Dedication Takes a Lifetime

Tomas was my new hero. Not only did he do a spectacular job of organizing all of the boxes in my garage and sweeping away the dust and cobwebs, but he did it all for free. Instead of money, he only asked that we remember to “thank him when we won a Grammy.”

So with that done, I was free to set up a temporary music space. After work on Friday, I borrowed my mom’s minivan and went to pick up the drums, bass, and PA system from Lenny. She gave me careful instructions on how to use everything, though I knew it all already, and made me swear to bring it all back unscathed. I did everything short of signed a contract in blood before she finally let me leave.

Kal piled her hair on top of her head and secured it in a messy bun, then took the clip out and shook out her long blonde hair, then started gathering it together again. I recognized this as a nervous habit, much like my own bad tendency of twirling my hair when I was anticipating something. “Do you think anyone will come?” She asked, biting her lip, “Did we put up enough fliers? Should we have waited another week?”

“Kalila, calm down,” I told her sternly. “We advertised at all three high schools, the community college, the state college, and the entire mall; we’re set.” I secured the last cymbal and stood up, smoothing out the wrinkles in my Nina’s Diner work shirt that I’d yet to have the opportunity to change out of. I checked my watch and bit my lip, “Okay, I’m going to grab a quick shower before six. Help yourself to anything in the refrigerator.” I started through the door to the kitchen, with her right behind me.

“What if your parents come home,” she asked curiously. “I mean, I’ve been here every night since Tuesday and have yet to meet them; what’re they going to think if they come home and find a strange girl eating all their food?”

I raised my eyebrows; I thought I’d told her already. No, a voice in my head told me, as if I were a stupid and forgetful child, You told Alex. I shook my head, forcing the voice away, then smiled at my friend. “This is my house; my parents live over on Maple Drive.”

Her eyes widened and she looked around, as if taking in the house with new eyes. “You afford all this,” she eyed my uniform warily, “On a part-time waitress’s paycheck?”

Again, I didn’t want to talk about it. I just bit the inside of my cheek and sniffed my hair, “I stink like bacon grease; I really need that shower.” Before she had the chance to say anything, I turned and bound up the stairs and to my large ensuite bedroom. I stayed under the hot water of my shower for as long as I could, washing away the diner grime and the fear of having to explain myself.

By the time I’d finished, changed into a pair of flare-bottom jeans and Tool shirt, and made my way downstairs, Kal had already devoured a carton of leftover chicken lo mein. I smiled at her as she blushed around the final mouthful, carefully twisting my hair back in a braid and flipping it over my shoulder so that it rested just over my collarbone.

“Time?” I asked cautiously, not wanting to revive our previous topic.

She lit the screen of her iPhone and swallowed her food, “Five forty-five.” She tossed the Chinese carton in the trash and inhaled deeply, “Better get out there, huh?” I nodded and grabbed the book of sheet music we’d put together for drums, bass, and guitar, while she grabbed her acoustic and followed me back out to the garage. We planted ourselves in two lawn chairs and played the waiting game.

We didn’t have to wait very long. Barely twenty minutes later, a tall, lanky guy in untied Converse and a burgundy flannel shirt stumbled up the driveway. He pushed his glasses up on his nose (god help us if every single member of our band ended up being a Four Eyes; at least then we’d have a band name) and adjusted the instrument case on his back, grinning nervously and shuffling over to us. “Uh, hi, hey,” he chuckled lightly, “I’m, uh,” he stuttered, “I’m Aaron Deveraux. Friends just call me Deveraux, though.”

Kal and I exchanged glances. He was cute, in a quirky, awkward geek kind of way, though obviously completely uncoordinated. I didn’t see this working out well, and judging by her facial expression, neither did Kal. But we both turned back to him with smiles on our faces.

“All right, Deveraux,” I said, flipping through the sheet music, “What do you play?”

He slid the case off of his shoulder and began unzipping it, extracting his instrument. “1977 Fender Precision bass guitar,” he stroked the neck of the instrument lovingly, “I call her Barbi Benton.”

