Five Flavors of Dumb

  I didn’t really know, but I nodded all the same.

  She restarted the song from the top, a black-and-white title screen followed by footage of the men when they were boys, as earnest as Kallie, as gawky as Ed. Even the film of them playing in the studio in 1993 had a similar quality, their movements ever so slightly awkward, like they were surprised to find the wrong instruments in their hands.

  Still gazing at the screen, Kallie reached out and took my hand and squeezed it. With her free hand, she picked up the scrap of paper and handed it to me. It was worn, creased, like it had been folded and unfolded a hundred thousand times. Some of the ink had bled in the perfect circle of a teardrop. I took a deep breath and read the words at the top: “Seasons in the Sun.” Slowly, painstakingly, she’d written down every lyric to the song:

  Good-bye my friend, it’s hard to die

  when all the birds are singing in the sky

  and all the flowers are everywhere.

  I stopped reading and looked at the screen again, and the three guys fooling around with each other’s instruments like they knew this whole crazy trip was nothing but a magic carpet ride, something they needed to cherish now because all dreams die eventually.

  Kallie took the volume down and turned to me. Even with tears running down her face, she was still beautiful.

  “My parents used to fight,” she said finally. “A lot. I heard it in my bedroom, even when I closed the door, even when I played music on my stereo. Nirvana was the soundtrack of my parents falling apart.” She blinked and fresh tears tumbled down her cheeks. “One day he . . . he threatened her. And I said he was wrong, and I meant that he was wrong to threaten her, but maybe he thought I meant he was wrong about everything. And, I don’t know, maybe I did mean that. And I’ll never forget the look he gave me, like that was the final straw. He could take it from Mom, but not me. So he left. He left, and we never heard from him again. Not once. Not ever.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I’d figured Kallie had a story to tell, just like the rest of us, but certainly not that kind of story. “I’m sorry, Kallie. I’m so sorry.”

  “If I’d just kept my mouth shut, maybe he’d have stayed,” she said, like she was replaying the scene for the millionth time, tweaking and refining it until it had a happy ending. “Maybe everything would be okay. Maybe I’d actually be the girl everyone thinks I am.”

  I thought of the way she’d been so honest with Tash in the café. But who can view their own life with that kind of clarity?

  I swallowed hard. “That’s not true, Kallie. If you’d kept your mouth shut, he’d have hurt your mom and left anyway, and you’d be telling me that you had the chance to do something, and you let her down. You’d have spent the past six years regretting your silence.”

  Kallie managed the slightest nod as she turned back to the screen. “I just . . . I just want to go back and make everything right,” she said, and I couldn’t tell whether she was talking about her family or the guys onscreen.

  “You have to live in the present, Kallie. Make now the best it can be,” I said, meaning every word, but hating how prophetic it felt.

  Kallie didn’t speak after that, just watched me. She even summoned the infamous Kallie half smile, and it suddenly struck me that it didn’t make her look sexy, or teasing, or any of the other things I’d always thought. It made her seem uncertain, even vulnerable. In the end, the half smile was her instinctive reaction to uncomfortable situations—nothing more.

  I took a deep breath and realized I didn’t feel anxious anymore, just tired. The movie had ended again, but Kallie immediately replayed it, and I could only guess at how many times she’d watched it over and over, memorizing details, struggling to make sense of it. She even pointed to the handwritten lyrics, her finger guiding me through each line so I could keep up with the song I couldn’t properly hear:

  We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun

  but the hills that we climbed

  were just seasons out of time.

  I looked back at the screen and watched the home movie of Nirvana, all off-balanced colors and amateur camerawork. There was an honesty about it, an unscripted innocence that was heartbreaking. Then the movie cut to one of Kurt’s bandmates, at the very moment his face crumpled and he sobbed, just once, as if he knew so much more than he could ever really know. I felt Kallie’s shoulders shaking gently against me, her hand gripping mine so very tightly, like she was afraid of losing me as well. And as I pulled her toward me and hugged her tightly, let her cry warm tears against me, I wondered how I’d never seen it before—how horribly broken Kallie was.

