The Secrets of Attraction (14 page)

I navigated around tables and across the floor, pushing through the door marked STAFF into an even darker hallway. There was a sliver of light, and as I neared it, a door whooshed open and Declan appeared. I resisted the urge to jump and ignored my hammering heartbeat. I wanted to play in this place so bad it hurt.

“Jesse, come in.” Deck grabbed my hand and pumped it as I walked into his inner sanctum. There were more posters and photos and graffiti on one wall, but at the same time it looked orderly, everything in a place. It was hard imagining him knowing my dad—Deck wore tight black skinny jeans, combat boots, and a pinstriped vest over an Alice Cooper shirt. He looked like he could have been in one of my father's classes, not in a band with him twenty years ago.

“Last time I saw you, you were drooling on your father's shoulder. Man, you've grown.”

“We met?”

“Oh god, years ago. How are the Prof and Mrs. McMann doing?” He motioned for me to take a seat, while he slid into one of those office chairs that looked more like a throne, behind a huge black desk. The desk was spotless except for his laptop and a large glass jar of Charms Blow Pops, with a sign that read
If you're gonna blow it, blow it big!!
I sank down onto a couch across from him that was less comfortable than it looked.

“Oh, um, they're good.”

Declan typed something into his keyboard. Yellow #5's cover of “Longview” played over the sound system. A grin fought its way onto my face. We hadn't sounded like that in practice this week. Declan leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, and grinned.

“This is good, you guys sound tight. So what have you been doing?” he asked.

Moping, brooding, making lattes.
I did some creative elaborating—a.k.a. lying through my teeth.

“We played a Christmas party, street fair, stuff like that. We're gearing up for a Battle of the Bands,” I said, imagining I was talking about Yellow #5 pre-breakup. Then it would have all been true.

“They still do those battles? Fun stuff.” His tone was unimpressed.

“Yeah.” My jacket felt heavy, my cheeks hot. If blushing was a lie detector I was screwed. I'd hit nuclear-meltdown mode.

“Cool, do you guys have a logo? Merchandise? Fan page?”

Nope. Nope. Nope.

“We're working on it.”

“Your sound is perfect for the eighteen and over nights. They like recognizable stuff. When your dad called—”

“My dad called you?” Somehow I didn't think this was the way Green Day got started. How un-freaking-cool.

“A little healthy nepotism never hurt anyone. You have to deliver, though.”

“Absolutely.”

“So, here's the deal—the eighteen-and-overs are booked through September.”

“September?”

“We only do them twice a month, and skip the summer.”

“Oh.” Why was I there? I was starting to feel like a supreme douche-nugget. And suddenly our cover of “Longview” sounded too fast. Amateurish.

“There's a few places in town that do the eighteen-and-over nights. I might be able to recommend you somewhere. In the meantime, do you want the September date?”

I wasn't sure what I was doing tomorrow, let alone September—Gray was a senior, would he even be around?
Forward motion, Jess.

“Yes.”

He typed again, took a card out of a drawer, and scribbled something down. He stood up and held it out to me.

We had a gig. Far away, but we had one. And maybe he would recommend us to someone else. It was a start.

“Hey, is your contact info the same as on the CD?”

“Let me give you my cell,” I said. He pulled out a pad of neon-orange Post-its and slid it across the desk. I jotted down my cell, and also the line at Mugshot. Putting down more than one number seemed to show I had places to be—that I wasn't necessarily waiting for a phone call. Even if that was the case. He peeled off the top of the pad and stuck it to his laptop screen.

“Great. You should start thinking about a logo; we put promotional fliers out in the local colleges and we like to include that. Do you do any originals?”

“Working on it,” I said.

“Cool. You really do have a great sound.”

“Thanks,” I said, heading out the door. I didn't want to make a run for it, but I already knew I'd be late.

“See you in September,” he called after me. The last thing I heard was his laugh echo down the hallway.