“You named your bass,” Kal said slowly, comprehending this, “After a pin-up girl?” He nodded, as if this were the most normal thing in the world (but then, for a guy, I guess it was), and Kal just shrugged, “All right, hook up.”

I handed Deveraux the bass sheet music Kal had bribed one of the bassists from the academy to write for her. “We’re going to have you play this first, just to make sure you can. Then we’ll let you play something of your own, okay?”

He nodded and started to the speaker, tripping over his shoelaces a few times on the way. He hooked up the bass, cleared his throat, and launched right into it. Though the bass line to “If I Was From Paris” was not difficult at all, the fact that he nailed it instantly was surprising. Even more surprising, however, was when he transitioned from that into the bass line from “Magdalena,” by A Perfect Circle. I recognized it instantly, and my jaw hit the floor.

He finished about three minutes after he started and laughed at my expression. “I thought you would appreciate that,” he said surely, gesturing to my shirt, “Where there’s a Tool fan, there is almost always an A Perfect Circle fan.” I came to my senses and laughed, clapping my hands together. I was ready to take him in instantly, but Kal shot out her arm to stop me.

“Deveraux,” she said, business-like again, “That was very good. But do you have any experience in writing your own, original bass lines?” Something in his face seemed to harden at this, like it was a challenge that he would not deny. Something about him reminded me of Jack Barakat--all goofy and smiles and odd, but with an undertone of seriousness that no one could fully comprehend.

He nodded wordlessly and rolled up the sleeves of his flannel, revealing ridiculously toned biceps that I would not have expected to see. Not that, or the small hint of a tattoo that became visible. He swiped his fringe-cut, dirty-blonde hair across his forehead and began strumming, fingers plucking a pattern so quick and intricate that my eyes could barely keep up with them. The sound was amazing, deep and dark, but not that trashy thrash metal crap you heard spilling out of dive bars on week nights.

He kept going for what seemed like forever, losing himself in the music, eyes closing behind his thick-rimmed glasses. By the time he finished, he was breathing heavily and a thin layer of sweat had collected on his face. His eyes opened slowly, breathing still unsteady, and he licked his lips, looking at Kal defiantly.

She looked at me, eyes wide, and let out a shaky breath. “That,” she whispered so that only I could hear her, “Was so hot.”

I nodded slowly, “I think I’ve got a thing for nerdy boys now.”

“Deveraux,” Kal said to him, voice clear and confident, “You’re in.”

He raised his eyebrows, “You sure?” He put his hands on his head, inhaling through his nose, “You don’t need to audition anyone else?”

“You’re good,” she told him definitively, “Really good.”

“And,” I added, “Your music obviously means something to you. That’s what we ultimately want; love and dedication.”

He smiled crookedly, seeming to revert back to his previous goofy self, “Oh, I’ve got that in spades, baby.”

I laughed easily, “If that’s a promise, then,” I glanced at Kal, who smiled at me, “I’m Annette Vader, this is Kalila Aberman, and welcome to the band!”

Deveraux laughed a big laugh, hopping up and down slightly out of happiness. Kal flipped open our notebook and said, “Can we get your information?” at the same time I asked, “Do you want a beer?”

“Um,” he cocked his head to the side, “Yes to both?”

-- -- --

“Pinch me; that did not just happen!” Deveraux exclaimed, bouncing wildly around the garage. It was four o’clock the next afternoon, and he’d been there since twelve, curious to see if we found anyone to fill the drummer slot. “No, seriously,” he presented his arm to me, which I pinched dutifully. “Ouch. Seriously?! You guys know Jack Barakat?”