  Meanwhile, the others had begun drifting back into the room, implacable exteriors intact, just business as usual. That’s when I realized with a degree of shame that of all of us, Kallie was the one who felt it the most—the raw emotion, the power of a single song to change her world. She’d never come close to Ed’s calm professionalism. She couldn’t walk the walk like Will and Tash, or talk the talk like Josh. She simply felt every lyric as if it was a message composed especially for her. Improbably Kallie needed Dumb more than anyone. So much more. And I knew that if Dumb was to have any soul, any meaning at all, it needed her too.

  Just then I felt Kallie’s body stiffen, and I looked up to see Josh standing beside her. He even looked genuinely distressed to see her crying, placing a hand on her shoulder as she tried to pull away.

  “I guess Piper told you you’re out, then, huh?”

  CHAPTER 52

  For a moment Kallie didn’t react. It was like all her energy had been focused on getting away from Josh, and luckily for me there simply wasn’t room for her to digest a bombshell like the one he’d just dropped.

  I jumped up and pulled her away before Josh could say anything more, but I knew that she needed an explanation, and fast.

  “Ignore him, Kallie. He’s full of crap.”

  Kallie shook her head. “It’s okay, Piper. Seriously, it’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay. You’re staying.”

  Josh was beside us in a heartbeat. “What about our deal?”

  “There was no deal, Josh.”

  “Bullshit. Kallie’s the weak link. You said so yourself.”

  I never took my eyes off Josh, but from the corner of my eye I saw Kallie’s face fall. I wanted to get out of that room so badly. Earlier it had just felt small, but now it felt as claustrophobic as a phone booth. I needed space to breathe.

  Kallie reached out and touched my arm. “It’s okay if you want me to leave,” she said, and I swear she didn’t even look angry, just resigned.

  “No, Kallie. I absolutely do not want you to leave.”

  Josh spun around and punched the wall, releasing a tiny fountain of plaster dust. Then he smiled in that demonic Mr. Hyde way that made me want to employ a bodyguard. “You know what, Kallie, you’re out. I’m telling you because our manager is too much of a flake to do it herself, okay?”

  Then Ed joined the fray, putting himself in my line of vision to make sure I could follow everything he said. “No, it’s not okay. Kallie stays.”

  “Then I go!” Josh shouted.

  The room was only still for a moment before Ed made it clear that was fine with him, and then Tash did too. Even Will didn’t seem bothered, just stayed out of the way, cleaning his bass strings.

  “Let’s not be hasty, guys,” I interjected, aware that things were spiraling out of control. “We need Josh, remember?”

  But Josh was clearly unnerved by the extent of Dumb’s mutiny. “No way. You guys want Kallie more than me, well . . . fine! I’m gone.”

  “You can’t leave,” I reminded him. “You leave and I’ll sue you for a thousand bucks, and you know I’ll do it.”

  “Okay. Let’s put it to a vote. Hands up who’s willing to let me go.”

  Suddenly Ed, Tash, and Kallie had their hands high in the air, and Josh was smirking like he’d won the lottery.

  “Good. Then the thousand bucks
are off the table. But you’ll want to think about tonight’s contract,” he added, pulling a copy from his pocket. “It stipulates that all five members must be present onstage.”

  Tash simply laughed. “You’re so full of it, Josh. If you wanted to leave, you’d have gone already. But then who’d give a crap about you?”

  “Are you testing me?” He waved the contract for emphasis.

  Will stopped cleaning his strings, blew hair out of his eyes. “Come on, Josh, cut the drama.”

  “No, Will. I’m leaving for real. Dumb’s history, and Piper’s about to be sued for breach of contract unless we make a new deal right now. And the deal is that after tonight, Kallie’s gone.”

  Suddenly no one was laughing anymore. We’d called Josh’s bluff, believing he’d never actually follow through on his threat, but here was an ultimatum. (Where was poker master Finn when I needed him?) Never mind the extraordinary and devious lengths to which Josh had gone to get Kallie in the band in the first place—he was tired of her now, so it was time to move on.

