He smiled, emphasizing the dimple on his left cheek. I looked for a matching one on the right and decided I preferred the asymmetry.
“So where are you going to study?” I asked.
Ed’s hand hovered over his rook. “I’ve got an audition at the Peabody Institute in February.”
“I’ve heard of that. Where is it?”
“Baltimore.”
“Seriously? That must be pretty close to Gallaudet, then.”
“Uh-huh. Thirty-seven miles.” He shuffled his rook toward certain death.
“Really?” I was amazed he could put a number on it. Who bothers learning stuff like that? I hadn’t even realized he knew that Gallaudet was in DC. “Exactly thirty-seven?”
He looked away, scratched his forehead. “Um, yeah. Something like that, anyway.”
“We’ll be pretty close then.”
Ed nodded, then groaned appropriately as I ignored his rook and put him directly into checkmate. But the faintest hint of a smile made me wonder if it really bothered him at all.
CHAPTER 12
That evening, Marissa finally IM’d me, and I was so excited that I didn’t even give her a hard time about taking forever to get back to me.
Once she’d admitted that her new school was everything she’d hoped it might be (and assured me yet again that she wished I were there with her), I told her about Dumb, and how they were really coming together. I was on such a roll that I’d written most of an essay when I suddenly realized I wasn’t even sure she was getting any of it.
P1P3R: still there?
MARI55A: yes
P1P3R: what do u think?
MARI55A: you’re joking, right?
P1P3R: no. why?
MARI55A: don’t u find the name dumb offensive?
P1P3R: they came up with it ages ago
MARI55A: and u think it’s a coincidence they asked u to be manager?
P1P3R: YES
MARI55A: ur sure they’re not setting u up?
P1P3R: YES
MARI55A: then why would they want a deaf manager?
P1P3R: why wouldn’t they?
MARI55A: r u serious?
P1P3R: i can do this. i can help
MARI55A: why bother? they always ignored u
P1P3R: they’re not so bad
MARI55A: do u actually like them?
P1P3R: they’re ok. and ed has joined now, so that helps. hey, can u guess ed’s name?
MARI55A: edgard
P1P3R: wow. how do u know?
A pause. A long pause. The kind of pause that’s usually followed by a comment like MARI55A HAS LOGGED OFF.
MARI55A: i just do
They were words, nothing more, but somehow I could feel her frustration mounting with each exchange. I needed to bring the conversation to an end, but I wasn’t sure how. I began to write a question, then erased the words and typed another, then erased that too. Eventually there was nothing onscreen but the blinking cursor and the aching silence of the distance between us—and it was an entirely different kind of silence to the one that had drawn us together in the first place.
Suddenly another message flashed on the screen:
MARI55A: ttyl. xoxo
She logged off before I could say the same thing.
CHAPTER 13
Arranging our first full rehearsal was like scheduling a UN summit, and the process ended with about the same amount of political goodwill. Monday and Tuesday evenings were out because Ed had piano and marimba lessons (cue eye rolling from Josh). Wednesday was a no-go because Tash’s mom’s salon had extended opening hours, and she was required to help out. (No one but me seemed surprised that the girl with green hair had a mom who ran a salon.) Thursday had to be ditched when Ed informed us that he worked at a coffee shop (more eye rolling), which left Friday. Even Saturday had to be completely ruled out because Ed had Seattle Youth Orchestra rehearsal and Tash spent all day sweeping up hair at her mom’s salon. At that point I put my foot down and said that Sunday may be the day of rest for some people, but it sure as heck wouldn’t be for Dumb. Thankfully, faced with the alternative of practicing for only a couple of hours a week, everyone seemed on board with that.
Our first full rehearsal took place back in the luxurious surroundings of the Cooke family garage, with its artfully painted walls, spotlighting, and central heating. There was even an old but fully functioning vending machine I hadn’t noticed before, and Josh downed two bottles of energy drink before the others had finished setting up. Thus caffeinated, he generously divulged some of the information he’d inexplicably kept secret until that point, such as:
1. The three songs they played on the school steps were, coincidentally, the same three songs they had played at the Battle of the Bands, which were, “technically,” the only three songs they knew.
2. Of those three songs, um, three were covers, which meant that, “in a manner of speaking,” Dumb would need to pay the copyright holder before recording them.
At which point I butted in and suggested that maybe it was time to learn some new material, and Josh pointed out that:
3. They’d been rehearsing those three songs pretty much continuously “since the beginning of junior year,” and the Battle of the Bands performance was the first time they hadn’t screwed up.
And Ed stopped biting his fingernails long enough to ask if it was a coincidence that they’d chosen songs that only used the same three chords, and Josh chuckled and said:
4. No. Not a coincidence at all. In fact, it took a while to find songs that only used C-F-G, although Tash and Will assured him they were itching for more complex material.
