound and try new things.”
My band looks everywhere but at me. Finally, Nate says, “Maya, can we talk outside?”
“About?”
“The band.”
“Shouldn’t we all be here if you want to talk about us?”
Nate glances from Reed to Brady. “We feel you don’t have the same vision for The Fringe. You keep trying to make us play music that’s just not us, and it’s wasting our practice time.”
What in the world is he talking about? “We were supposed to be an eighties tribute band,” I say. “You’re the one who wants to play heavy metal.”
“I’d rather play metal,” Reed says, and Brady nods.
Nate nervously adjusts his leather wristbands. “We’ve been talking to Bryan Moore about taking over as lead guitar.”
I carefully place my Fender back on its stand before I’m tempted to smash something, and it’s what’s in reach. “I’m lead guitar! This is my band. I started it!”
Hannah’s eyes grow wide at my outburst.
“Hannah?” I ask, but she looks away silently, confused and upset. I get the feeling she didn’t know about this. But why isn’t she speaking up?!