  With the stakes so high, it was a no-brainer: Contractually, we’d get sued without him; musically, we’d be retaining one scene-stealing lead singer instead of an air-guitarist with limited acting skills. It was such an easy call that I waited to see which of us would fold first, swallow our pride and accept Josh’s terms for the greater good of the band. I just couldn’t bring myself to be that person.

  The problem was, neither could Ed, or Kallie, or Tash, or even Will. And Josh didn’t wait for us to reconsider.

  The second he walked out the door, I expected someone to run after him and drag him back, kicking and screaming if necessary. I even had half a mind to do it myself, only the other half was stronger. So instead of tracking down our dysfunctional lead singer, we looked at each other like developing Plan B was top priority.

  For once, I knew exactly what it should be.

  I pulled out my cell phone and speed-dialed Mom, then thrust the phone at Ed. “Who’s answering?” I asked.

  Ed raised an eyebrow. “How the heck would—Oh, hi there, Mrs. Vaughan!” He turned an adorable shade of scarlet as he realized he’d just sort of sworn at my mother. “Actually, I’m not sure what I want,” he said, visibly deflating.

  “Ask her if Finn has Dad’s cell.”

  Ed relayed the question, then nodded vigorously. “Oh, good. In that case—”

  I snatched the phone from him and hung up. There wasn’t time for polite good-byes, although I made a mental note to tell Mom it wasn’t Ed’s fault he’d hung up on her. I dialed Dad’s number and shoved it back at Ed. “Tell Finn we need him here right now.”

  Ed was still bright red, and had begun pacing around the room in tiny circles. I got the feeling I was killing him softly, but it was already 7:55, and although I knew all rock shows started late, I figured that wasn’t really our call to make.

  “Finn? Finn?” cried Ed. “Hi. It’s Ed.”

  Ed grimaced as he tried to make out Finn’s reply. Eventually he gave up and held the phone away from his ear. “It’s really hard to hear him,” he complained.

  I rolled my eyes. “Welcome to my world.”

  “Oh, right. I see what you mean.” Ed brought the phone back to his ear. “Look Finn, we need you here right now. Josh has bailed and we need a fifth member. . . . Oh, I see. Well, never mind.”

  “What?” I exploded. “What’s going on?”

  “Finn’s hanging out with Grace in Pacific Place Mall. He says it’d take at least ten minutes to get here.”

  “Then tell him to leave now!”

  “She says you need to leave now. . . . What’s that? A poop. Right now? Oh.” Ed frowned. “Finn says make that fifteen minutes.”

  “Tell him forget the poop. Mom and Dad can deal with it when he gets here.”

  Finn obviously heard me well enough, because Ed immediately shook his head. “He says no go. This is his chance to show that he’s a responsible babysitter.”

  I ripped the phone away from Ed and gave it to Tash, who took over seamlessly: “Hi Finn, it’s . . . You are? . . . Great!” She hung up. “He’s on his way,” she said triumphantly.

  While Ed struggled to work out what had happened, Kallie appeared before me, tugging her sleeves anxiously. “What’s Finn going to play?” she asked.

  I sighed, but there was no use in lying at this stage. “He’s going to play guitar.”

  “So who’ll be singing?”

  “You know who’ll be singing, Kallie.”

  Her eyes grew wide and she shook her head. “I can’t. I couldn’t. I’m just . . . not like Josh.”

  “Which is exactly why you’re still here and he’s not.” I could feel her pulling away, taking refuge in her pessimism. “You can do this, Kallie, I know you can. I’ve seen you mouthing the words to the songs. Josh has pushed you around for too long. It’s time to push back.”

  Before Kallie could respond, Mike poked his head through the door. “You’re on in three,” he shouted. When I pretended not to understand, he held up three fingers helpfully.

  Then the games really began.

  “Okay, Ed,” I said. “Mike doesn’t know I can understand him, so from now on I need you to act like you’re interpreting for me. I’ll watch his lips carefully, so don’t worry about signing correctly, just drag it out as long as you can.”

