Zero (17 page)

“Cool, thanksalot, we’re Gothic Rainbow, sssssee ya!”

The Vandals begins playing over the speakers while the band tears down their gear. I am parched and sweaty—correction,
glistening
—so I weasel over to the bar for a soda. I end up beside the lanky guy and his Asian chick.

“We could look at November,” the girl is saying.

“Eh, we’re booked through then,” the guy says.

Booked
. This term rings a bell.

“Think they can fill it, though?” she goes.

The guy looks around at the crowd. “Dunno,” he goes. “But a lot of these guys seemed to know the songs. That’s not bad.” He picks up one of my flyers from the box office counter and studies it.

I get my soda, but instead of heading backstage to assault my boyfriend, I continue to eavesdrop.

The girl shrugs. “Give them a few months? If BP hits big, we could really kill. What about that last Nightrage show in August?”

I’m pretty sure by BP she means Black Phantom, and to kill generally means a good thing, as in,
make a killing
. These must be promoters. I start to move toward them to ask, but they head out of the building just as the band comes from backstage.

Forgetting the promoters, I launch myself toward Mike. I kiss him hard.

“That was awesome!” I say,
calmly
, not at
all
like a gushing girlfriend-fan.

“Thanks! Felt like it. We’re packed up out front … you ready to go?”

“Sure, where to?”

Brook squeezes between us. “Pizza!” he announces. “Let’s head to Rome’s, yeah?”

Mike shrugs. “I could eat. Z?”

“Yeah!” I could keep kissing him all night, too, but that’s okay. I’ll get my turn.

“Cool!” Hob bellows. “Lemme get our take and we’ll head out!”

We follow Hob to the box office. Eddie and Brook walk out of Spike’s, trading war stories of the evening’s success. Hob waits for a couple of people to pay the cover and come in before stepping up to the counter.

“Hey, Steven,” Hob says to this guy running the box office out of a lockbox. “We’re outta here, man.”

“All right,” Steven says.

Hob stands there, waiting. Steven does nothing except dig a finger into one ear and root around.

“So, uh …,” Hob goes. “Our cut?”

Steven grunts. He reaches into the lockbox and counts out four ten-dollar bills. “Here,” he says, and shoves the stack toward Hobbit.

Hob looks at the money, then back at Steven. “What’s this?”

“Ten bucks apiece.”

“Whoa,” Hob says. “You said ten percent.”

“Oh yeah?”

“There’s, like, a hundred people here tonight.”

“Huh.” Steven looks bored.

Mike slides silently between Hob and the counter as Hob lurches toward Steven. “Hell’s this?” Hob demands. “How about closer to a hundred bucks, dude?”

“Hob,” Mike goes.

Steven scowls in Hobbit’s face, and I can
feel
Hobbit’s immense frame tensing.

“I got a room fee to cover. Take it or leave it,” Steven says.

“How ’bout I take your fuckin’ head off!”

“Okay, time to go,” Mike says, and prods Hobbit away from the counter.

“This is bullshit!” Hob roars as Mike continues pushing him toward the exit. Other patrons turn to watch. “You know that, man? Real cool!”

“Shut up,” Steven says, apparently believing that the counter will keep Hob from tearing his head off.

“I’m gonna fuck you back into your mother, you prick!”
Hob screams, and tries to reach past Mike to the counter. Adrenaline dumps into my stomach.

“Get outta here!” Steven yells back, but he’s clearly, and rightly, scared pissless.

Thankfully, Hobbit
allows
Mike to pull him to the exit, screaming all the while. The crowd makes a path for him, which I scurry through as well.

We pile out of Spike’s. Brook and Eddie are across the parking lot, standing beside Brook’s car. They turn toward us as Hob’s voice echoes through the night. He’s still in full-rant mode when we reach the guys.

“Forty bucks, man!” Hobbit fumes. “What the hell’re we supposed to do with this? Huh? How the hell we supposed to live on this?”

“What happened?” Eddie whines.

“Got screwed,” Mike says.

I nudge Mike. “What’s a room fee?” I whisper.

“Like rent, what the promoters pay the venue,” Mike whispers back as Hob continues to rampage. “But Steven’s not paying Spike’s more than maybe ten percent, and even if he is, he’s walking tonight with at least five hundred. Well, five-sixty or more, now.”

