UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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“WHAT WAS WRONG WITH THAT DUDE?” TANNER asked as soon as the fourth audition victim was out of earshot.

I sat with my feet propped up on a music stand, arms crossed, doing my best impression of taking this selection seriously. Tanner had talked Ms. Shultz, the music teacher, into letting us use the orchestra rehearsal room for our auditions. It was too large a space for the measly six prospects we had, but it was convenient and came with a drum set. The possible spurned-psycho factor was what made me bail on holding them in my garage. School was the safe option. Safe and rock and roll didn’t quite fit together, though. Maybe that was my problem.

“Dude? That kid probably has a killer Pokemon collection.”

“So what if he’s a freshman, he could play.”

“We need someone with ’nads, T. Can you picture that kid in a bar?”

He shook his head as he crossed the kid’s name off the list.

Four down, two to go.

It had never been this hard.

Yellow #5 pretty much fell together when Tanner, Duncan, and I were in eighth grade. At first it had been more of a school club—an offshoot of orchestra. After the obligatory “Hot Cross Buns” and school Christmas pageant stuff, we’d get together and work out some of our favorite songs. Both Duncan and I could play by ear. Tanner was clumsy at first, but he had grown into a player who could hold his own. By sophomore year we were tight—a Christmas party here, a block party there, we even came in second to Plasma in Bergen Point’s Battle of the Bands last spring, mostly because Kenny Ashe’s neighbor had been on the judging panel. We had planned on winning this time around.

Until HannaDunk completely stole that future.

“Why we aren’t playing along with them? Wouldn’t it be easier to tell?”

“We’re weeding. Besides, I can just feel it,” I said, pounding my chest for effect.

“The first guy was fine.”

“Sloppy playing. I didn’t like his teeth.”

Tanner sprang up from his chair and threw up his hands. “His teeth? Why are you acting like such a dick? Maybe if you took off the fucking Ray-Bans and pretended to care.”

I slid the sunglasses up into my hair. “It was also obvious he had no band experience.”

“We just need a body.”

The more upset T got, the more calm it made me. He was getting pissed enough for the both of us.

“Why? We missed the deadline for the battle. What does it matter if we find someone today or two weeks from today?” I asked.

“Don’t you miss it?”

My mouth opened but the words got stuck in my brain. Did I miss it? Aren’t musicians supposed to work through their pain in music? My breakup had the opposite effect. As if playing my guitar opened a wound. I didn’t want to feel it. I just wanted to forget it. And that, more than anything, scared me.

But the other night when Duncan asked for the song . . . I had felt something. Rage maybe, but it was better than the facedown-in-a-mud-puddle feeling I’d been living in post-breakup. I had to keep reminding myself—I wanted this. A new drummer. A fresh start. No matter how long it took.

And I had to stop comparing everyone to Duncan. As much as I wanted to hammer the guy into the ground, he was still . . . We’d been tight. Friends and bandmates. Finding another person felt like auditioning a new family member, but that was making this damn near impossible. Maybe approaching it like Tanner had said—that all we needed was a body—was the right way to go.

The classroom door creaked open.

“Just, give it a chance, okay?” Tanner whispered.

A tall dude wearing a T-shirt with Animal the Muppet and the word BEAST below the picture, strolled over to us with his drumsticks in hand. Whether he was trying to be ironic or just a douchebag was anyone’s guess. He may as well have been wearing a tee with the word Drummer across it. Poser. I had the urge to yell, “Next!” just for the hell of it. I slid my Ray-Bans over my eyes.

“Hey, this is the audition for Yellow Number Five?”

“Yeah, drum kit’s over there,” Tanner said.

Animal dude’s brows bunched together.

“I’m just . . . I thought— It’s just me?”

“Yes,” I said, resuming dick mode.

“Your flier said to pick a song from either—”

I held up my hand. “Don’t tell us. Just play.”

His face was blank a moment, but then he stood up straight, shoulders back, corner of his mouth curling up. “Cool.”

After a moment of adjusting the drum kit to fit his height, he stretched his wrists, bending one back, then the other. Tanner looked over his shoulder at me and crossed his eyes. Animal dude dropped one of his sticks, and picked it up with a laugh. I braced myself for some overplaying. Closed my eyes.

He started out hard, the beat familiar—“Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Not an especially intricate drum piece, but a solid choice. I kept waiting for him to screw up, quicken the pace, miss a beat . . . but his timing was insane. He played soft, then explosive at the chorus, even putting his own spin on the fills. I slid my shades into my hair, sat up straight. Tanner was plucking a phantom bass line on his leg, nodding with the beat. It was the longest we’d let anyone play during an audition.

And the look on this guy’s face as he pounded away was, like, Okay, fuckers, now show me what you got.

Don’t compare. Don’t compare.

