Zero (21 page)

“Say it. Oh god, say it,” Eddie blubbers, like he’s having wild monkey sex. And that’s an image I do not need, so we can just strike that from the record.

“Damage Control?” Mike says, very softly.

“Hell, yes!”
Hobbit roars, and punches Eddie on the shoulder, which almost sends the fat guy end over end. Eddie doesn’t seem to notice.

Now I get it. “You’re playing there?” I say, and, I’m embarrassed to admit, cover my mouth with both hands, because—

“This is it!” Hob finishes my thought. “We did it, we fu—” He takes a look around; three couples have gathered their things and are leaving the room. “Fricking did it!” Hobbit finishes in a hoarse whisper.

Brook leans back and drapes his fingers across his face. Eddie runs the back of one hand across his mouth.

“Oh, you guys!” I say, and look at Mike.

“Who’re we opening for?” Mike asks, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Nightrage,” Hob says. “Their last show here before the BP tour. And we go up right before them!”

“That’s good, right?” I ask, still looking at Mike.

“Yep,” Mike goes. “Means a lot of people will be there.”

“Z, we’re gonna need flyers,” Hob says as his knees piston up and down. “Lots of flyers. Can you handle that? ’Cept, I’m a little strapped right now, but maybe after the show …?”

“No problem, I’m on it,” I say. I’ll have to dive into my allowance savings, but what the hell. “I can make them up today and take them to make copies. How many do you want?”

“Maybe five hundred? Four to a sheet?”

“Not a problem. Who else is playing?”

Hob digs out what looks like an old receipt. He checks his scrawling on the back in black Sharpie. “Uh … Living Room Casket, the Urinal Cakes, and either Just This Once or Peder Parker. Penny didn’t know yet.”

“In that order?”

“Don’t matter, these flyers’ll just be for us,” Hob says. “Four Eyes’ll make up some for the whole lineup.”

Brook’s eyebrows smash together. “Quick question. What in the wide world of sports is a urinal cake?”

“It’s those big breath-mint-looking things janitors put in urinals!” Eddie says, looking pleased to be in the know. Personally, I could have gone the rest of my life without this bit of knowledge, but I’m neither (a) a boy nor (b) Eddie.

I grab a paper napkin and pen. “Doors?”

“Six-thirty.”

“Go time?”

“Show starts at seven. We go up at ten, Nightrage at eleven.”

“Okay, so when is it?” I ask Hob.

He tells me the date. Next Saturday. Mike’s smile drops.

“Ah, shit, dude,” he says. “I’m not getting back into town until that morning. That thing with my mom. I’m leaving tomorrow morning, remember?”

Eddie and Brook mumble and look worried; Hobbit chews his lip. “You can’t get out of it?” he asks hopefully.

“Love to, can’t,” Mike states.

“All right, all right, I get it,” Hob goes. He blows out a big breath. “Then we need to get the hell over to Eddie’s right now and rehearse. And, like, all day Saturday.”

“Ehhh … I don’t know about that,” Brook says. “I mean, maybe during the day, but not, like,
right
before the gig. That’s bad mojo. Guarantees we’ll stink up the show.”

“He’s right,” Mike says. “We’ve tried that before, back in the day, you know? You want to do like midmorning or something, that’s cool, but not right before.”

“Okay, okay,” Hob says. He turns to me. “Can you help get the flyers out? We only got a week.”

“Sure,” I promise. “I can ask my friend Jenn, too. She’ll help.”

“Excellent. We gotta make this a blowout,” Hob tells us all. “Biggest show ever. We’re gonna need more demo tapes. Eddie?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it.” Eddie looks bewildered that his dream is coming true.

“Good, good. Okay. Okay.” Hobbit looks around the room, as if the walls have been inscribed with further instructions. He laughs out loud and pounds his fists on the table. “This is
it
, man! I told you! Hey, a set list. We need a killer set list!”

“I say no covers,” Brook goes.

“Yeah, me too,” Mike says. “If we’re gonna do this, let’s do it our way.”

Hob bangs another fist on the table. “Damn skippy!”

The band breaks up the meeting to get food for their long night ahead in Eddie’s basement. Mike walks me to my car. Kinda bummed I won’t see him the rest of the day, but Hob’s weird about people watching rehearsals. I wouldn’t want anyone watching me paint, so I get it.