And even though I didn’t have a clue what they were talking about, I knew my job was to keep up morale, so I said we’d take our time and make sure we were all comfortable before unleashing ourselves on our adoring general public, and Josh laughed again and said:
5. Yeah, but, you know . . . the first recording session with Baz Firkin is booked for this Sunday.
At which point I stopped biting my fingernails and expressed my incredulity through a choice four-letter word. Then I took a deep, calming breath and suggested that we stick to songs they already knew, at which Josh reiterated:
2. Of those three songs, um, three were covers, which meant that, “in a manner of speaking,” Dumb would need to pay the copyright holder before recording them.
At which point I uttered several more four-letter words. And this time, breathing deeply didn’t help at all.
Fifteen minutes later, Ed was using an ancient bucket of sidewalk chalk to illustrate how they could insert the chord of A minor between C and F. As far as I was concerned, he may as well have been writing hieroglyphics, but Will seemed to know exactly what it all meant. He leaned back and played a series of rumbling bass notes over and over, while Tash looked on admiringly, although her eyes were locked on Will’s face, not his hands. A minute later she joined in with the earth-shattering, paradigm-changing C-A minor-F-G chord sequence, and suddenly I could feel how something indefinable had shifted, like a sentence that had grown by a few words. Finally, Josh got in on the act, composing new lyrics especially for the occasion. By the time everyone was in sync, Dumb had its first original song, and although Josh was bummed when I said he should change the lyrics “Hey ho, make me happy” because they were likely to be misinterpreted, a glare from Tash convinced him I was right.
Meanwhile, I kept busy by e-mailing Baz Firkin, insisting that we put off the recording session for at least a few weeks. Then I pulled out my camera and began taking black-and-white photos of the band at work. I took photos lying on the floor, standing on tables, at forty-five-degree angles, and any other positions I could think of that would make the band look sophisticated and artsy. I loaded them onto my laptop and began altering the contrast, distorting the image, and generally screwing with them until they resembled the grainy, hardcore shots I’d found on other bands’ websites.
By the time Dumb took a five-minute break, I was a
lready downloading them onto our MySpace page, so everyone came over to look. Will nodded appreciatively, Ed raised an eyebrow admiringly, and Tash didn’t say a word—from her, it was the most approving silence I could imagine. And Josh squeezed my shoulder; just once, but I knew it meant he was impressed, and somehow his opinion mattered most of all.
The second half of the rehearsal was the Ed Chen show. For the next hour, he was no longer the geek they all ignored at school—he was their muse and cheerleader. With deliberately understated drumming, he kept steady time while Josh serenaded me with ever-evolving lyrics, and Will and Tash experimented with the new chord. Tash even kept her eyes fixed on Will at all times, so that their movements were appropriately synchronized, although I’m not sure Will ever noticed. Truth is, Will was so focused on his guitar that he seemed to occupy his own little bubble. On the rare occasions he glanced up, his cloudy expression suggested he was surprised to discover there were other people playing too. Despite that, I could tell by their relaxed demeanor that the music Dumb was producing wasn’t chaotic or mistake-prone at all. It was as if Ed had unleashed them on the previously peaceful kingdom of A minor, and they were laying claim to it for themselves.
As they gave a final rendition of “Let Go, I Feel Crappy,” which was loud and pissed enough to sound vaguely impressive from where I stood a safe distance away, it was obvious that Dumb had taken a giant leap forward in only one rehearsal. As long as Ed was around, there was cause for optimism. I even allowed myself to reflect that the positive change was indirectly my doing when a new e-mail arrived in my inbox from Baz Firkin:
Piper: I’m afraid the date of the recording session cannot be changed. I only secured release from Washington State’s finest boarding facility last night, and find myself experiencing pecuniary difficulties. While this is somewhat ironic considering my charges on tax evasion, I must nonetheless see you Sunday. Baz.
It took me a moment to translate the message into English, but the gist of it was clear enough. Dumb would be spending Sunday afternoon recording a song they’d only just written, and had only rehearsed once.
Okay, so my genius had limits.
CHAPTER 14
I stopped by everyone’s houses on the way to the recording session so that we could arrive together. It was a calculated decision to save on gas, make sure we all got there, and to elicit sympathy from Baz Firkin when he realized what a heap of crap I was driving. (USS Immovable had always gotten me sympathetic looks from everyone at school.)
The session started at noon on Sunday. Or rather, it would have started at noon if we’d realized that the studio was in the basement of a crumbling craftsman cottage. Instead, we drove back and forth through the funky neighborhood of Fremont a dozen times, looking for the snazzy building with tinted windows that turned out to exist only in our imaginations.
There was no doubt whatsoever that the man who emerged from the house a minute later was Baz Firkin. He sported a worn paisley shirt and faded black jeans, a ragged gray-brown ponytail floating down his back like a trail of smoke still lingering from the 1980s. I wondered how he’d made it through prison in one piece.
“Greetings, young ones,” he exclaimed as he glided toward us, although he seemed to be addressing only me. (Maybe he was distracted by my hearing aids—I noticed his eyes lingering on my ears as we shook hands.) “And may I say what a beautiful beast of a machine that is,” he added, pointing to USS Immovable . “I used to have one just like it. That was back when velour seats came standard, of course, not as an extra.”