It was hard not to—he reminded me of Duncan even if he did blow him away—at least in this audition. It was only one song—he’d probably practiced the hell out of it. Jamming with us could be different, I knew that, but for the first time all afternoon this guy made me regret not bringing my Fender. There was just one weird thing.

I stood up as he finished.

“Why don’t I know you?”

“Huh?”

“The scene in this town is so small. Everyone knows everyone, and well, that was . . . You can play. Why I haven’t seen you before? Were you in a band?”

He laughed. “If you can call it that. Sticky Wicket.”

“Cool name,” Tanner said, sidling up to me. He was practically foaming at the mouth to get this guy. I still wasn’t sold, but the Animal shirt was growing on me.

“Doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Well, it wouldn’t,” he said. “We only ever did house parties, and that was when we felt like it. Guitarist was a major stoner. The band split a few months ago. Cool guy, just not as serious as I wanted to be. Do you guys play out?”

“That’s the goal, we’ve done a few parties. We were in the battle last year. We have some prospects, a few CDs making rounds,” I said, embellishing. We had one CD. That I’d sent before it all went to shit.

“That sounds cool,” he said, standing up. “If you don’t mind me asking . . . why are you looking for a new drummer?”

“Dude’s a dou—”

“Creative stuff, you know how it is,” I said, cutting off Mr. Truth. No need to spill anything until we knew this guy was in; we did have one more person to see. “Are you willing to do originals?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Great, well, round two is seeing how we fit.”

“Yeah, thought you’d be playing today.”

“What’s your name?”

“Grayson Barrett.”

“I’m Jesse, this is Tanner. I’ll send you a set list, but it’s mostly the bands from the flier. We have your number. Maybe next Friday?”

“Um, Friday’s no good, but the rest of the week is cool.”

Tanner waited until Grayson was out of the room before speaking.

“Round two? Dude, what the hell are you talking about? We’d be insane not to take this guy on.”

“Can’t let him know that. And what if this was a fluke? At least we have an out. Don’t want to look desperate.”

He laughed. “Nice to have you back.”

“What?”

“Now if we can only get rid of that dorky infinity bracelet, you’ll be yourself.”

“It’s a wristband, not a bracelet.”

“Whatever, bring it in,” Tanner said, raising his hand.

“The high five is dead, T.”

“But Yellow Number Five isn’t.”

Duncan sat at his drum kit in the middle of Mugshot. There was a party going on around him, but he kept pounding away. I yelled over to him, but my mouth was gummy; the words wouldn’t come out. Why was he auditioning? I searched over the sea of heads to find Tanner, who was busy wiping down tables . . . with Hannah. Where was my Mugshot shirt? Why wasn’t I behind the counter? We don’t need you! I wanted to yell to Duncan. Then I felt a tug on my jacket. That girl with the short hair who came in after yoga . . . Madison . . . stood there, smiling at me. You should give him the song, she said. Her eyes were so blue; I’d never noticed that before. . . . She kept tugging at my jacket.

“Wake up, Jesse.”

I could feel myself being pulled from the dream, I wanted to stay there, like I was on the cusp of understanding something important, but there really was someone shaking me . . . small hands on my shoulders.

“Jess, someone’s at the door!”

Daisy stood next to my bed, dressed in her unicorn pajamas, her eyes puffy from tears. I sat up.

“Whyareyatellinme?” I yawned, propping myself up on my elbows. “Where’s Dad?”

“He and Ty went out to get bagels. It’s Mom’s Saturday at the office. The doorbell is freaking me out, I let it ring like Dad said to when I’m by myself, but they won’t go away.”

I ran a hand across my face. The bell rang again. And again.

And again.

I grabbed my phone off the charger. Twenty messages from Tanner. And it was 8:30 a.m. WTF?

“It’s gotta be Tanner,” I said, ignoring the messages. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“What if it’s those guys who always talk about the end of the world?”

I rubbed my eyes. “They wouldn’t be this rude. Wait in the hall, I’ll be right there.”

Daisy waited outside my room until I was dressed and followed me down the stairs, holding on to the back of my hoodie. As if there was anything I could do in the face of a maniac at the door. Every so often it was nice to be the big brother, I guess.

“There’d better be a meteor headed straight for the planet, T,” I mumbled as I got to the landing. Sure enough, when I opened the door, Tanner was there, finger poised on the bell. The moment he saw me he rushed in.

“Smegma’s got a gig.”

“Come in,” I said, closing the door behind him.

“Didn’t you see your messages? Freakin’ Smegma—already.”

“Smegma?” Hannah asked as Tanner nearly steamrolled her.

“You mean Plasma, right?” I asked, motioning with my eyes toward Daisy, who did not need to learn any new words from Tanner.

“Oh, yeah, Plasma,” he said, turning toward me.

“Duncan’s new band?” Daisy asked.

T and I did synchronized head-whips toward her.

“What?” I asked.

“Hannah broke up with you, not me,” she said, smirking. “We talk.”

