Falling Under (20 page)

To distract ourselves, we study together, and we play music. We write songs, we learn covers, we learn how to play together, how to read each other musically, what we can do well and what we can’t. She’s teaching me to read music, which is easier than I thought it would be. And now, now finally we’re clear to do what we want.

We’re in her car, cruising through Friday late afternoon traffic, heading downtown. Kylie has a list of honky-tonks and bars she wants us to audition at. We’ve spent the last few days practicing some original tunes and a few covers. The first place is a dark sports bar off the strip. Kylie arranged the audition last week, so the manager is expecting us. He shakes our hands, introduces himself as Dan, and points at the stage. It’s a one-step-up platform in the corner of the bar, our backs to the windows facing the street. There’s a battered, scratched tan upright piano on one wall, and a couple of stools, mic stands. Kylie and I have no gear except my guitars and amp, so I haul my amp in and set it up, plug in my electric guitar, and settle on the stool while Kylie tinkers on the piano keys, testing its sound and tuning.
 

“That piano’s kind of a piece of shit,” Dan says. He’s a guy in his late thirties with a high-and-tight haircut, a muscular build, and a goatee. “Needs tuning. But it’ll work for an audition, I guess. Ready when ya’ll are.”

 
Kylie nods at me and I dig deep, nodding my head to count out the beat, and then I’m into the opening of the second song we did for the talent show. It’s a pretty killer intro solo, and when Kylie comes in with the piano and starts singing, it turns into something hypnotic. The manager is impressed, I can tell. We finish that song, and then I switch electric for acoustic, and Kylie brushes her hands across the keys as if to sweep away dust on the black and white, as if to brush away the old song to make way for the new. It’s a gesture of hers that I’ve noticed. It’s cute. I hit a muted chord three times, counting out the beat, and then Kylie comes in, playing a stripped-down version of Ed Sheeran’s “Kiss Me.” I’m the most nervous about this song. Our version of it relies most heavily on our harmony. I can play the guitar part easy enough, and Kylie’s piano is the real backbone of it musically, but hitting the right notes together at the right time…it’s hard, and I’m not super confident in my own singing. I quickly realized that when Kylie had claimed to be “decent” on the piano, she meant crazy fucking good. She does suck at guitar, though. She wasn’t exaggerating about that.
 

We get through the song okay, although I messed up the words in one spot.
 

“That was good. Real good,” Dan says. “I mean, that song in particular may not be right for the crowd we get, but ya’ll can jam, that’s for sure. Got anything a little more…country?”
 

I nod. “Yeah. How about ‘Cannery River’ by Green River Ordinance?”

We get a nod, and I switch guitars again. This was the trickiest song to arrange for a duet. Neither of us plays the fiddle, but I figured out a way to emulate one with my electric guitar taking the melody originally written for the violin. Kylie did the rest with a complex piece of piano composition. It sounds good, I think, but it’s up to this guy, not us.
 

We dive in, and I’m playing long, mournful, wailing notes, and Kylie is bent over her piano, fingers flying. The vocals are almost all me, which scares the fuck out of me. I feel my voice go shaky midway through, nerves threatening to screw me up. I close my eyes and focus on the guitar, focus on the words, suck it up and keep going.

We get a couple claps out of Dan. “That was fucking fantastic. You guys are in.” He points at me, grinning. “You almost lost it there for a second, didn’t you, pal?”

I nod. “Yeah, almost.”
 

He slaps his thigh and stands up from the bar stool. “Well, you pulled it off. Give me more of that, and some originals. How about three weeks from now? Thursday the twenty-first, 8 p.m. I can’t let you play past like nine-thirty unless you’re twenty-one. So give me a good performance, and we’ll see how it goes.” He squints at Kylie. “You look familiar. What’d you say your name was?”

“Kylie.”

“Kylie what?”

She obviously doesn’t want to reveal her last name, but she does. “Calloway.”

“Calloway. Shit, you’re Nell and Colt’s daughter, aren’t you?”

She sighs. “Yeah. But—”

Dan talks over her. “You were in before I knew that, so don’t think I’m hiring you because of that. Does he know you’re trying to gig?”

She shrugs. “Yeah.”

Dan nods. “Good. I’ll call Colt and talk to him. If he’s okay with it, I might let you play a bit later, in the busier bar hours. I’m not really supposed to, but since you’re Colt’s kid, I might let it slide.”

“I don’t want any special favors just because—”

Dan cuts in again. “Look, kid. This is a tough-as-fuck business. Getting any gigs at all is hard. If I were you, I’d take whatever leg up you can get. I respect that you want to do this on your own, but an in is an in. And believe me when I say that you’ll only make it so far on your parents’ name anyway. They can get you in to clubs and bars, but they can’t make the crowd like you. The crowd don’t give two shits who your folks are. All they want is good music to drink to.”
 

