“Can’t you just—you know—be a kid for a while?” Tyler said.
“That’s just it: I’m not a kid, and haven’t been for a while,” Emma snapped. “It’s not my fault you weren’t around to see me grow up.”
Tyler flinched, and she knew she’d hit home.
“Look,” she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize to me, Emma,” Tyler said. “I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.” He clenched and unclenched his hands. “It would just be good for you, I think, if you made some friends. If you got out and had some fun.”
Look who’s talking, Emma thought. I’m a loner, just like you. That’s one use for parents—once you know who they are, you can blame things on them.
“I don’t have time for that,” Emma said.
“Listen—I can introduce you to some people,” Tyler said. “Clyde may be looking for something new. Or he could play one of your guitars at some gigs, show it off a little.”
Clyde played lead guitar in Tyler’s rhythm-and-blues band, Old Dogs, New Tricks. Tyler played bass. They worked steadily, every weekend, mostly local gigs, playing covers and some original music.
“Selling one guitar to Clyde isn’t going to help much,” Emma said. “I’ll be in high school at least another year and a half. So, the way I see it, I have two years to raise enough money to start my own business.”
“I can stake you,” Tyler said. “I have some money put aside.”
Emma resisted the urge to point out the shabby furniture, the battered refrigerator, the paint peeling off the walls. “You’re going to need it for yourself,” she said. “I’m guessing you don’t want to work forever, and musicians don’t get pensions.”
“Look,” Tyler said. “We don’t have to settle this now. Dogs has a gig tonight, downtown. Why don’t you come out with me, listen to some music, have a little fun?”
Emma groaned. “Sounds like fun, Tyler. Hanging with my daddy’s band on a Friday night. Meeting the Old Dogs, trying to pitch them a guitar while they try and think of a way to say no.”
Tyler stared at her for a moment, as if to say, What’s wrong with that? Then he burst out laughing. “You’re right, Emma, that sounds like no fun at all.” He dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled flyer. “Okay, I was kidding about the Dogs, but how about this? There’s a place called Club Catastrophe, down on Fourth Street. They’re having a teen night tonight. Show’s at seven. I could drop you off there on my way downtown.”
Emma scanned the flyer.
Under 18 night!
Fault Tolerant—live and in person one night only!
$10 Cover
“I figured it’d be a good chance for you to get out and meet some people your own age,” Tyler said.
“I don’t have anything in common with people my own age,” Emma said. “All those cliques and who’s mad at who and who’s wearing whose varsity jacket . . . I don’t need that.”
“That’s why this is a good place for you to meet people,” Tyler said. “They’ll be people like you—people who like music. You might relate to them better than the kids at the high school.”
“Isn’t it a little late for you to start managing my social life?” she said.
“Better late than never,” Tyler said. “You’re not doing so good on your own.”
Chapter Ten
If Trouble Was Money
“You know I don’t like to go to clubs,” Jonah grumbled asthey turned onto West Ninth Street.
“Cheer up,” Natalie Diaz said. “You’ll be perfectly safe.
I’ll be your bodyguard.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Jonah said. “As soon as we walk through the door, you’ll forget all about that plan. You’ll all be up onstage, and I’ll be left to fend for myself.”
“Oh, quit whining, Kinlock,” Alison said, rolling her eyes. “At least you could’ve shown us some skin.” It seemed she’d taken her own advice. She wore a very short tank dress with a blue jean jacket, tights, and boots, feathers pinned into her purple-streaked hair, eyes smoky with kohl. Ready to rock-and-roll.
Jonah hunched his shoulders inside his leather jacket. It was October, three months since his failed rescue of Jeanette, and the weather was getting cooler. Which finally gave him an excuse to cover up.
Natalie laughed. “Maybe you could’ve worn a burka,” she said. “You’re nearly there anyway.”
“Would you quit criticizing my clothes?” As soon as Jonah agreed to go to the club with them, Natalie had showed up at his door, wanting to go through his closet and put his look together. He’d flatly refused. “I’m not the one onstage,” he said. “Forget it.”
“You need to get out more,” Natalie said. “It’s not healthy to stay in your room all the time.”
“I do get out,” Jonah said. “I’ve been in—what?—four countries this month.”
“I don’t mean working. I mean playing.”