“Forty bucks!” Hob howls. “What the holy hell are we supposed to do with this?”

“We can order pizza,” Brook says, smiling carelessly. Fireworks begin to go off a few miles away. Happy Fourth.

“It ain’t about pizza!” Hobbit shouts. “It’s about …”

He trails off, staring at Brook, whose easy smile has receded but still lingers. Suddenly Hob’s rage breaks.

“Huh,” he grunts. “Okay. Pizza. Shit.”

Brook slaps Hobbit’s back. “Place is a dive, man,” he goes. “And forty bucks, hey, that’s prob’ly more than the other guys got.”

“Nightrage’ll get paid out full,” Hobbit says.

“Everyone knows Steven sucks on Nightrage’s tit,” Brook says. “We shoulda expected it. No big deal, dude.”

“Yeah, and they’re dicks, while we’re charming and remarkably attractive,” Mike says. “We can always fall back on that.”

Hobbit laughs at last, and the night is saved.

“You had the whole place going,” I tell him, trying to help. “It was an awesome show. People were talking about you.”
And
scoping out my awesome flyers, but I don’t say it.

Hob pauses at the door to his van, which holds the band’s gear. “What people? Sayin’ what?”

“This Asian girl and a sorta lanky-looking white guy. They were talking about Black Phantom, I think, and—”

Hob speeds toward me like a bull. “A Chinese chick?” he demands. The other guys all look at each other seriously.

“Um … Asian. I don’t know if she was Chi—”

“Did you hear their names? What’d they say? They were watchin’ us?”

I bunch up my shoulders as if Hob’s going to take a swing at me. The other three start edging closer but not to restrain Hobbit; they’re all eyeing
me
.

“Yeah, uh … they were watching you guys play, but they weren’t really getting into it, just sorta watching. The girl said something about booking in August, and that the audience knew your songs, and they should wait and see how BP did because if they hit big …”

Halfway through this monologue, Hob turns away and holds his head with both hands, exhaling heavily. Mike, Eddie, and Brook all trade glances.

“Did I miss something?” I venture.

“Holy shit!” Hobbit roars. A firecracker goes off, punctuating his shout.

“It was Four Eyes Entertainment,” Mike says. “Most likely.” And a skyrocket explodes in the sky, shining white sparkles in his eyes. He looks, like,
mischievous
all of a sudden.

Hob leans over and braces himself on his knees. “Oh, man. Dude. You guys.”

“They say anything else?” Brook asks me.

“Not really. I mean, I knew they were talking about
you
, but I didn’t know I should be listening for anything in particular. They took one of the flyers with them, if that matters.”

“Your kick-ass flyers,” Mike says, rubbing my back and still smiling.

“Was that really them?” Eddie gasps, like he’s having a coronary. “D’you think?”

“Hell yeah it was!” Hob says. “Think we should call ’em?”

“Nah, bad form,” Mike says, sliding his hand off my
back—brushing my rear, which tingles momentarily at his touch—and taking my hand. “They’ll call if they want us.”

“Which they do!” Hob says.

“All right, then, so let’s eat,” Mike says, opening my passenger door. “Celebrate the night away.”

Hob climbs into his van with a whoop. Eddie, still shaken, takes shotgun. Hob guns the engine. Brook hops into his Bug, and I start up my Peugeot.

“So this is a big deal, right?” I say, turning out of the parking lot.

“Well, Four Eyes typically books a lot of shows at Damage Control,” Mike reminds me. “So if they’re looking at us to play there someday, then, yeah. Semi-big deal, anyway.”

“But DC. That’s a huge place.”

“It is. It’d mean more exposure, and in this musically backasswards town, that’s about the best you can hope for.” He starts tapping a rhythm out on his knees.

I take a quick peek at him. “You’re pretty excited.”

Mike shrugs, but he’s grinning when he does it. “We’re not talking about opening for a multiplatinum band at a stadium here. It’s still just Phoenix. There’s not much further to go after Damage Control. We’d have to go someplace like L.A. Or Seattle, I guess, these days. But for where we’re at right now, yeah. It would be a start.”

I give him a quick elbow. “Just a start, huh? What about that gold record?”

“Oh, that’s on the list, but I want to enjoy the ride, too,” Mike says, still tapping away.

“So it’s not that you don’t
want
to be the next big thing someday—”

“Absolutely correct.”

“—but you don’t want to be successful too fast?”