“Mike, this is so cool,” I tell him, feeling a tiny bit jealous. I’m totally happy for him, but passing my painting hanging in the Hole on the way out was a lovely little reminder that I haven’t Made It yet myself.

“Yeah, it is!” he says, and brings me close for a kiss. Brook catcalls at us through Hob’s open van window.

“So, when you get home Saturday … will we have some time?” I ask, flipping Brook a little bird.

“That can be arranged,” Mike says with another kiss.
“We’ll probably take a break in the afternoon, chill out before we head to DC. I’ll call you.”

“What do you think this means for you guys?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. Some more fans, hopefully. If we can unload some of those demos, that’ll help get the word out. But really, it’s just another gig. We don’t start making real progress till we tour. And we’re probably a ways off from that right now.”

The gleam in his eyes says otherwise. I smile to myself and decide not to make him toot his own horn anymore.

“Thanks for doing the flyers on short notice,” he adds as Hobbit starts honking. “You sure you can afford it?”

“No problem.”

Mike gives me a hug. “Cool, thanks. See ya tomorrow.”

“Okay. Later, skater.”

He smiles at me and runs to Hob’s van, giving me a wave as he gets in. I go home, feeling thrilled and energized to get right to work on the gig flyer. It’s gonna be the best night of the summer. I start designing it right away: an acrylic of a giant cymbal with the band’s faces reflecting, distorted, off the golden sheen. At least, I think it’s a cymbal. Maybe it’s a gold record.

Where I’d normally leap in with a palette knife, slathering acrylic like it’s a PB&J sandwich, for this, I choose thinner paint and a lighter brush selection. You try to find the right focal point, match the colors on the shadows just so, which isn’t the kind of thing I’d normally worry about, but this is like … a commissioned piece. It’s work for someone else, whether I’m getting paid or not. When you’re painting, you should work with the door closed, both literally and
figuratively. For me, this flyer painting, which I’ll have reduced at the print shop when I’m done, is coming a lot easier since Dad isn’t home. Ergo, there is no imminent danger of a nuclear incident with the Nation of Mom.

My focal point ends up off-center, down and left, a wing nut (ha!) securing the cymbal. This will be where the essential lights and darks strike each other. A few hours later, I shake the cramp out of my hand and step back from the easel.

The color temperatures are bold. Striking. You can almost hear the cymbal being crashed by Mike’s sticks, which vibrates the reflections of the band members along the rim. When the paint’s dry, I’ll use a layer of coal-colored lettering to fill in the empty space at the top with the show information.

It’s good work, I decide. It’s at least not bad.

By the time I’ve finished the canvas, I already know this one’s going into my portfolio. I take a picture of it to add to those I’ll be showing Dr. Salinger.

Whenever she decides to show up to class again.

“Call me when
you get in?” I ask Mike as he pulls his black duffel bag out of my backseat the next morning.

“Promise,” Mike says, shutting the door. He walks around the front to come over to my window, which is down. He leans in and kisses me once, then again, for a bit longer. I take his face in my hands, still stained with citrine splashes from my painting last night.

“See you soon,” Mike says, and hefts his duffel.

“Later, skater!”

I’m bummed for a moment, watching him walk alone into the bus station. On the way to school, though, my pulse picks up; I’ve got a stack of photos of my work to show Dr. Salinger.

Class itself is relatively boring, but mentally, I’m turning somersaults. I start grinning like the toolbox that I am when
Dr. Salinger dismisses everyone and motions me to her desk. She sits across from me and begins poring over the photos.

My heart ricochets between my ribs, and I wish for a peppermint cocoa. After screwing up the guts to hang that piece at the Hole, this meeting feels like—I dunno. A step. Large or small, a step in the right direction. And now that Gothic Rainbow’s big show is finally coming up, it feels like anything’s possible.

“These,” Dr. Salinger says as she stacks the last photo on the pile of others, “are remarkable, Amanda.”

“Thanks!”

Dr. Salinger smiles. “You do need more work on some specifics, but many of these are impressive.” She taps the photos. “I do see what the good folks at SAIC meant, in a roundabout sort of way. How old is the most recent of these?”