She paused and, when Jonah didn’t respond, said, “It wouldn’t hurt you to get to know some girls, Jonah. Nobody’s asking you to sign anything.” She narrowed her eyes at him.
Or touch anybody was the subtext.
“No.”
“It’s not like they’re going to attack you.”
That’s what you think.
“You might even have fun.”
“Let it go, Nat.”
So Natalie Diaz let it go. She always knew just how far she could push him.
Alison, Natalie, Mose, and Rudy were in a band together— Alison on bass, Mose on guitar and vocals, Nat on drums, and Rudy on keyboards and backup vocals. They called themselves Fault Tolerant. The name was Rudy’s idea. It was geek-speak for a system that continues to operate even if one element fails. Given the arts focus of the school, bands came and went at the Anchorage like mushrooms after a rain. Fault Tolerant was different. Natalie didn’t suffer fools, and she didn’t put up with laziness. Neither did Rudy. And that made for a great band. They should call it Fault Intolerant, Jonah thought.
“I know!” Alison said. “Join the band. Then you won’t be sitting alone.”
Jonah snorted. “To do what? Play the tambourine?”
“We could always use more sex appeal,” Alison said, smirking at him.
“Hey!” Rudy Severino called out, raking back his hair and delivering a smoldering pout. “Sex appeal right here.”
“You don’t need another split in those big paychecks,” Jonah said.
“If you refuse to play your music in public, you should at least let us play it for you,” Natalie said. “Somebody ought to hear it.”
“I hear it,” Jonah said. “And Kenzie. And you. That’s enough.” He had agreed to come after weeks of badgering from Natalie. She’d taken him on as a project ever since his meltdown in Gabriel’s office. He’d been missing a lot of classes since Jeanette died, and when he came to a class, he often slept through it. Natalie suspected depression. Jonah suspected she was right, although, in his opinion, depression was a perfectly reasonable reaction to their situation.
They cut across the street, dodging traffic. They were coming up on Club Catastrophe. Music poured from the front door, and an easel out front displayed a sign:
Teen Night
Tonight Featuring Fault Tolerant—live and in person.
They entered through the rear door, threading their way through a clutter of cleaning supplies, extra furniture, and paper products. They found Mose having a smoke amid the flammables. He’d driven the equipment van over, because he never would have made it on foot.
Mose was prone to self-medicating and looked the part— he was as gaunt as an end-stage addict, pierced to the max, every inch of exposed flesh covered in Gabriel’s ink therapy. Like a prayer to the gods that had gone unanswered.
Jonah couldn’t blame Mose for wanting to blunt the edge. A seer savant, Mose had the gift of seeing death coming before it arrived. He’d become a key asset to Safe Passage, the hospice program at the Anchorage. He and Jonah were a team. Like Dr. Death and his front man.
These days, Mose sat during their sets, and his voice had weakened considerably, but he was still the best singer in the band and he was a demon on guitar.
Maybe “Last Legs” would be a better name for this band, Jonah thought.
Mose lit up a little when he saw Jonah. He sat up a little straighter, finger-combing his hair. “Hey, Jonah! If I’d known you were coming, I’d of worn the good clothes.”
“Hey, Mose,” Jonah said, doing the old fist bump. “What’s up?”
“I’ve been meaning to mention this—I’ve been sorting through some stuff, need to simplify, know what I mean? I wondered if you had room in that palace of yours for my vinyl collection.” Mose had a stellar collection of vintage vinyl, and a sweet turntable to play it on.
“Your vinyl? No way,” Jonah said. “That is not what you get rid of. If you’re short on room, put your bed on the curb.”
“I don’t play them much anymore,” Mose said. “Can you at least come have a look, maybe pick out some tunes?”
“Sure,” Jonah said. “If you want. We’ll call it a loan.”
“How about tonight, right after the gig?” Mose persisted. Adopting a throaty, seductive voice, he added, “Wanna come to my place and listen to some records?”
“Tonight?” Jonah hesitated. Mose always flirted with him shamelessly, but there was a desperate undercurrent in his voice that hadn’t been there before.
“Don’t you think you’ll be tired, after the show?” Alison said, over Jonah’s shoulder. Jonah jumped. He’d forgotten she was there. “Who knows how late it’ll go.”