Getting out of Hoboken and back to Bayonne was a nightmare. I sweated it out, inching along with construction traffic until I finally hit the back roads, going as fast as I possibly could without wrapping my car around a utility pole. Miraculously there was a parking spot on the side street near Mugshot. I raced through the front door, muttering apologies as it shut behind me. Grace stood behind the register, scary-manager-face softening when she saw me.

“Jess, I've got to pick up Ella from day care,” she said.

“I'm sorry, school thing, traffic,” I spluttered, grabbing my apron from the back and tossing it over my neck.

“You two are okay with closing?”

“Gracie, baby, we got this,” Tanner said.

She sighed and looked at me. “Are you sure?”

“Got it,” I said.

“We're out of soy milk, but you should be set with singles for the register. If you have any trouble, call me. But, you know, don't call me, if you can help it.”

“Yep.”

She grabbed her bag and coat and raced out the front door.

My phone dinged.

“So how did it go?” Tanner asked.

A mom pushing a jogging stroller came up to the counter, her cheeks red from the cold. I ignored the text and rung up her order.

“Nonfat mocha latte,” Tanner said, tossing the cup in the air. The toddler in the stroller clapped her hands as Tanner caught it. The mom handed me her money and I gave her the change along with the biscotti she'd ordered for the kid. My phone dinged again. I waited until Tanner gave the woman her drink before checking my messages.

“So . . . what's the deal, are we playing there are not?”

“Holy crap.” I read the message again, just to make sure I was reading it properly. The bells announced another customer.

“Just read this out loud,” I said, handing Tanner my phone.

“‘Must be kismet. Band dropped date last weekend in March. Want?' Who's kismet?” he asked, handing the phone back to me.

“Kismet is fate,” said a voice behind me. I whirled around.

“Madison.”

She wore one of those slouchy knit hats, her hair sticking out every which way from underneath. The tip of her nose was pink, her blue eyes bright. She was in her school uniform, with a backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, looking between Tanner and me.

“So what does that mean?” Tanner asked, nodding toward my phone.

“It means Declan wants us to play at the Whiskey at the end of March.”

Tanner let out a whoop.

“That place in Hoboken?” Madison asked.

“Yeah.” I said, reading the message again just to make sure. “Wait, don't tell me—a chai to go?”

“Actually, I'm staying awhile. I've got some stuff to work on, and I don't . . . It's a little distracting at my house. Can I have a Mexican hot chocolate?”

“Ooooh, spi-cee,” Tanner said, throwing a cup in the air, but missing it this time. Entertaining toddlers was clearly more in his wheelhouse.

“She's having it here,” I said. “Regular cup.”

“Oh, right.” He grabbed a large ceramic cup that looked more like a bowl with a handle. Madison reached into her backpack.

“Hey, I owe you, right?” I said. “I'll bring it over to you if you want to get a table.”

She cocked her head sideways, slight smile crossing her lips. “Thanks.”

I took the cup from Tanner. “Let me do it. Why don't you wipe down the tables and keep an eye on the register.”

“Of course you'll do it,” he said, puckering his lips and kissing the air. “Don't forget to purge the wand.”

I glared at him.

“You know, after steaming the milk.”

“Just make sure everything's clean,” I answered, tossing the mop cloth to him.

Months ago Grace had hired a guy to come in to teach the staff how to pour steamed milk correctly to make fancy patterns in lattes. There was a barista who worked on weekends who could make Darth Vader and Yoda. I didn't get much daily practice but I could manage a decent looking rosette and a heart. I debated on which one to pour as I prepped Madison's drink.

I watched the milk steam, making sure it was the right consistency—thick and smooth like paint. Tilting the cup, I poured until the drinking chocolate reached the top, then shook the pitcher back and forth to make the swirly lines of the rosette. Not perfect enough to make it look like I was trying too hard and not too sloppy, so that maybe she'd be slightly impressed. I grabbed a madeleine and set it on the saucer next to the hot chocolate, and walked it over to Madison.

She was sitting on one of the crushed-velvet chairs, close to the window. One leg curled underneath her, laptop on the table. She had a sketchpad on her lap, pencil poised as she stared out the window. When she saw me coming over, she slipped the pencil behind her ear and smiled.