  Ed twirled his drumsticks and raised his thumbs in agreement.

  Next I sent Kallie to the ladies’ room so she wouldn’t be around when Mike came to find out why we hadn’t gone onstage. After Ed and I had spent thirty seconds going back and forth with meaningless signs, Ed informed Mike that Kallie had stage fright and was barfing in the bathroom. (Coincidentally, this turned out to be true.)

  A couple minutes later, Mike reappeared, and this time Will was fixing a new string to his guitar. Mike threw his hands up in disgust, but he left without saying a word.

  After three more minutes he loomed in the doorway and I knew we wouldn’t be able to fob him off again. I don’t think he really cared when we started, but by now he had an inkling that something was wrong, and he wasn’t about to make it easy for us.

  “You’ve got two minutes. No excuses. I don’t care if you’re missing strings or heaving all over the stage, you get your asses up there. Hear me?”

  Ed tried calling Finn again, but there was no answer. I knew he’d be racing over, but we’d exhausted our quota of delaying tactics, and there could be no more excuses. I left Dumb warming up, and ran into the auditorium to search for Finn.

  It was crammed full, everyone facing the empty stage in readiness for something magical to occur. I couldn’t see over them to the entrance, so I began looking for a pathway through them, which is when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I spun around.

  “Where’s your fifth?” shouted Mike, wiggling his hands and fingers in a poor approximation of sign language. I pulled away, hurried back to the greenroom, but he stayed right behind me, trailing me like a bloodhound.

  “Where’s your fifth?” he bellowed as we entered the room.

  “There are just four now,” said Ed calmly.

  “The contract says five. And I’m going to hold you to it.”

  “Then we won’t perform,” Tash sneered.

  Mike’s nostrils flared. “If you bail now, you’re finished, and you know it. You’ll be blacklisted on every TV and radio station across the country. This is an adult business. It’s time you kids understood that.”

  Kallie stepped into the fray, thrust her guitar into my hands. “There. Now we’ve got five.”

  “What?” muttered Mike.

  “Piper is our new guitarist.”

  “Her? But she’s deaf. She can’t even—”

  Mike’s appraisal of my qualifications came to an abrupt halt as Tash’s guitar caught him squarely in the gut. “That’s discrimination, and if you don’t pay us, we’ll let everyone know what you just said.”

  Mike wasn’t impressed. “Don’t screw with me.
Discrimination or not, she’s deaf. In case you’ve forgotten, I negotiated with her, and she can’t even speak.”

  I’d heard enough. “Yes, I can. And I can read your lips too.” Mike staggered back like he’d been Tasered. “So before you say anything else that will make me hate you even more, listen very carefully. I can feel music just as well as you can hear it. And if you want to debate that, go ahead—my mom’s a lawyer.”

  Mike stared at me, weighing up his options. He wanted to win this showdown—he had to—but he also knew his head would be on the chopping block if we bailed. After all, he was the one who’d signed us up. Finally he shook his head and waved his arm toward the door. “Go ahead, then. The stage is through there. Have a great set.”

  No one moved. We’d never actually gotten around to discussing details like who should go on first, but even if we had, it would have been irrelevant. Because what Mike had realized—and we’d somehow overlooked in our quest to outwit him—was that we were about to face a manic crowd of over a thousand people with a guitarist who’d never touched a guitar in her life, and a lead singer who’d grown afraid of her own voice. I could already imagine Mike snapping souvenir photos as the crowd lynched us midway through our first song.

  There was no other choice but to walk through that door, past Mike’s self-congratulatory grin, away from the safety of the greenroom. And that was when panic truly set in. I couldn’t move my feet—could barely feel them—and I was hyperventilating. I was sure I was about to hurl, but then Ed was next to me, holding my hand. Step by laborious step he guided me from the greenroom and along the corridor leading to the stage.

  “I can’t do it, Ed. Oh God Oh God Oh God I can’t do it.”

  Ed squeezed my hand just once and looked at me, his eyes so wise and reassuring. “I’m going to unplug your amp. Just make sure you can see me. Watch my sticks.”