Zero (26 page)

“Huh?”

I stand up. I’m, like, angry, but not in a bad way. Maybe
defiant
is a better word.

“This show,” I say. “We should have a good time. I should try, anyway. I don’t want to miss this.” Especially if it’s going to be the last show I’m ever allowed to go to …

Jenn stands beside me. “There you go,” she says, and looks at me as if proud.

The houselights lower, and the third band, an acoustic punk duo called Peder Parker, starts up. And suddenly, I start to hope. Maybe everything will be okay.

At a quarter after eleven, Gothic Rainbow takes the stage of Damage Control.

The cheers from the audience are deafening. The club is packed now, wall to wall. There must be two hundred people,
standing on the dance floor and draped over the railings upstairs. They rub against each other, as if their friction will get the show started sooner. A row of punks press against the edge of the stage until they are practically bent into Ls, their faces fierce and ready. Their girls squeeze behind them, screaming as the band walks to their places.

That’s when it hits me: these people
are
here to see this band. Maybe they came to see Nightrage, too, like Mike said … but they know exactly who has walked onstage.

If the band is disturbed by the sheer number of bodies or the ruckus they’re causing, they don’t show it much. Brook slaps hands with nearby punks. Hobbit stands center stage, arms crossed over his chest, surveying the audience, beaming. Eddie’s
blushing
, and even from my spot near the rear wall, I can see he’s shaking. Mike, as usual, is partially camouflaged behind his kit and shadow, his face a ghostly disc hovering in darkness.

I wonder what he’s thinking.

Hobbit strides to his microphone. “How’s everybody doin’ tonight?”

Thrilled screams welcome him. Fists puncture the air. I try to add my voice above them all, and succeed only in tearing my vocal cords. Jenn howls alongside me, face alight.

“All right. We’re Gothic Rainbow,” he says, after playing an experimental chord. “This song’s called ‘Let’s Pretend.’ I hope—”

But even with his microphone, he can barely overpower the shouts of the crowd. Hob smiles wickedly, and waits for us to quiet down.

“I hope you like it!” he finishes, his voice pleased and perhaps surprised. Then he pounds down on the guitar strings.

A mosh pit starts even before Hob begins singing. The air, congested with sweat and smoke, surges vigorously. The crowd slams through the pit or bops along on the outskirts.

Gothic Rainbow is
ferocious
. The stage lights, high-tech compared to the other venues they’ve played, swirl and dance multicolored beams across the band and audience alike. Crimson, cadmium, chrome, a Monet palette highlighting the audience’s wild hair.

The first song ends, and we all cheer ourselves hoarse.

“All right, this next one’s
not
about a girl,” Hob says. Somehow we cheer even harder. I try not to think too hard about whether there’s a hidden meaning in his words.

Mike taps out a four count and the song begins. A guy with a violet Mohawk jumps onstage before security can stop him, and launches himself at the crowd while Brook laughs and Eddie shits himself (again). Security uses flashlights to spotlight the kid, who’s nearly crying with joy as the crowd passes him overhead. Eventually, he is set down, unharmed and forever young. He escapes punishment from security by leaping headlong into the pit.

Forty minutes pass in a rush of adrenaline. Damage Control is a living canvas, painted with impossible impasto, thick and complex. My fingers twitch for a charcoal pencil, something, anything. There’s no paper, no canvas, no surface large enough to contain what I want to paint.

Which is probably a good sign, all things considered. Who knows what my hands would reveal.

It’s almost midnight when Mike unleashes a
livid
assault on his drums that extends well past the normal four-count opening the band favors. The crowd screams, recognizing the introduction of one of their favorites. Instinctively, we know this will be the big finale.

The audience bounces on their feet, anxious for the song to begin in earnest. The rest of the band kicks in simultaneously over Mike’s percussion, creating an explosion of power, rage, and ecstasy in four simple chords.