I shrug. “Um, I dunno. Three, four months. That one.” I point to one of the photos. “Except for the band flyer. Um … that one. I did that last night. The others are older.”

She examines it closely. “You’ve improved,” she remarks, studying the GR flyer. “But these others … you’re better than this.”

“I am?”

“Given what I’ve seen in class, yes.”

“Well, I mean … I’ve learned a lot since we started …”

Doc S shakes her head. “That may be, but this is something different. Where do you do your work?”

“At home.”

She nods wisely. “And may I ask how that has been for you?”

I look at the floor. “Not that great.”

Dr. Salinger puts a hand on mine. “I’m not surprised,” she goes. “An artist needs a space in which she can create. A quiet place.”

“But I like to play music when I paint.”

“Quiet and silent are not synonymous in this case, Amanda.”

I shrug again, but my heart’s not in it. I know what she means. At home, with Mom and Dad always bitching, my hand tenses up and it’s hard to get my strokes just right. Here in class—after the first few sessions, anyway—my hand is relaxed. Now that she says this, I can feel the difference. Last night was easier because I finished the painting before Dad came home.

Whenever that was.

“I wish I could offer you something more than our three times a week,” Dr. Salinger says. “If you have the means, I would encourage you to find a more suitable studio. Because this type of work”—she gestures at the canvas I worked on this morning in class—“should be more than adequate for the scholarship committee next time.”

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Holy shit.

“Once we’ve assembled a blue-ribbon portfolio,” she goes on, “we’ll see about working on your artist statement.” She pauses. “SAIC is certainly a bold choice to begin with. What made you choose it?”

“Mr. Hilmer went there.”

“Ah! Your former teacher.”

“I thought I could maybe teach junior high or something, like he did, if nothing else.”

“Those who can’t, teach, hm?”

“Oh, no! No, it’s not—”

“Quite all right,” Dr. Salinger says. “Teaching is an honorable alternative while you work on your career.” Her face sort of clouds for a sec. “It’s not a solo exhibition, but it suffices.” She gives herself a shake. “It’s always a good idea in this profession to have something to fall back on, and an undergraduate degree from Chicago will certainly not hurt you.”

We sit quietly while I consider the future. I also study Dr. Salinger, and I’m suddenly reminded of Mom. They have the same lines around the eyes, even though Dr. Salinger must be a few years older. Both have this weariness to them, which in Mom’s case, after years of dealing with Dad—and maybe me—makes sense. On Dr. Salinger’s face, the expression seems misplaced.

“Dr. Salinger? Can I ask you something?”

“Certainly.”

“Why did you stop?”

She rests her chin on one hand. “It’s simple, really,” she says, but doesn’t look at me. “I thought I should. I was told as much in print.”

I avert my face, in case she can see that I know exactly what she’s talking about. It’s public record, not a secret or anything, but I don’t want her to know I was spying on her.

“Oh, my work sold, and I lived on it for a while,” she goes on. “But in the end, I believed what the critics said about me. So I turned to teaching.”

God. Now what? Doc S went down the road, tasted success, and still failed. What does that mean for me? Not to be selfish, but—for real?

“You could do it again,” I say. “You could try.”

“Ah, I’ve thought about that. From time to time. Every day or so. But no. No. I had my shot, I’m afraid.”

“Well, but still.”

Dr. Salinger eyes me. Her lips twitch. “Well,” she says, “I suppose since you had the guts to put yourself out there, perhaps I’ll reconsider. Matthias always says to try again.”

“Is he an artist, too?”

“Oh, my, yes. Brilliant. His education is in arts management, but his sculptures are becoming quite in vogue. Goodness, is it so late already? I really must be going. Matthias and I are wining and dining an artist friend from Chelsea.”

Yee-ikes! Chelsea’s a big-time arts district in New York. Man. Hanging out with
anyone
from there would be a nice gig. I hang my bag over my shoulder after putting my photos carefully inside and draping my canvas.

“Thanks again,” I say.

“You’re absolutely welcome,” Dr. Salinger says, walking me to the classroom door and surprising me with a quick hug. “We’ll get together after the summer semester ends and get you started,” she adds. “Now, I hope you don’t think I’ve promised you anything. You’ve much work to do. I will be happy to write you a letter of recommendation, if you wish, provided you do the necessary work to create a truly outstanding portfolio.”