Page 21 of Rocked: The Price of Dreams

On a Saturday, two weeks later, I was walking out the door to go to my afternoon shift at the grocery store when my cell phone rang. I dug my Nokia out of my purse and glanced at the screen. Kyle.

I pressed answer and put it to my ear. “Hey? What’s up?”

“Gem?” he sniffled, then sobbed. “Um...Em...Emily died this morning.”

“Oh, shit.” Tears sprang from my eyes, and I sank onto the top porch step. I’d only been to visit her two days ago, and she’d seemed a little better. Fuck. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

“Where are you?”

“At home. Mom and Dad don’t want me at the hospital while they sort shit out.”

“Stay there. I’m coming over.”

I rang work. Called in sick. Then I jumped on my bicycle and rushed around to Kyle’s house. Hunter arrived shortly after his morning shift at Rosa’s, loaded with burgers and sodas. For hours, we just sat with Kyle, being there for him. Crying. Hugging. Comforting him. I hadn’t known Emily for long. Despite knowing she was ill, her final passing still hurt like hell.

A week later, she was buried in the local cemetery. I never wanted to experience anyone dying again. I couldn’t stop crying, holding onto Kyle, Claire, and Hunter, hoping the pain in my chest would subside. It wouldn’t. It didn’t. Not until Kyle called Hunter and me over after school a couple of days later to jam. With tears streaming down his face, Kyle hammered and pummeled at his drumkit. Hunter and I matched his raw, angry, heart-wrenching beat on our guitars. We slammed and slashed every note, spilling our grief, our pain, and our loss through music. Only then could we breathe again. Music helped us move on.

Playing and writing songs gave Kyle something other than his sister to focus on. It took weeks for his smile to return to his face and for light to return to his soul. Claire drowned herself in more work, taking on extra private students to avoid being at home. William hit the bottle harder and harder. The guys and I spent more time at my place since Mom and Derek were hardly there.

We were determined to find a label.

Every month, we mailed demo after demo to record companies. We’d started with organizations in the New York area. Our first rejection letter had stung, but by the tenth, I was in tears. Why didn’t anyone like our songs? We were good. Why wouldn’t anyone take a chance on us?

Month after month, envelopes were returned. Many weren’t even opened. After we’d sent samples of our songs to every company in New York, we broadened our submissions to include Los Angeles, Miami, and Chicago. We even sent a few demos to Nashville.

But nothing.

There was no interest at all.

***

By the time we commenced junior high in August 2008, hundreds of rejection letters filled our email inbox and the folders in Kyle’s garage. Each knockback we’d received hardened our resolve and fueled our determination to succeed.

Nothing killed our love of music. In fact, it grew every day.

Music had become our life.

On top of music at school, we’d play as often as we could at local fairs and contests, and we had secured a monthly gig at a tavern in Milltown. We’d even played at a rich teenage kid’s party in Princeton and a wedding in Somerville. But both had been epic disasters. Hunter’s mic had failed at the party, and at the wedding, I’d hit Kyle in the chin with my guitar, cutting him. There’d been a lot of blood, the bride’s mother had fainted, and Kyle had ended up with four stitches. But it didn’t deter us. We jumped at every chance to perform.

Our break would come. I knew it.

But when?

One thing had gained traction. Our social media. We had more than five thousand followers on YouTube and a couple of hundred likes on Facebook. People we didn’t know were watching our videos. Liking us. Listening to our music. Each week, the number grew.

That spurred us on.

In January 2009, our hopes soared. Thanks to a last-minute cancelation, we’d been chosen to play at the new Seaside Music Festival at Jersey Shore in May. It was no Coachella. It wasn’t even on the popular indie-band festival circuit, but it would be our biggest gig to date. We’d be the youngest participants and there’d be thousands of people in attendance. It was a chance to get in front of industry professionals. In our ninety-minute Sunday afternoon timeslot, we had the chance to play a mix of our original work and covers. To say we were excited was an understatement.

A month out from the event, we were jamming in the garage, rocking out “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” by Queen when prickles ripped across my skin. Something wasn’t right.

Hunter slammed his hands down on the keys. “You know what? Fuck this. You and Kyle get to dance around the stage and play up to the crowd while I’m stuck behind this thing.” He slapped his hand on top of the keyboard. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“What?” I stilled my strings and clutched at the pain spearing my ribs. I struggled to form words. Hunter loved music as much as Kyle and I did. Where had this come from? “You...you want to quit?” No!

“No.” Frustration etched his brow. “God no. I mean...I don’t want to play keys anymore. I just want to sing or...or... play rhythm. I’m a performer. I want to entertain the crowd. We’re about to play our biggest gig soon, and I need to be part of the action.”

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