Vegas Boys

I guess once you got past the too-loud, distorted microphone and amps, Ryan's strangled back-up vocals (how was he ever the lead singer?), Brent's still-out-of-tune bass, and the general chaos of the whole arrangement, Brendon's band wasn't that bad.

Actually, once you got used to all the rough edges--and luckily, I'd had all summer to get used to them--they were pretty good. The music was catchy, and the lyrics actually had something to say, and they were fun to watch. Here, in the garage with them, it didn't sound as good as it had from my house next door--maybe because it was too loud, or because I could see every mistake, besides hearing it. But still, all-in-all, they weren't half bad.

They only had three songs, and when it was all said and done, they probably ended up playing the equivalent of three or four times as much--they couldn't get through a whole song without either Brendon or Ryan stopping them and insisting they start over and play it again, better this time. This was maddening, even for me, as the sole member of the audience; Spencer's aggravation and Brent's resentment were understandable.

"That's it," complained Spencer loudly after Brendon stopped them mid-way through "Nails for Breakfast, Tacks for Snacks" for the fourth time on that song alone. "Kelsey, you're not allowed to come to any more band practices. You're great and everything, but you're making Brendon insane--it's bad enough we already have to put up with Ryan--"

"Okay, okay, fine!" snapped Brendon irritably, and I couldn't help but smile at how red in the face he was. "Lets just play the fucking song--all of it--no matter how bad you guys suck--"

"Here, here," said Brent sarcastically (well, he always sounded sarcastic to me, anyway), raising a fist with such listlessness that I couldn't understand why I was the only one laughing.

They started playing again, and actually sounded better than they had all day. But it just wasn't meant to be: they weren't going to finish the song, because halfway through it, a red van swung into the driveway, and all four of them stopped playing immediately.

I had glimpsed Mr. and Mrs. Urie a few times before, on weekends and after school, when they were out gardening or getting the mail. Still, I hardly recognized who I assumed to be Mrs. Urie as she stepped out of the passenger's side door--maybe it was the church clothes, or the angry scowl.

Ryan and Brent were already slipping their instruments off over their heads, and Spencer had stood up and stepped around the drum kit. All three of them were suddenly in a hurry to leave, avoiding eye contact with one another nervously, as if they had been caught in some unspeakable act.

But Brendon didn't shy away from the microphone or his guitar, and he stared his mother down with a steely defiance as she slipped between Brendon's and Spencer's grandma's cars--but I saw his Adam's apple bob sharply as he gulped.

"Brendon," sighed Mrs. Urie, putting her hands on her hips and glaring around at all of them. His blank expression never faltered. "I specifically told you, no band practices--"

"Why?" he demanded. "You were gone anyway--"

"Exactly! I should be able to leave you home alone without--"

"But it's not like we're bothering you!" he shouted to be heard over her. "You weren't even here!"

I didn't know Brendon's mother at all, but she was clearly furious: her dark eyebrows were contracted sharply, her jaw was clenched, and her lips were pursed in anger. "You know how I feel about this," she said quietly.

Brendon let out a loud gasp of mingled anger and exasperation, rolling his eyes bitterly. The other three guys were all staring purposely at their feet throughout this brief exchange, and as soon as Spencer saw his opening, he mumbled, "C'mon Brent, I'll give you a ride home."

Mrs. Urie stepped to the side and watched the three of them get in the car hurriedly, folding her arms across her chest and regarding them sternly. "Bye, guys," said Brendon miserably, but they were already pulling out of the driveway.

Now that the others were gone, I felt very much like the odd one out, so I stood up and said timidly, "I should probably go."

Brendon jumped, as if he had forgotten about me in his argument with his mother, and looked at me in surprise. "No, Kels," he said, his expression and voice softening, "you don't have to--"

"I think that would be best, Brendon," said Mrs. Urie coldly. "I need to speak with you--alone--for a while."

He looked away just long enough to glare bitingly at his mother, then turned back to me with concern. "Kels, don't--"

"It's okay, really," I told him earnestly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He started forward, and I knew he wanted to kiss me goodbye, but I wasn't sure that was such a great idea at the moment, so I just gave him a little wave and walked on. I tried not to be intimidated by his mother as I moved past her to cross over into my own yard next door.

-----

The phone rang that night after dinner, and I knew before I answered it that it was Brendon.