Hot white lights swing across the stage and the audience. Hell-red washes flare on the wall behind Mike’s kit. Hobbit approaches the mic, cranking down on his guitar, and screams as if fire will belch from his mouth. Brook dances around, bobbing his head and smiling wildly; still in the song’s introductory chords, his head falls back on his neck, and he laughs out loud. It’s inaudible over the noise, but his face gleams with sheer delight. Even Eddie, normally still and focused, is grinning broadly and bouncing on his toes. Now he’s
looking
for someone else to dive off the stage. Jenn grabs my arm and shrieks, and I join her.

The band is having the time of their lives, taking us all with them.

“All right!” Hobbit shouts into the mic as the opening chords ring out. “Let’s wrap this sucker up! This song’s called ‘Last Breath.’ ”

We cheer until the concrete beneath us trembles.

“Ready? All right.” Hob spaces his next words out to match the melody. “One. Two.
One, two, three, four!”

Hob’s voice is raw, unharnessed.
Unleashed
to assault us.
The horde sings along. The song punches into my chest and pounds on my heart and lungs. Excitement, pure stimulation bursts out of me; I scream incoherently into the air, the only release possible
sans
paintbrushes. The music from these Fauves, these wild beasts, would’ve made Matisse envious; the song is an audio masterpiece of violent distortion and strident, invisible color.

The rhythms continue as Brook conjures magic on his guitar. The strings squeal and sing beneath the crunching melodies issuing from Hob’s and Eddie’s instruments. Brook is laughing again as he bends and twists the neck of his guitar for greater distortion.

We all sing along:

I try not to let the chorus be about me. Mostly succeed.

Hobbit slowly lets his guitar fade. He closes his eyes and mouths the mic, as if to kiss it.

“All right, bring it down,” he says. Sweat floods his face, pools at his boots. Girls
reach
for it. Guys shake their own heads, showering punk sweat on the rest of the crowd.

The band follows Hob’s directions while the audience shrieks for more. The music goes on for another few beats. Hobbit’s eyes stay closed. Brook slows down, then stops, so all we can hear is Mike tapping lightly on his drums and Eddie playing quietly on bass.

Hob’s eyes open, and he surveys the crowd. He has us all right where he wants us. He is
king
, master of this domain. Hob stands straight, shaking back his mane of dripping hair, savoring every moment. Mike looks … like Mike. Unperturbed but intense.

Hobbit comes back to the mic. “All right, I’m gonna need some help here; you know the words,” he says. “Let’s hear it.”

Hobbit moves his mouth, but he’s barely projecting into the mic anymore. He whispers the verse. Two hundred zealous fans scream the song back to him, word for word. Magic.

Hob pauses, letting his hands float downward to cue us all. Near silence fills the club, underscored only by the hum of amplifier static and random screams. Hob lets this near silence hang for a blissful moment. The audience stills at last,
slack-jawed at the anticipation of what’s to come. The lights dim.

At last, as if neither he nor his audience can stand the delay any longer, Hobbit puts his mouth up to the mic and inhales, his barrel chest expanding to Herculean proportions.

We cry the line into the air with him, united.

“One-two-three-four!”
Brook shouts.

The song explodes again into the final chorus, and the crowd roils. The lights blare to life again, bathing the stage in smooth greens, blues, and violets, and washing the audience with rainbow strobes and rotating spotlights.

I catch sight of Penny Denton near the box office, her arms folded over her chest, standing next to the lanky guy I saw her with at Liberty Spike’s. Her eyes blaze behind her thin glasses, and one corner of her mouth turns up in a confident smile. Her expression reminds me of the way Mr. Hilmer used to look at my drawings.

They made it
.

Four Eyes has to book them now, here at DC for a while, but soon in bigger venues. Opening for national bands. After that …

The band plays the song to a crescendo conclusion with one final simultaneous crash.

“Thank you!” Hob calls into the mic. “We’re Gothic Rainbow, ssssssee ya!”

We applaud and shout our praise as the houselights rise.
Mike gets up from his kit and vanishes backstage. The rest of the band slaps hands with fans at the foot of the stage as recorded music is piped in over the speakers.

