Totally Unrelated (5 page)

We're at it for more than an hour. “Okay,” he says finally. “That's good for today. How do you feel about it?”

“Good,” I admit. “I think it'll sound better now.”

“You're darn right,” he says.

“I was wondering something,” I say. “I've been thinking about ‘Off to the Dance' and wondering if maybe I could come up with a solo.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks skeptically.

“It doesn't have to be a big deal,” I tell him. “I kind of have something worked out.”

“Let's hear it,” he says, sitting back down.

“Okay,” I say. “So it's right after Shamus comes in with the bodhran. I was thinking we could add a few bars, and I could play against the drum for a bit.”

He nods and listens as I push out the riff I've been working on in the back of my head since last summer.

“Something like that,” I say when I'm done.

“I like it, Neil,” he says. “I'm glad you're thinking about the music this seriously. I'm not sure it'll work with the tune the way we have it arranged, but keep working on your own ideas. Who knows, maybe you'll even end up writing your own songs someday.”

Figures, I think, as I walk back to the house. He's got no problem telling us what to do, day in and day out, but the minute I come up with a small suggestion, he rules it out without even thinking about it.

I grab some cookies and a can of soda and head down to my bedroom in the basement. lie on my bed and strum my guitar for a few minutes, then sit up and grab my phone.

I scroll through my contacts and find Sandy's name. Then, without giving myself a chance to lose my nerve, I call her.

The phone rings a couple of times before someone picks up. I hear breathing on the other end of the line, but nobody says anything.

“Hello?” I say.

“ROOOOOAAAAARRRRRR,” someone screams, so loudly that I almost drop my phone. I hold it away from my head until the screaming has stopped, then listen again.

“Oh my god, Bailey,” I hear someone say. “What is wrong with you?” Then, into the phone: “Hello?”

It's her. “Hi, Sandy?”

“Yes, who's this?”

“It's Neil McClintock. Uh, from, uh, the Family McClintock.” It comes out sounding so completely ridiculous that I want to crawl under my bed.

“Oh, Neil! Hey!” she says. “I'm so sorry about the hollering. I try to keep Beast away from my phone, but he's just too quick. So how's it going?”

“It's going good,” I say. “I was wondering if you were still interested in maybe getting together to jam sometime.”

“Totally,” she says. “I'm dying to hang out with someone who isn't a monster child or a senior citizen. When were you thinking?”

“Uh, I don't know,” I say. I haven't thought that far ahead.

“What are you doing now?” she asks. “Can you get a ride to our cottage?”

“I'll have to see if anyone is around to take me,” I say. “I'll let you know as soon as I check.”

“Sounds good,” she says. “I'll text you directions.”

This has turned out to be a lot easier than I expected. I run upstairs to look for a ride, but nobody is around.

I finally find Gran in the garden. “Where are Mom and Dad?” I ask.

“They just headed out to run some errands,” she says. “They'll be home for supper.”

“What about Shamus?”

“I think he's out somewhere with whatever girl he's dating these days.”

“Oh sh—”

“Language,” she warns.

“Shoot,” I say. “I really need a ride somewhere.”

“I think Kathy's in her room,” says Gran. “Maybe she'll drive you in the bus.”

“Sure,” says Kathy when I ask her. “I could stand to think about something else for a while.”

It's always weird to be driving in the bus when it's not full of people. I try not to think about global warming and promise myself that I'll buy some carbon credits if I actually score with Sandy.

“So who am I taking you to see?” Kathy asks as we bump along the unpaved road to Sandy's cottage.

“Some girl I met at the church show yesterday,” I tell her.

“Oooh,” she says. “A girl. Should I be intrigued?”

“You can be as intrigued as you want. Just don't mention it to anyone,” I say.

“Don't worry,” she says. “I know all about trying to keep secrets in this family.”

“What's going on with you, anyway?” I ask. “Are you upset about that guy?”

She sighs. “Yeah. I keep thinking about next year, and what's going to happen.”