“I don’t want to be rushed into extinction, no. Most bands are only around for a couple years. There’s a few who tour constantly because they can and they love doing it. But most of us aren’t going to do this the rest of our lives. I want to enjoy the whole trip, you know? Even playing at a dive like Spike’s, getting screwed on our take, it’s all part of that. It’s part of the
fun
. Once we start down that road to being serious, or
more
serious, anyway, then we got to stick with it and play as long and loud as we can before it’s over.”

I try to absorb this philosophy. Some of it hits a little too close. Maybe instant success isn’t the best-case scenario. “Do you think you’ll still be playing when you’re, like, fifty?”

“Playing? Definitely. Touring, doing it for a living? Hard to say. Easy to say yes when I’m not even twenty.” His grin widens. “But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that was the plan.”

“Sounds like fun.”

Mike turns to look at me. His gaze lingers for a sec. “Does it?”

“Well … yeah?”

He nods absently. “We’d need a good artist. Those flyers were awesome, you know.”

“Thanks, but did they sell tickets? I thought that’s what mattered.”

“There were a whole lot of people there tonight. I’d say they sold tickets, yeah.” He gets a strange frown. “Hey, let me just clarify something here real quick. I didn’t ask you to do those flyers because you’re my girlfriend.”

I get a warm little zap when he says that last word.

“I asked because you’re really good, and whether or not we sold tickets because of them, I know for a fact that bad designs can cost us tickets. So, just saying, you know—it mattered. And we appreciate it.”

The back of my neck heats up. “You’re welcome.”

I pull into Rome’s Pizzeria. The other guys have already arrived, and through the restaurant windows, I can see them securing a booth. I park and shut off the engine.

“Well,” I say, “I got your back, skater.” And I lean over to kiss him quickly before we get out. “Great show again, by the way.”

“Thank you.” He kisses me back.

So I give him another one. Take that! “What’re you doing after pizza, rock star?”

Another kiss from Mike: “I’m free.”

“Not anymore,” I say, and give him one last kiss.

Well … I
meant
it to be a last kiss before going inside to join the fellas. We don’t make it inside until most of the pizza is already gone. Fireworks explode in the sky nearby.

No, seriously—
real
fireworks.

“Class, I apologize
for being late,” Dr. Salinger says as she floats into the room. We’re used to it by now. Half the class has dropped out, while the rest of us just consider it free studio time when she doesn’t show. Happily, I’ve sent out enough Moody Art Chick vibes to keep the old broads from trying to talk to me, so I can paint in peace.

And I’ve got a good one here. A good canvas. Sketched it out first and everything.
Several
times. I mean, I think it’s promising; it’s better than the last few, anyway.

“I spent the most incredible evening with Lourdes St. James!” Doc S gushes, and I can’t decide whether to choke her with pumice gel or demand a detailed account of the evening. Lourdes St. James paints these fantastic semisurreal portraits based on old high school yearbook photos. They’re like caricatures, but more … naked.

Dr. Salinger goes on one of her patented bragging tirades. It’s like the only reason she’s teaching is to have a captive audience to listen to her exploits. If I ever end up teaching, I won’t do that. I don’t think.

I tune her out and keep working on my canvas. If I can just get the black and white mixture right, I think it’ll work. But I’m also trying to apply glossy rainbow colors in a tiny area toward the bottom, and it’s proving to be a bit tricky. I lean closer and use a fine brush to dab red, orange, yellow—

“Interesting.”

I jerk up and drop my brush. Dr. Salinger leans over my shoulder, eyeing the painting. Gotta put a bell on this woman; she must’ve stopped talking minutes ago.

“See me after class,” she goes, and moves to another student.

Great.

I pick up my brush and spend the rest of the period pretending to be Frida Kahlo.
Soy un mal artista
. Must check exact grammar with my Spanish professor in the fall. Which reminds me; should probably build my schedule soon. One step closer to Chicago. Or not.

Eventually, Dr. Salinger gives us a short “See you next time,” and with that, class is over. The room empties quickly. Dr. Salinger watches everyone go, waits an extra couple seconds, then gives me the old hairy eyeball.

“Miss Walsh,” she says from behind her desk, “what is art?”

I give her the most theatrical eye roll I can summon. “I don’t know.”

“Amanda.”

I cross my arms and my hip cocks out. I try on a glare for good measure.