Breakout (21 page)

Mom takes me to Fat Class on Saturday morning and I am glad to be locked in for an hour with Sergeant Mike and not have to think about anything else.

We do lots of weird ab work with the big bouncy exercise ball, like where you have to sit on it and get your feet off the ground so you’re trying to balance on this spongy rolling thing, and then also push a dumbbell up from your stomach, legs still off the ground, until your arms are straight and it’s crazy hard and we are all kind of wobbling around and falling over sideways. Morgan takes a big fall and is wincing but Craig and I help her get back on the ball.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Good job, Team Anthony,” Sergeant Mike barks from the other side of the room, and he is the best. “Okay, take a minute to recover.”

We all kind of slide off the balls, and as we’re standing up and stretching Craig says, “Tough.”

I nod. “Yeah.” Then I think to ask Craig about music. “Hey,” I say, “is Peter still listening to SilentNoize twenty-four seven?”

“Oh,” says Craig. For a second he looks away and it’s a look that I might not have recognized a week ago but now I feel like, uh-oh. “Not so much. He’s listening to the Breakups more these days.”

“They’re cool too. I’ve totally heard kids say that Jake Diamond can get on their nerves,” I add, like everything’s normal, except I can feel that it’s not.

“Okay, now we’re going to lie on the ball,” says Sergeant Mike, “like this.” He gets on top of the ball and rolls forward on it until his hands are on the floor and he’s squeezing his glutes and his legs are sticking straight out. “Then you’re going to do a push-up extension, like this.” He starts doing push-ups with his legs straight and his abdomen on the ball and you can just tell by how his body is so rigid that this is going to be killer. We all try it and I fall off once but manage to get about five of the push-ups done.

And then we are standing again and between exhausted breaths Craig says, “Peter still likes SilentNoize, but I actually took it away from him.… We listened to it in the car and I, um, I guess I didn’t realize the kind of language in that stuff.”

I feel a cold fist form in my gut and all I can say is “Oh.”

“I mean, I know I’m old,” says Craig, “but it was a bit much.”

“Yeah, well, Peter’s still kinda young, I guess,” I say, trying
to sound like we’re brothers on the field of battle, not like we’re a grown-up and a kid because that’s suddenly how I’m feeling and it’s like I feel embarrassed or dumb or I don’t know what.

“You know,” says Craig, “I get that’s what kids are listening to these days, but I just think bands like SilentNoize ought to think about their audience. Like think about what they’re saying to kids, and all that. Peter’s only eleven, you know? Anyway, I just don’t want him listening to that kind of thing yet.”

“Sure,” I say, and I wonder if he thinks I’m
only
fourteen, and I wish I’d never given Craig SilentNoize. I would never play that music for my parents or teachers and now Craig is sounding like them.

“All right, one minute of cardio,” says Sergeant Mike, and we all have to run laps around the perimeter of the room.

Craig starts to take off and pats me on the back. “Hey, no worries.”

“Okay,” I say, and I start off too, jogging around the room, breathing hard, hating jogging, but hating that whole conversation way more. I try to remind myself that it is completely okay to like SilentNoize. I didn’t do anything wrong by suggesting it for Peter because
tons
of middle school kids are listening to them, but then I realize that this also means that Craig probably wouldn’t like
my
song either.

And along with Valerie, that makes two.

And that sucks! I wonder again if singing those words is
the right idea, and I have to spend the rest of the day reminding myself that yes, it is. That the whole school is counting on me. That there’s nothing wrong with it because the words are true. It’s how I felt and it’s the school rules and society that are being dumb, not me.

I mean, right?

Sunday I wake up and check BandSpace:

There is also a new comment:

No way!

I immediately text Keenan:
MANAGEMENT!!!

AMAZING!
he writes back.
I want six blueberries in a red glass bowl and sparkling water served at 52 degrees!

We make a couple more jokes about ridiculous tour rider requests, and this blows away the frustrated thoughts I’m still having about Craig and Valerie.

I search online for Rain City Talent and find a Facebook page. It seems like they, or he, or whoever, have one client called Gremlin Wing. I find them on BandSpace and they are a kinda okay metal band. Still …

Management! That’s like … that’s like the beginning of rock stardom. And so then I’m thinking who cares about what Craig and Valerie think when someone in the business, someone who
matters
, is thinking this.

After watching football, I practice a bit and then it’s dinnertime and it’s Sunday so we are making pizza. We do a whole-wheat and flaxseed crust and nonfat cheese, then olives and turkey pepperoni and red peppers and no, it’s not like restaurant pizza, but actually it’s pretty good. I like rolling out the crust. That’s usually my job. I make four so that everybody gets their own personal pie to put toppings on. My crusts are pretty perfect, round and thin in the center with thick edges.

We have fun, the four of us, making our pizzas and making a mess. It’s one of the few times when Mom and Dad drink wine and so they loosen up and we joke and it feels easy.

We are eating when Dad says, “Heard you practicing. How’s it going?”

“Fine.”

Then it’s quiet for a second and he adds, “I like it.”

I look at him. So does Mom. “What?” I ask.

“The song,” he continues. “I like the song. Those are some good riffs, and, Anthony, you did a great job on the guitar and the melody. Your voice sounds good too.”