“I'm freezing,” she said, rubbing her hands together.

I placed the drink down next to her laptop. She reached for it, wrapped both hands around the cup, and brought it to her face. She paused before taking a sip, noticing the pattern in the milk.

“Pretty. Hey, I didn't order a madeleine.”

“Oh, that's on me. You need something to go with hot chocolate; it's, like, a law, or it should be,” I said, as her lips touched the rim of the cup. With a gentle tilt she took a sip, then ran her tongue across her top lip to get the extra foam. She was just enjoying her drink, but damn if it wasn't sexy. Almost involuntarily, my butt hit the seat across from her. A few moments away from the register wouldn't hurt.

“This is the best freakin' hot chocolate I've ever had,” she said, putting the cup down on the saucer. “Did you melt a chocolate bar in there?”

“Pretty much.” I puffed up like an idiot, giddy from her approval.
And guess what, Madison? I invented chocolate, and the wheel, and I can play “Eruption” on my Fender like Eddie Van Halen, do you know who that is?
I may as well have been sitting at Madison's feet, panting, waiting for her to pat my head.

“It's awesome.”

“So you draw?” I asked.
Great, Jess, Captain Obvious, she's sitting there with a pencil behind her ear.

She laughed, kind of a muffled giggle. “Today it doesn't feel like it, but yes, I draw.”

The phone buzzed in my pocket again. Holy shit, I'd forgotten about Deck.

YES!! I typed, and hit send. Three weeks to get our shit together. That was enough, right?

The photo would be easy.

A logo?

Madison.

“Hey, have you ever done anything like a logo?”

She shook her head before taking another sip of her drink. I looked away, feeling so damn pervy for staring at her mouth.
Focus.

“Would you consider doing one? We need one, for Yellow Number Five, for promotional stuff. It doesn't have to be anything—”

Her eyes caught fire. “Omigod, yes! I'd love to do that. . . . I'm, wow, you haven't even seen my work.”

“You look like you know what you're doing. I trust you.”

“So how did practice go? Is Grayson pulling his weight, 'cause if he's not, you know, we'll have to do something about it.”

“Yeah, he's great.”

“And you're really ready to play out somewhere?”

“Ready? Not sure, but this will just give us incentive.”

“That's pretty brave.”

“Or stupid,” I said.

She grabbed her pad and pulled the pencil from behind her ear. “So who named the band Yellow Number Five?”

“Tanner. It was kind of a random thing, but he said since it's on the label of so many things we'd get a ton of free advertising. So it stuck.”

“Ah, so he can do more than make drinks,” she said, scribbling something down. “And what kind of music do you play? Is there anything in particular you want me to focus on? Color—or is that obvious?”

“Grunge . . . punk . . . Grunk.”
I did not just say that, but if it made her smile . . .

“Here,” she said, handing me the pad. “Give me your number, in case you—I mean, I—have any questions.”

I blanked for a moment before writing it on the sketchpad.

“Maybe you should take mine.”

I took out my phone. My fingers were useless as she rattled off her number.

“Can you say it again?”

“Here.” She took the phone out of my hand and typed her number into my contacts. My heart knocked on my ribs as she handed it back to me.

The hiss of the steam wand followed by a shout of
“Muy caliente!”
caused us both to turn. Tanner grimaced, waving his hand back and forth.

“I guess I better get back there before he gets third-degree burns.”

She laughed. “When would you want the logo by?”

“Next week, maybe? You think you can —”

“No problem, I'm on it.”

“So does this mean you'll come see us at Whiskey?”

She took another sip from her drink before answering. “I guess if Wren is going . . . but isn't that, like, a bar? Not sure we'd be able to get in.”

“It's eighteen and over.”

“I'm not exactly eighteen.”

Onstage, I forgot myself—the awkward guitar geek/barista who got tongue-tied and self-conscious. When I sang I could growl, spit, look into people's eyes and make them listen. Standing there, in front of Madison, I tried to tap into that onstage confidence. I could have let it drop but I got the feeling that Yellow #5, playing a real show, in Hoboken, had impressed her the tiniest bit.