"Hey," he said, and even though he sounded cheerful enough, his usual energy was nowhere to be found. "What's up?"

"Not much." I lay down on my back on my bed, staring at the ceiling as I remembered that afternoon. "What about you? Did your mom kill you yet?"

He tried to laugh it off, but it sounded strained. "Not yet. I think she might have put some cyanide in my Nesquik, though--it took her a lot longer than usual to mix it up."

I couldn't help but smile at him. "You still drink Nesquik?"

"Yeah. All the cool kids do." He paused. "What are you doing?"

"Laying on my bed."

He didn't say anything for a moment, and I knew that if I had been with him in person, he probably would have wriggled his eyebrows and smirked suggestively.

"Shut up, that wasn't even that dirty."

"I didn't say anything!" he laughed.

"I know, that's what worries me."

Brendon laughed again. "You said it."

"You asked!"

We laughed some more, and then Brendon said suddenly, "So, have you been practicing for tomorrow?"

I frowned. "Tomorrow?"

"Our partner presentations in Drama...?" he supplied.

"Oh." I felt my eyes widen as understanding washed over me. "Oh!" I smacked myself in the forehead, and then whimpered, "Ouch."

"What?" He was half laughing already.

"I smacked myself in the forehead too hard. And shut up, it's not funny," I grumbled.

"Actually, it is. Why did you smack yourself in the forehead?" He hesitated, and then continued, sounding a little irritated, by Brendon standards, "Don't tell me you forgot."

"Okay. I won't tell you," I agreed in a small voice.

"Kelsey."

"What?" I tried to sound innocent. "It's not like we've talked about it a lot, or anything. You just gave me the script this morning!"

He sighed resignedly, as I knew he would; he couldn't be mad at anyone, especially me, for very long. "Okay, fine. Just promise me you'll look over it tonight, okay?"

"Okay, I promise."

"We're allowed to have notecards and everything," he went on, in a serious, matter-of-fact tone of voice I wasn't used to hearing from Brendon, "so you should be okay. But you need to figure out what you're going to do if you don't want to, you know, fail."

"'F' for 'fantastic'!"

He snorted. "Yeah, right. Just keep telling yourself that."

We were both quiet for a few minutes, and I automatically glanced over towards my bedroom window, through which I could see his bedroom window. I thought about asking him if he was in there, but then I decided that might sound a bit creepy-stalker-ish, so I kept silent.

"So..." began Brendon awkwardly, sighing. "I'm sorry about...you know, earlier."

"Oh, that's okay," I insisted. "Don't worry about it."

"I mean...she just..."

"No, I understand," I reassured him. "Like you said, you can't pick your parents, right?"

He was silent for a moment. "Yeah," he agreed finally, but he didn't sound too happy about it--to say the least.

"But, um, I thought you guys sounded really good," I said, hoping to cheer him up a bit. "Seriously. You're really good." When he just chuckled lightly and mumbled a 'thanks,' I went on, "And I'm glad I got to meet all the other guys."

At that he really did laugh. "Yeah, they're morons. But I'm glad you got to meet them, too. None of them believed me when I told them how pretty you are."

I blushed, of course. And I didn't know what to say.

But luckily, I didn't have to say anything, because Brendon went on to apologize, "And I'm sorry about the garage door thing with Spencer. He always does that, the little--"

"How did he even do that?" I interrupted, frowning at the memory.

"Oh." Brendon laughed. "Well, we have this ghetto garage door--it's not automatic or anything. All you have to do is grab the handles on the outside and lift it up. But you're supposed to do it a bit more gently than Spencer usually does."

"Oh, well, that makes sense. But how do you...like, can you lock it, or something?"

"No," he laughed again. "But luckily there's nothing in there to steal, except my shitty drum kit."

"Some shitty drummer might want that," I warned him teasingly.

"Yeah, I doubt it. You'd probably be better off with some pots and pans."

The hyper enthusiasm was starting to return to Brendon's voice, I noticed with relief, as we both laughed again. But then I heard a loud female voice--his mother, I guess--calling his name in the background, and he sighed.

"I gotta go. I'll see you later, okay?"

"Okay."

"Work on that Shakespeare!" he reminded me.

"I will," I promised. "Bye, Romeo."

"Bye, Juliet."

He hung up, and I glanced over at his empty bedroom window with a wistful sigh.