Kylie sighs, and nods. “That makes sense.”

Dan shrugs. “All right, then. See you on the twenty-first.” He hands Kylie a business card. “Give this to your dad.”

I pack up my guitars, and lug them and the amp outside and into Kylie’s car. We get in and Kylie starts the engine, then turns to me. “HOLY SHIT!” She grabs my arms and shakes me. “We’ve got our first gig, Oz!”

I smile at her. “We did it, sweetness.”

“Now we just have to actually play the gig!” Kylie pulls out into traffic and heads toward her house.
 

We talk about what covers we’re going to do, and discuss writing some more original material. By the time we get to her house, we’re both excited about possibilities and have the first stanza of a new song planned out. Our excitement is doused when we see Ben in his driveway getting into his truck at the same time as we’re getting out. Kylie is obviously upset at the mere sight of him, and I feel it. For his part, Ben is staring at me with what looks like open hatred. It’s a little shocking, and unexpected.

He slams his door shut, squeals his tires as he backs out, and floors it, roaring at a reckless speed down the residential street. His front door opens, and his mother comes out, stands on the front porch staring after him.
 

I glance at Kylie. “What’s the deal there?”

She sighs. “A lot.” She shakes her head and looks up at me. “He’s being pissy.”

“Kylie.”
 

“We got into a fight the night I left your place late—after our first open mic. He was waiting up for me.”

“He’s jealous?”

“Yeah. Apparently you were right. He said he’s been in love with me since he was fourteen.”

I groan. “Shit. I told you.” I walk away from her, worry shooting through me.
 

She follows after me. “Oz, it’s fine.”

I spin in place. “Fine? How is it fine? He’s your best friend. I never wanted to come between that.”

“He had our whole lives to say something to me. He never did. Not once. He never let on how he was feeling.” She looks down the street where his truck disappeared, as if she could see him wherever he is now. “I wanted him to, you know. A long time ago. Ninth grade, tenth grade. He’s awesome, you know? Hot, cool, fun, athletic, popular. Everything a girl could ever want, and I thought he and I could have some kind of fairy tale ending together, so I waited and waited for him to suddenly profess his undying love and whatever, but he never did, and I didn’t want to risk ruining our friendship. And then last year he suddenly started dating all these girls, and I gave up. And then this year you show up, and everything happens between us, and now suddenly he tells me how he feels when it’s too late.”

I’m torn. He’s everything she said he is, and I’m not blind enough to miss that. He has every reason to hate me. Part of me, the part that knows I’m wrong for Kylie, tells me to push her to him. But the selfish part of me won’t let that happen.

Kylie clearly knows me all too well, because she turns to me. “Don’t even think about it, Oz. He had his chance. I’m with you.”

I laugh. “I didn’t say anything.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “But you were thinking it.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Well, don’t. Just don’t.” She pulls me toward her front door, lets herself in, shouting for Colt. “Daddy! Where are you?”

He comes up from the basement. “What’s up, buttercup?”

She bounds over to him and wraps her arms around his middle. “We got a gig!”

He hugs her back. “Awesome! Where at?”

She hands him the card. “This place. The manager’s name is Dan. He said he would let us play later if you were okay with it. He said it’d be hard to get gigs during prime time since I’m underage.”

Colt nods. “Yeah, he’s right about that, at least when it comes to the Music Row bars and clubs. But there are a lot open mic nights ya’ll could do. It’s a good way to build a name for yourselves. The whole open mic night crowd of singer-songwriters is a small world, at least when it comes to real talent.”

He claps me on the back, his other arm around Kylie. “Good job, you two.” He glances at Kylie. “You mind if Mom and I come to watch you and Oz play?”

She shakes her head. “No, that’s fine.”

“When is it?”

“Thursday the twenty-first.”

“Cool. We’ll be there.” He heads back to the basement, and Kylie and I go up to her room.
 

She leaves her door open as I sit at her desk and she sits on her bed. We spend the next few hours alternating between studying for a calculus exam and working on a new song.
 

We’re interrupted around seven-thirty by Nell. “Dinner’s ready.” She looks at me. “Are you staying?”

Kylie answers for me. “Yes. He is.”

I laugh. “I guess I am.”