“What do you mean?”

She glances over at me. She seems to be contemplating something. “Can you keep a secret?” she asks finally.

“Yeah,” I say. “For sure.”

“There's a program I'm looking into. It's offered through the university, and it would let me get credit for doing some international development work. I could probably arrange to work on the project that Casey is managing, in Senegal.”

“That would be cool,” I say.

“The thing is, it would begin immediately after I finish my next year of school. Which would mean I'd be leaving in late April or early May, and I'd be gone until September.”

“What about the band?” I ask.

“Exactly,” she says. “I don't know what to do. If I don't come home next year, a lot of things will change.”

“Do Mom and Dad know?”

“No,” she says. “I know I can't leave it too much longer, but I can't figure out how to tell them. You know what Dad is like.”

“Yep,” I say. “That's pretty crazy, Kathy.”

“You said it.” She slows down. “Is this the place?”

I spot a number painted on a piece of driftwood at the end of the driveway and check it against the address I put in my phone. “Looks like it,” I say. “Just drop me off here and I'll walk the rest of the way. Thanks for the ride. I promise I won't say anything.”

She smiles. “I know you won't. Don't worry—everything will work out. Now get out of here. Go have some fun.”

I grab my guitar from behind my seat and hop out, slapping the side of the bus as she drives away.

The driveway is steep, and I'm huffing and puffing by the time I reach the cottage. I'd like to take a minute to catch my breath before I knock on the door, but Sandy is sitting on the front deck, strumming her guitar, and sees me before I have the chance. She props her guitar in her chair and comes over to greet me.

“You want something to drink?” she asks. “Grandma took Beast to the beach.”

I set my guitar on the deck and follow her inside. The cottage is a typical summer rental—beat-up old furniture, some faded prints on the wall and a stack of well-used board games on top of a shelf full of paperback novels. Sandy pours us juice, and we take it out to the deck.

“It's nice here,” I say. The cottage looks out on hills and trees. We can glimpse a narrow strip of ocean in the distance.

“Yeah,” she says. “It's okay. It's a bit isolated. I have to ask Grandma to drive me any time I want to go anywhere.”

“I know what that's like,” I tell her. “So what were you playing before I showed up?”

“Oh.” She glances at her guitar. “It wasn't anything serious. I was just fooling around.”

“You should play something for me,” I say.

“Can we maybe try doing something together?” she asks. “I'm a little shy to play in front of a professional musician.”

“Give me a break,” I say, laughing. “Sure, let's do it.”

We mess around for a while, playing some oldies that we both know, like “American Pie” and “Harvest Moon.” She only plays chords, but she's pretty good. When her shyness wears off a bit and we start to get into it, she begins to sing. Her voice is husky and sweet, and when she really gets into a song, she closes her eyes and throws her head back. I could listen to—and watch—her all day.

By the time her grandmother and Beast get back from the beach, I've lost track of time. Beast runs growling onto the deck, wearing a baseball cap with seaweed hanging from it.

“What happened to you?” asks Sandy.

“I'm a sea beast!” he yells, running into the cottage.

“Hello, Neil,” says Sandy's grandmother. “I'm glad you were able to come keep Sandy company.”

“It was fun,” I say. “But I should probably call home and get someone to come pick me up.”

“Don't be silly,” says her grandmother. “I'll drive you. Sandy, can you make sure Bailey takes a shower? I'll start getting supper ready when I get home.”

“Let me know next time you're free and want to hang out,” says Sandy as I'm getting into the car. “I'd really like to jam again soon, if you're up for it.”

“Definitely,” I say. “It was fun.”

In the car, I try to politely answer her grandmother's many questions about “the musical life,” but I'm dying to text Bert. As soon as she drops me off and drives away, I pull my phone out of my pocket.

How do you feel about a girl singer?
I type.

Eight

Bert doesn't take much convincing. That a cute girl might actually be willing to hang out with us, even if it's just for practice, is more than enough reason to give it a try as far as he's concerned.