A while earlier, we’d been inside stocking up on sodas and ordering a pizza when Kal’s phone had gone off, playing the tune of “Weightless.” She’d been giggly for some reason, answering it on speaker phone. Jack Barakat’s voice had come through from the other end, chipper and almost incomprehensible, talking a mile a minute. He seemed excited to finally speak to me, and even shot the shit with Deveraux for a few minutes. He told us he couldn’t wait to hear what our band sounded like when it came together, and to keep him updated, which we promised to do, and then Kal had taken it off of speaker and disappeared for a short while to have a private conversation. No one had mentioned Alex, and I was grateful for that.

Kal rolled her eyes and joked, “You sure are going on about this; you’re not sweet on the Kat-man, are ya?” She picked a pepperoni off her pizza and popped it in her mouth.

“Har har,” Deveraux stuck his tongue out at her, “I’m just a big All Time Low fan. But should the topic ever come up again,” he sighed, “Though my appearance often gives the opposite impression, I am straight.”

We both turned to stare at him, then promptly burst out laughing; we’d debated all night about whether he was or wasn’t, deciding that he had to be gay. Guess we were wrong. Damn.

The rest of the day basically went on like that. Friendly, getting-to-know-you conversation and random jokes that sent the three of us into laughing fits. We all seemed to mesh well, our music tastes and family backgrounds very similar, our personalities familiarly goofy, but determined. And, above all else, we all cared about music more than anything.

We auditioned at least eight drummers, none of them quite having what we were looking for, which was disappointing. Before we knew it, eight o’clock had rolled around and we hadn’t had anyone come by in over an hour, so we decided to call it a night and give a call to the drummer that had sucked the least--some prepubescent punk with greasy hair and motorcycle boots.

We were folding up our lawn chairs when we heard the faint pat-pat of flip flops hitting cement and the jingling of chains smacking against each other. We turned to see a petite woman--probably our age--walking toward the garage. She was short, maybe 5’2”, but I’d never seen anyone look so intimidating. Her skin was a pale olive tone, lips plump and red, eyes large and lined with thick black make-up. Her jet black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she wore ripped flare jeans with chains dangling from the hip, and a black tank top that revealed a line of tattoos across her chest and shoulders. She twirled a drumstick in each hand and smacked her gum loudly as she passed us.

She didn’t say a word. She just went straight to the drums and sat down, launching into a beat.
It started slowly, setting a pace, then quickly escalated to the kind of complex madness you’d hear in real metal music. She was all over the place, arms moving wildly while her face remained stoic, not losing herself in it like most drummers do. Still, as she crashed down on the cymbals, I couldn’t help the chill that shot through me when I knew, with absolute certainty, that we had found our drummer.

She ended her piece with a band and sat there, not looking at us, not moving, not speaking. But we knew she was waiting for our answer.

Kal pulled me to the side, Deveraux following, and whispered, “She was great, but were you watching her? She didn’t connect at all. She was just like…a robot or something.”

“I know.”

“And that’s not what we’re about,” Deveraux reminded me, repeating the words I’d said to him after his audition the night before. “It’s about the love and dedication.”

I nodded to them, “Okay, okay; let’s just give her the sheet music and see what happens.” They agreed, and I took the slip of paper over to the mystery woman, “Could you play this, please?”

She took the slip, popping her gum noisily, and looked over the notes. “No,” she said simply, handing it back.

“No?” I questioned incredulously, thinking I must have heard her wrong.

“No,” she affirmed, “Those beats, those lyrics? They aren't about anything. But me, and my music? We’re about something; we've got something real to say. If that's not what you guys are in this for, then I’m in the wrong garage.” She stood quickly and started around the drum set. I held up a hand to stop her, now completely sure in my decision. I didn’t even have to look back to know that Kal and Deveraux felt the same way.

“Welcome to the band,” I told her with a smile, putting out my hand to shake, “Annette Vader.”

She stared at my hand cautiously for a moment before shaking it, a tiny smirk on her lips, “Jocelyn Maria Dorthea Hernandez-Cheshire. Pleasure.” She dropped her hand and looked around, slipping her sticks into her back pocket. “So, uh,” she squinted against the garage light, “Vader, huh? You don’t do that freaky heavy-breathing thing, do you?”