Page 35 of Out of Tune
“As much as I like anything.” He cocked his head. “Well, more than I like you.”
“You just met me.”
“You’re loud. I can hear you in the cafeteria. And nothing you say is important enough for everyone to hear it.”
“So, you know who I am. Makes sense. I’m impossible to ignore.”
“Yeah, you’re the guy who gets here before me to play amateurish guitar.”
“That means you’ve stopped to listen. Just wait until people pay to hear what I have to say. I’m starting a band. You should join.”
“Who’s in it?”
“You.”
“Not interested.” He flipped the pages of his music back to restart the piece I’d interrupted.
I moved to stand in front of him and when we locked eyes, I said, “It would be a good challenge, don’t you think? Different from what you’re playing. I need a bass guitarist. I know it’s not the same as an upright, but I doubt that would stop you if you wanted to learn.”
He hesitated, raising his bow. “Maybe if you find other people, I’d consider it. I’m not signing up to babysit beginners.”
“Just you wait.”
Finding a drummer was easy. Luca Mariano was constantly tapping out beats against the desk next to mine, and after a few conversations, I learned he was fairly proficient.
I wouldn’t have picked Jared Petrov if he hadn’t approached me first. His most defining trait was being a nice guy, but I didn’t really know much else about him. Who remembers rock stars because they’re nice?
“I want in,” he said, dumping his notebooks at his usual desk in front of mine.
“In what?” I asked.
“The band? You’re making one, right? Luca told me. Or are you just going to sit here and talk about it until it happens?”
It had been three weeks since I first talked to Garrett. Every day after, I’d gone to the music room to listen to Avery’s Discman, studying as Garrett practiced. I wasn’t going to let him forget me. When I finished homework, I’d play. On a few occasions, I could have sworn I saw someone lingering outside, or maybe I just needed to get my eyes checked.
“Do you at least play an instrument?” I asked.
“Guitar, of course. You want to perform in places, right? I picked it up to meet girls.” He motioned to the room rapidly filling with our classmates. “Because, no offense to Mrs. Lawrence, but married women in their fifties aren’t really my thing. And what they don’t tell you about playing the guitar to pick up chicks, is that you can’t do it from your bedroom.”
I crossed my arms and leaned back in my seat. “We’ll play all over. This is Nashville.”
That afternoon, Garrett clocked my expression the moment I walked. He lowered his bow and gave me a once over. “You did it.”
“I fulfilled my end of the deal. So you gonna join, or what?” I waited as he deliberated. I needed this. I needed him.
“Two months,” he said, “After that, if you guys suck, I’m done, and you have to promise not to bother me anymore.”
Before he could take back his words, I tore a page from my notebook and wrote my dorm number and the date for our first practice in the corner of the page.
I had a band, and with it, I reclaimed some control.
Avery
Late Winter 2006 to Spring 2006
With Wes at St. George’s, my days fell into two categories. Days when I was playing alone so I had something to show Wes, and days when we were together on the roof outside his bedroom window, dissecting songs.
He always laid the same way, legs crossed at the ankles and arms under his head. I’d slide in close, the fibers of my clothes catching on the rough roofing tiles. We never started with our own music, always with a new CD, the headphone cord stretched between us.