Sandy, on the other hand, is a tougher sell.

“I don't think I'm good enough,” she says when I call to ask her about it.

“You are!” I say. “You have a great voice, and you can play rhythm guitar too. It'll be fun!”

“I don't know,” she says. “What if I look stupid?”

“Trust me,” I say. “Next to Bert, you and I will look like we should be performing at the Grammys. At least come to one practice before you decide.”

“Okay,” she finally agrees. “But I'm not making any promises.”

When I arrive at Bert's house for our first full band practice, I'm shocked to find that he's actually cleaned his basement. Not only has the garbage everywhere been picked up, but the floor has been vacuumed, his clothes are put away, and there's even a lit candle in the bathroom.

“What?” he says when he sees me looking around the room with my mouth hanging open. “This is the first time I've ever had a girl down here. I don't want her to think I'm a total slob.”

“I'm impressed,” I say.

“It's like you think I'm a Neanderthal or something,” he says, then belches dramatically. We both bust up laughing.

The door at the top of the stairs opens, and his mom calls down, “Knock knock! You have company!”

Sandy comes down the stairs, her guitar slung over her shoulder and Beast clomping after her.

“Sorry,” she says. “I promised I'd babysit him before we set this up.”

Bert and Beast regard each other warily.

“You play video games?” asks Bert.

Beast lets out an affirmative grunt, and Bert gets him set up in front of the TV with a pair of headphones.

“So,” says Sandy. “What's the plan? What are we playing?”

Bert and I hand her the lyrics to “Pass the Test” and do a slowed-down run-through the song. I'm impressed with Bert. Not only has he rewritten the final verse, he's also done a lot of practicing on his drums. I've been working on the guitar parts, too, and I find that I'm really happy with the way it's coming together.

Sandy nods along as we play, her eyes on the page of lyrics. “Cool,” she says when we're finished. “I like it.”

“You want to try singing?” I ask.

“I think I'd prefer to play along a few times first,” she says. “Just to get comfortable.”

“Anything we can do to make you comfortable,” says Bert suggestively. I shoot him a dirty look, but she's getting her guitar out of her case and doesn't seem to notice.

We spend the next hour or so going over the song. It's more barebones than I'm used to, just two guitars and drums, but it sounds pretty good, despite the occasional unnerving bellow or roar from Beast, who's focused on the TV. After five run-throughs, Sandy finally starts to sing, and that's when things really fall into place.

“That sounded great!” says Bert when we've finished.

“How did it feel?” I ask her.

“Felt good,” she says. “It was fun. It's a cool song.”

“It sounded good,” I agree. “But I'm not sure about the way you sing the second half of the chorus.”

“Okay,” she says. “So how should I sing it?”

“Yeah, Neil,” says Bert. “She isn't a mind reader.”

I hate singing, but I try to show her what I mean. “
Out of all your other students, I want you to like me best
,” I sing, feeling totally self-conscious.

“I don't know why you're always going on about not being able to sing,” says Bert.

“Yeah,” says Sandy. “You've got a nice voice.”

“Whatever,” I say. “Do you guys want to run through it again?”

We play through the song a few more times, and when Sandy's grandmother arrives to pick her and Beast up, we're sounding really tight.

“So you're in?” I ask Sandy as she packs up her guitar.

“Yeah,” she says, turning around and smiling at us. “I think it'll be fun.”

“Perfect,” says Bert. “There's just one more thing to figure out. What are we going to call ourselves?”

“We only have one song,” I say. “Do we really need a name?”

“Are you crazy?” he asks. “Nobody is going to take us seriously without a name. Besides, we only have one song because it's our first song. The Stones, U2, Arcade Fire—they all
only
had one song once too.”

“He's got a point,” says Sandy.

We stand at the foot of the stairs, mulling it over for a minute. A horn honks outside, for the third time. “How about we all think about it and see what we come up with,” says Sandy. “Beast and I better get out of here before Grandma has a fit.”