I stare at my food and eat more quickly. Dad doesn’t really ever say stuff like this. And I know since he used to sing and play in his band that he means it. It feels like I’ve made him proud in a real way. “Thanks,” I say quietly.

“I’m glad you’re changing the ending too,” he adds, “because that way everybody can hear how good you are, and they won’t be distracted.”

“Mmm,” I say, but … distracted? Distracted by hearing my real emotions?

Dad takes another bite and then says, “If you had done the song with the f-words, that’s all anybody would remember afterward. They wouldn’t remember the great guitar player, the great singer.”

I look up at Dad, the former musician, and suddenly I feel like,
Whoa
, Dad just made a good point. I do picture everyone freaking out about me saying the f-word, about the shock value of that, but I didn’t think that maybe it would distract them from the point of the song.

Except, no, it won’t. This is just another example of adults
not giving us enough credit. Everybody in
my
audience thinks the words are really good and that they matter, that they’re part of the art. Grown-ups have lost that. They just see a world of rules.

But still I say “Thanks” to Dad. For the compliment part. And I mean it. It is nice to hear that he thinks I sound good.

Then I eat quickly and get out of there.

And when I am upstairs I just feel like there is all this static in my head, too much, and for the rest of the night I’m in a crappy mood, because I have no idea what to do with all these things. What Valerie said, what Craig said, but then Rain City Talent, and now what Dad said. Why does everyone have to have an opinion? Why can’t the song just be what it is? It all leaves me feeling overwhelmed, like the only thing to do is
not
think about it, so I zone out and play
LF
until I can finally sleep.

On Monday, I’m just as confused, only now it’s the day before the show and I feel like there’s a little motor inside me, humming along and keeping my body running faster than normal. Everything is so intense.

I try to explain it all to Keenan as we’re walking to our final practice. I tell him about all the opinions: Valerie, Craig, my dad. And after that I say what I’ve basically been thinking all day: “I just don’t know if it’s worth it.”

And I really don’t. Having to deal with all these opinions and expectations is making me crazy. “You know,” I say, “like, I know the words are
right
, and true, but … all these adults are going to totally freak and we’re going to get in so much trouble and then we’ll get kicked out of Rock Band Club and we won’t have our next show, and so it’s like, why bother? It’s too much of a pain.” I don’t totally feel like that came out right but it’s the best I’ve got at the moment.

And even just talking about it makes that little motor
seem to spin faster, like it has a dial that goes to 11, and if normal Anthony life is 3, it feels like now it’s turned up to 5 and slowly rising.

We stop outside the door to the lounge. Keenan looks at the floor like he’s thinking hard. He’s added a black belt with square silver studs to his cool-hair-jeans-shirt appearance.

“Are you mad?” I ask him.

“It’s just that you’re talking about doing what’s right for
them
, not what’s right for
us
.”

“No, I just …” But maybe I am. Crap! I throw up my hands. “I can’t tell anymore!”

Nothing about the plan seems clear. It’s almost like this plan, this song, is as much of a stalag now as everything that the song was about in the first place!

Keenan looks up and I have no idea what he’s going to say, but then he puts his hand on my shoulder like he’s my commanding officer or something, which is how Keenan
never
acts. “Tomorrow night is going to be awesome,” he says. “Everyone’s gonna be there and all we have to do is do it like we planned. It’s going to be the biggest thing that’s ever happened. Ever. And who cares about everything else? What’s the point of having Rock Band if we’re censored little babies? Tomorrow night will be our time to say what we want.”

Yes. Okay. I nod and say, “Yeah,” because he’s right.

He’s so right.

“We can do this,” Keenan says. He’s really ready for battle. I’m almost jealous, but then I remember that his job is easier than mine. He just has to play bass. But actually maybe he
has a second job and that’s dealing with me, because even though I want to just agree and shut up I still can’t stop all this worrying.

“But …” And then I’m kinda surprised because what comes out is what my dad said. “Is it going to be the biggest thing ever because we rocked and the song was amazing, or just because everybody’s going to yell the f-word at a school event?”

Keenan shrugs. “I don’t know. Kinda both, I think. Right?”

“Yeah,” I say, but while it’s the best I’ve felt since sometime last week, I still feel that motor. Even Keenan’s words haven’t totally erased the doubt.

But what happens next does.

We walk into the lounge and there’s Valerie sitting behind the drums and there’s Mr. Darren sitting with his Les Paul—

And there’s Ms. Tiernan sitting across from him.

“Boys,” she says as we stop in the doorway, “I just dropped by for a quick chat.”

Mr. Darren says it’s all about timing.

Like when you have just been wondering if what you’re about to do is the right thing, and because of girl drummers and workout partners and parents you’ve been starting to doubt it …

And then your principal says to you, “I’ve heard a rumor that you’re thinking of singing your original lyrics tomorrow night.”

“Huh?” I say.

Tiernan narrows her eyes at us. “Is this true?”

“No,” I say immediately, and I go into defensive maneuvers. “I mean, kids want me to, but I changed them. Mr. Darren’s heard it.” I look over at Mr. Darren but he’s looking down at his guitar.