Page 21 of Faux Real
“You heard right,” the dark-haired guy says, giving me a careful once over. “You play?”
“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” I say, eyeing the joint in his hand. They seem chill. “You got a kit?”
“What’s your name, kid?” the smallest of the three asks. “I don’t think we’ve seen you around.”
“Oliver.”
“Nice to meet you, Oliver. I’m Jaime, I play guitar,” short, tattooed man says, gesturing to his bandmates. “This is Ricky, bass—” Dark hair, a lip ring. “And this is Colt, our singer.” Tall, long blond hair with devilish eyes.
“You any good?” Colt asks, puffing on the joint.
“You tell me,” I say. “Sticks?”
“Over there,” he says, gesturing toward the drum kit. “Show us what you got.”
As I walk to the kit, I try to rack my brain around what I should play. It needs to be something accessible that they’ll know off hand but I also can’t overextend myself and play something I could possibly butcher. I snatch the drumsticks off of the high tom and position myself on the throne, my eyes darting to the single kick pedal on the ground.
Interesting. Okay.
Meeting the eager gaze of my possible future bandmates, I make the split decision to playGood Times, Bad Timesby Led Zeppelin. Impress them with a little John Bonham. Giving my neck a quick twist, I close my eyes and hit the skins. It’s been a couple of months since I’ve played but it’s hard to forget. Working through the intro, tension builds as I mentally anticipate playing the classic fill that launches into the beat. When Inailthe signature flutter kicks, I hear the bewildered murmuring of the band.Fucking rights. I relax, finishing the song with more confidence, and end with an obnoxious stick toss.
A little flair never hurts.
“Well?” I ask, looking up to meet their impressed gaze. Still got it apparently. “Am I in?” Colt, Jaime, and Ricky huddle briefly to discuss as I get up and walk toward them. I’m sure their minds were made up as soon as I flawlessly hit the fills. “So?”
“You’re in.” Colt grins, passing me the remnants of the joint. “Welcome to Catharsis.”
“You’re fucking good, Ollie,” Jaime says, nodding in approval.
“Yeah, dude,” Ricky agrees. “Best we’ve seen all day.”
“Thanks.” I take a puff, holding it in, letting the smoke penetrate my lungs. “Sick name by the way,” I mutter, blowing out. I could use some catharsis. “So when’s practice?”
“We link up three times a week,” Jaime explains. “Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from seven to ten. We play a few Saturdays upstairs. It’s decent money. Free beer.”
Fuck.
“Seven to ten atnight?” I ask, inwardly wincing. Are you fucking kidding me? How am I supposed to sneak outfour times a week?
“Yeah at night,” Ricky says, tossing me a skeptical look. “That’s cool, right? We can have our first practice next week.”
“Of course,” I say. “Not a problem.”
Big fucking problem.
“Ok, sick,” Colt says, heading to the mini-fridge and pulling out a case of beer. “Let’s celebrate, boys.”
I check my watch. Eh, it’s only six, I have time for a couple of pints before curfew. Just can’t get hammered. Wouldn’t wantKennedyto write me up.
Fuck. I’m going to have to talk to her, aren’t I?
eight
How the Mighty Have Fallen
KENNEDY
“Kenny!”Maxscreamsatthe top of her lungs, running toward me with Felicity and Leon in tow. “Why aren’t you eating in the dining hall? It’s fajita Friday, bitch!”