A few minutes later, I’m sitting at the round table just off the kitchen. Kylie is on one side of me, Nell on the other, Colt across from me. There’s a huge bowl of rotini and meat sauce, garlic bread, and salad. I wait and watch as they pass each item around, and take a helping when it comes to me. This is…odd. I’ve never had an actual sit-down dinner like this before. It’s always just Mom and I, and the rare nights we’re both home at dinnertime, we eat whatever’s quick, sitting on the couch watching TV. I don’t know what to do. Should I wait for everyone else to eat? Do they pray first? They don’t strike me as religious or spiritual people, but I have this idea—a dumb one, I’m sure—that nice unified suburban families like this always pray before they eat. Do I close my eyes? Are there rules or manners I’m supposed to know about? I didn’t wash my hands. I’m still wearing my hat. Should I take it off? A thousand things run through my head. I’m not eating, just watching Kylie and her family as they dig in without fanfare, chattering amiably, asking each other questions about their day, sharing stories, all of it around mouthfuls of food.

Nell notices I’m not eating. “Is it okay, Oz? You’re not eating.”

I blink. “No, it’s—it’s good. It smells good.”

Colt comes to my rescue. “It’s just dinner, Oz. Relax. Eat.”

Kylie sets her slice of garlic bread down and looks at me. “You okay?”

I laugh, uncomfortable, and take bite of rotini. “It’s good. Really good. Thanks for having me.” I hope she’ll let it go.

She does, for now at least, and I slowly relax a little. I answer a few questions, innocuous ones about where I’ve lived, which cities I’ve liked and which I haven’t, my favorite bands. Colt and I get into a discussion about motorcycles, and it’s during this conversation that I notice Kylie’s eyes on me, watching me, happy, curious, eager. Like she’s happier than I could ever imagine that I’m here in her home, talking to her dad.

It’s weird for me. I never thought any girl would ever want to bring me home to meet her parents, but here I am, eating pasta and talking about Triumphs with Colt Calloway. And it feels okay.
 

When dinner is over, I help clear the table, and Kylie and I load the dishwasher together. That, too, feels strangely and wonderfully domestic.
 

Colt catches my eye, gestures for me to follow him. “I’m stealing your boyfriend, Kylie. We’re gonna go look at the bike.”
   

“Be nice,” Kylie says, a note of warning in her voice.

I don’t know what to expect, but I follow him out into the garage. He opens the garage door, throws the cover off his Triumph. I squat and examine the engine. I hear him rummaging in a drawer, and then I hear the distinctive
scrape-click
of a lighter, and smell cigarette smoke. He holds out a pack of Camels, and I take one, light it.
 

A few moments pass, and then he leans back against the workbench. “You get my daughter hooked on these, I’ll kick your ass.” He lifts the cigarette.
 

“That’s what I told her. I don’t let her smoke, and I try not to smoke around her.”

He nods. “Good.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Listen, I’m not gonna give some big speech to you, or try to scare you. I don’t need to, I don’t think.”

I shake my head. “No, sir, you don’t.”
 

“There are a few things I do need to address, though. One, those scars on your arms. Is that going to be a problem?”

I turn my forearm so the underside is facing up and stare at the scars. “No, sir.” I swallow hard. “I’m not gonna lie—it used to be a pretty big problem. And sometimes I do still get the urge. But I don’t burn anymore. I’m not saying your daughter was the reason I stopped, because she’s not. She helps, though. I don’t want to be that guy. She’s…she deserves better than that.”

“Fucking right she does.” Colt’s eyes are all-knowing. “You quit burning on your own? Or did you see someone?”

I debate what to say. In the end, I go for the truth. “I spent two months in a psychiatric hospital a while back. Just before I graduated high school. Burning myself was becoming…a habit. It got pretty bad. Things were really shitty. I was always in trouble at school. Um. There were these kids, bullies. No one stopped them, and no one even tried. They ran the school. I wouldn’t put up with their bullshit, to the point that I almost got expelled for beating the shit out of a couple of them. It just kept getting worse. It wasn’t physical bullying. It was…psychological. It was a very socially and economically segregated school, and I didn’t fit in with any of the groups. I was failing all my classes, my mom was riding my ass, the principal was about to expel me, and I just—there was no good answer. That was when I really started burning. My mom noticed. Freaked out. I kept doing it, and by the time the year was over, Mom was seriously on the verge of a nervous breakdown about it. So she took me to a shrink. I wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t cooperate.” I hesitate, not wanting to share the next part. “The burning got bad. Really bad. Mom couldn’t handle it, thought I’d, like, try to kill myself. So she had me involuntarily committed to a psych hospital. At first, I treated it like I did everything else. Uncooperative, all that. But then I realized that maybe they could help me out with the urge to burn. See, I never wanted to. It was this…compulsion. I couldn’t stop it. My hands would do it without the rest of me agreeing. I don’t know if that makes any sense to you, but that’s how it was. I hated the hospital, but they did help me understand a bit.”