“That was awesome!” Jenn says, giving me a hug.

I hug her back. “Thank you!” I say, and laugh because what did I do, really?

But as people slowly begin shuffling out of the club and I see them grabbing up GR flyers from tonight’s show as souvenirs, leaving behind the full-lineup flyers Four Eyes made, it occurs to me that maybe I had something to do with it after all.

“I’m meeting up with these guys from ASU,” Jenn says, primping her hair in an invisible mirror. “You want to grab Mike and the band and come with?”

“Nah,” I say. “I’m out.” After everything that’s happened tonight, I could use a good decade of sleep. “But thanks for asking. Maybe some other time?”

Jenn smiles. “That would be cool. We should do coffee soon. If you want.”

“Totally,” I say.

Jenn’s face brightens even more. “Cool,” she says. “Call me later! Let me know how—you know. Everything goes? I’ll be there.”

With that, she squeezes out from behind the table and heads out.

Half the club is surrounding Hobbit, Eddie, and Brook, who have conquered the world. Inhalers appear in the hands of several kids who are gasping for breath. Girls engulf their boys, lipstick sharks. Bodies are fondled, gripped. The air is humid and glorious.

Finally, the band gives one final wave and exits backstage. Mike hasn’t returned.

Backstage
.

He must still be back there, avoiding the attention. I start to move from the merch table but get swamped by people clamoring for tapes. I have to spend about twenty minutes selling them, taking in cash and shoving it into my pocket, making change with this improvised cash drawer. When the crowd thins out, I shove the remaining few tapes into a pile and am about to rush downstairs when one last straggler ambles up to me. He’s got spiked, bright-red hair and wears all black, head to foot. Two wide black leather bracelets decorate his skinny arms.

“How much’re these?” he asks.

He looks familiar, but even with the houselights on, DC isn’t terribly bright. Also: don’t much care. Must get downstairs.

“Three bucks,” I tell him.

He pulls a wallet out and removes a ten, handing it to me. “I’ll take three.”

“Really? Um—yeah, okay!” I hand him the tapes and a dollar. He gives me a backward nod and swaggers toward the box office, stopping to talk with Penny Denton and the lanky guy.

There are only five tapes left, which means we sold more than twenty.
Awesome!

When I get to the greenroom, three-quarters of the band is almost literally bouncing off the walls, while one-quarter sits casually on a folding chair drinking a bottle of water.

Three guesses, right?

As soon as Hob sees me, he howls and tackles me, swinging me up in the air and nearly braining me against the ceiling. I don’t mind.

“Zero, you are totally
killer
!” he shouts, setting me down.

“We did it, we did it!” Eddie’s chanting over and over, while Brook slaps him on the back and laughs his head off.

Mike is quiet. Smiling, though. That’s good.

I pull the cash from my pocket and hand it to Hobbit, who gives a great hyena giggle and starts counting right away. Brook and Eddie watch him, eyes wide and hungry.

I scoot over to Mike and give him a hug. “You did it,” I whisper.

He says nothing, just squeezes me.

And right then, I’m sure we’re going to be okay. “I’m gonna go home,” I whisper to him. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

Mike looks a little surprised. “Yeah,” he says. “You sure?”

“Unless you want to—you know. Talk about it now.”

Mike glances at the guys and grins a bit. “Tomorrow’s good.”

“Okay. Cool. And Mike, I’m so—”

“Nah, don’t,” he says. “We’ll hang out tomorrow. I’ll call you.”

I kiss his cheek and stand to leave.

“Hey, you’re not takin’ off, are ya?” Hobbit demands.

“Yeah, I’m out,” I say. “You kids go have fun.”

“Well … all right, then. Catch ya later. Hey, wait, Z.” Hob counts out some cash from the wad of bills and shoves it into my hand. “Couldn’t’a done it without ya,” he says, giving one of the flyers on the wall a quick rub.