Baz led us to a basement door, unlocking it with a rusty key. As he yanked it toward him, flakes of paint fell off.
“Et voila!” he cried, leaning back to afford us an uninterrupted view of the narrow hallway beyond.
No one spoke.
“Now, don’t mind the standing water,” said Baz calmly. “I’ve just laid rat traps.”
Ed followed Baz inside, pressing himself against the least mold-ridden wall, as if that might reduce his chances of contracting something contagious.
Baz retrieved another key, this one glinting like solid gold. He slid it into the lock on a second door, pushed the door open, and stood back once more.
I don’t know if anyone else spoke, but I’m pretty sure that I gasped.
Behind the door was a studio control room—a real one, with banks of electronic equipment that looked like it had been lifted from NASA headquarters. Behind the controls, separated by at least a couple panes of glass, was the studio. True, it had a peculiar odor, but it was a real studio with microphones on stands, and headphones for the musicians.
I looked at Dumb, and for a split second I could tell we were all thinking the same thing: We’d arrived.
Baz ushered the band inside, told them where to sit and how he’d control things like balance and reverb from the control room. To deter him from involving me in decisions about the band’s sound, I retreated to the corner of the control room and studied his notice board. One of the notices was for KSFT-FM, a local radio station looking for new bands to promote, so I scribbled down the e-mail address. Then I began snapping more artistic black-and-white photos of Will sweeping his hair back, and Josh manhandling two microphones at once—the kind of pics that would be collector’s items once Dumb became a household name (ha!).
It was 12:30 before Dumb was ready to begin recording, by which time Baz’s effervescent exterior had cooled somewhat. He signaled that I should stop taking photos, and indicated that my place was on a chair beside him. Then he closed the door and began relaying instructions to the players on the other side of the window. I wondered if their hearts were beating as quickly as mine.
I was delighted to discover that the control room was completely soundproofed, which had the advantage that I could hear Baz surprisingly well as long as he spoke up. I understood his commands, his approach, and what he wanted from the band. I even began to wonder if I was a natural in the recording studio.
Ten minutes later, I was aware of what a disadvantage it was to be able to hear Baz. I understood perfectly his confusion, bemusement, and general disgust. I was also able to decode at least one in three of his expletives, which equated to about one every ten seconds.
And it wasn’t exactly hard to see why he was so pissed. Tash and Will seemed completely overwhelmed by the experience of being in a real studio, fumbling around like their guitars had grown extra strings. Even Ed looked a little stage-struck. And at the front, the ball of energy known as Josh Cooke squeezed the headphones against his ears as he jumped and jived to a beat that must have been coming from a different song. Baz told him to sit down; Josh said he couldn’t. Baz told him that his movements were being picked up by the microphone and would ruin the song; Josh said his movements were an intrinsic part of the song. Baz opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
After two extremely deep, calming breaths, and a few seconds of total silence, Baz turned to me. “Is there another song you’d prefer to work on?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Okay,” he tried again, “let me rephrase that. Which song would you like to work on now?”
“The same one,” I said, but timidly.
“It’s utter crap. Pick another.”
“We don’t have another.”
Baz’s mouth hung open long enough for me to count his cavities. “Now that is the most depressing news I’ve heard since the judge put me behind bars.”
I looked at the clock on the wall. It was 12:50. We had another two hours, but I’d have given anything to leave right then.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
I peered through the window. I knew Ed was frustrated at himself for letting us down, but Tash and Will still looked freaked out. And Josh was as clueless as before, rehearsing his movements like they had any relevance whatsoever in a recording studio.
When I didn’t answer, Baz clapped his hands together. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen: Dumb is going to perform the son
g over and over for the next hour. I’ll mark the useable sections of each track, then we’ll spend the last hour editing them together into a single track.” He smiled, but it was a patronizing smile that made me feel even more useless than before.
I looked at Dumb again, all of them still now, wondering why the instructions had dried up. Which is when I realized that Baz had turned off the connection between the rooms. My conversation with him was for our ears only; no point in battering the band’s morale any more. Baz’s offer was about as generous as we could hope for, I knew that, but I also knew that a true manager wouldn’t settle for it, and I knew I couldn’t either.
“Wouldn’t it be better for them to do one complete, perfect track?” I asked.
Baz snorted. “You’ll be lucky if they can pull off one complete, perfect verse.”
I have to say I liked the ebullient Baz much more than the obnoxious one. “Please turn on the speaker in the studio.”
“I don’t think you want them to hear what I have to say.”
“Yes, I do,” I said decisively. Baz shrugged as he flicked a switch. “Listen up, guys,” I said, staring through the window at the band. “We have two hours left. We’re going to run the song over and over, with a one-minute break between each track. If you need a drink, grab a bottle of water from my bag in the corner. Otherwise, sit still, focus, and let’s nail this thing.”