Five Flavors of Dumb (29 page)

I couldn’t hate him for speaking his mind, but a part of me wished he’d never stopped by. Especially not when he looked up and nodded at someone behind me.

I looked over my shoulder and saw Josh, seated alone a couple of tables down. He took the opportunity to come over and introduce himself to Joby, then pulled up a chair and joined us. Before Josh had even begun to speak, Joby excused himself, and suddenly we were alone.

“I heard what he said,” Josh announced.

“Of course you did.”

“So what are you going to do?”

I rolled my eyes. “Right now . . . nothing.”

Josh leaned back, conjured that infamous smile I’d once mistaken for attractive and misread as genuine. “Tonight is her last show, do you understand?”

“Or what?”

“Or Dumb is history. And that’s not me being melodramatic. It’s just the truth. You know what that guy said.”

“Yeah, Josh, I do. And you know what? Kallie may still be the weak link, but I don’t think that’s what bothers you at all. You just want her out because it’s clear she’s not into you.”

His smile only grew. “So you admit she’s the weak link?”

I didn’t say anything. Really, what could I say?

“Go be a manager, Piper. You know what needs to be done, so try earning your money for a change.”

It was after seven p.m. and the first GBH groupies were already starting to filter in. One middle-aged trio pointed to the other seats at my table. I realized I was taking up prized real estate, so I excused myself. I took my belongings to the “other” greenroom—GBH had claimed the one with windows and a coffeemaker—and tried to feel at home amid the dark carpet and dark walls and dark vinyl sofa. There was a round table in the far corner, and since no one else was around—they’d all gone in search of food—I sat down and opened up my laptop.

The Showbox had Wi-Fi, so I checked my e-mail. There were good luck messages from Finn, and Mom and Dad, and Baz, and Marissa, and I knew that every one of them genuinely wanted to see things go well. The clock said 7:14 p.m.

I was feeling light-headed, so I decided to get a bite to eat as well. But I’d barely stepped outside the building when I turned around and walked right back in. Who was I kidding? There was no way I’d be able to stomach eating anything.

Just inside the main doors of the Showbox was an enormous plate glass window, engraved with the names of all the bands that had preceded us. It was a list that made me want to crawl away and hide: Duke Ellington, Dizzy Gillespie, the Ramones, The Police, Blondie, Iggy Pop, Pearl Jam, Dave Matthews, and hundreds more. Seriously, when even I recognized several of the names, we were clearly out of our league.

Audience members were turning up in droves now, the crowd evenly split between casually dressed adults and over-caffeinated kids. It wasn’t hard to guess which band each group was there to hear. Some of them even stared at me like there was something familiar about my face, but the pink hair was enough of a disguise that I was able to make a clean escape.

The Showbox staff were frantically busy. Unlike me, they had jobs to do—they could
control
things—and I suddenly felt completely useless, just counting down the minutes until I fired Kallie, or Dumb screwed up one last time. When the meltdown came, would Mom rush to my aid and take on GBH too?

I paced back to our greenroom, just for a little peace and quiet, but Kallie was already there, perched on a stool in the corner. (I guess I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stomach the thought of eating.) She had her back to me, and was clearly engrossed by something on my laptop. Every few seconds she paused to scribble on a scrap of paper, then wiped her nose on the sleeve of her cardigan. I couldn’t be certain, but I was pretty sure she’d been crying.

She didn’t hear me padding through the room, and it wasn’t until I sat down beside her that she noticed me. Even then she didn’t say a word, just smiled bravely and returned her attention to the laptop.

It looked like she was watching an old home movie on You-Tube—a kid about our age in front of a graffitied wall, then another kid waving a kite from a roof, the footage suddenly in black and white. It was all very strange. Then there was another image: two older guys playing guitar in a room that resembled Baz’s studio, although they seemed oblivious to the camera, like this was a performance for themselves, not for anyone else. Eventually a third guy came into view, a drummer I was sure I recognized. Above the movie the title read: “Nirvana—Seasons in the Sun.” And that’s when I realized that the drummer was Kurt Cobain, only I was sure he’d been the band’s lead guitarist. The other two guys had swapped instruments too.

“1993,” said Kallie, turning to face me. “The year before he died.” She ran the sleeve across her nose again. “Look at them. They weren’t so different from us—just screwing around on each other’s instruments, feeling like there was a place they actually belonged.” All the while her head nodded slightly, propelled by a beat I couldn’t really hear. “There was pain in his voice even then. Just . . . anguish, you know?”

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:

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:

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?”

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.