In Tanner’s presence she turned from lil’ sis back to devil’s minion. I glared at her. She grabbed her tablet from the coffee table and slumped on the couch.

“What else do you talk about?” I asked.

She shrugged as she searched out yet another Minecraft video to watch.

“Oh, and Dad said if you got up before he got back, you should start the coffee.”

Does Hannah say anything about me? was on the tip of my tongue but Daisy was already lost in YouTube Land and well, Tanner, my Forget-about-Hannah sponsor, was there, watching. I walked into the kitchen, motioning for Tanner to follow me.

“What is this about Plasma now?” I asked, filling up the coffeepot with water.

Tanner leaned against the counter, pulled off his toboggan hat. “They’re playing a dance at Sacred Heart next Friday. I think we should go.”

I put a filter in the coffeemaker and popped the lid off the ginormous can of cheap coffee Dad insisted on buying from Costco. At least it was still fresh, the familiar robust aroma of coffee releasing into the air. Nothing like the smell of our Mugshot brews, but it made me think of Madison. Madison? She drinks chai. Why would I dream about her telling me to give Duncan the song? Why would I dream about her at all?

“Aww, Tanner, I’m touched. Are you asking me to the dance?”

“We’re hoooome,” my dad announced, followed by quick little steps galloping into the kitchen.

“Teeeee!”

“Tyyyyy!” Tanner said, opening his arms to my little brother. He crouched down and held up his hand.

“Slap me high, little man.”

Tyler reached up and whacked Tanner’s outstretched palm.

“Slap me low, too slow,” T said, lowering his hand and then pulling it out before Tyler could slap it, sending him into a fit of hysterical laughter. In my little brother’s eyes, Tanner was the bomb. Same mentality. Tyler wrestled out of his coat and left it on the kitchen floor as he ran out to haunt Daisy.

“To what do we owe this pleasure?” my dad asked T.

“Tanner asked Jesse to a dance,” Daisy yelled from the couch.

“Well, good to see you two getting along,” my father said, crouching down to pick up Tyler’s coat. He put the bag of bagels on the table, and walked off to the closet.

“For a recon mission, Mr. McMann,” Tanner called after him. “Duncan is going to be playing with the new band.” He pulled out a chair from the table and rummaged through the bag, taking out a salt bagel. I grabbed some silverware and the cream cheese and slid it over to him.

“Butter?” he said.

I grabbed the butter out of the fridge and sat across from Tanner. “You did not come here to mooch a bagel. Is Plasma playing a dance something you couldn’t tell me at noon?”

“Ah, checking out the competition, classic move,” my dad said, walking back into the kitchen, Tyler in tow. Dad settled Ty into his high chair and took the seat next to him.

“I couldn’t sleep. I think we need to choose a drummer, today.”

“We’ve got time,” I said, grabbing my own salt bagel.

“How are the prospects?” Dad asked.

“Two guys . . . hard to choose . . .” Tanner said between bites.

The guy who’d come in after Grayson was good too but he’d been the first drummer for Plasma, not the one that Duncan replaced—Kenny Ashe went through drummers pretty quickly. There was something that didn’t feel right about him, though. Technically he was incredible, and he had more experience than Grayson, but choosing him . . . I don’t know, it felt like it would just drag us down into weird band politics, which I hated. Like if we picked him we’d be saying: You have our drummer, now we have yours. I wanted to start something new, not recycle. On the other hand, if we went with him we might be able to play out sooner.

“You know who you want,” my father said, lifting his chin to me.

“You do?” Tanner asked, as if I was keeping a secret from him.

I shook my head.

“Sure you do, it’s in the gut. Whenever we needed some fresh blood for Backtalk—it always ended up being a gut decision,” Dad said, spreading his sesame bagel with butter and tearing off a piece for Ty.

“The sooner we pick someone, the sooner we can play out—we could be doing dances and stuff—”

“Screw dances, I want to play for people who want to hear a band, not slow dance,” I said.

“Croooo dance,” Tyler said, raising his fistful of bagel.

“It’s basically money for practicing,” Tanner said.

“He has a point,” Dad said.

“I’d rather play the Whiskey.”

“You want to be your best for Declan.” Declan was Dad’s old bandmate and the only one of them who had ended up doing anything remotely related to music. His bar, Whiskey Business, had been the place where Electric Hookah, a thrash band from Manalapan, had been discovered by a small indie label. Now it was every band’s wet dream to be plucked from obscurity, and dates were booked far out. I’d dropped our CD off right before HannahDunk. It was cover songs, but that’s what they focused on for the eighteen-and-over nights. I was pretty sure Dad could call in a favor. Maybe if we took on the second guy and had some intense practice, we’d be ready soon. But did I want a favor? Wouldn’t it be better to earn it?

“I don’t know, T . . .”

“Procrastination is really fear of the future,” my father said, full-on college-professor mode.

Tanner nodded. “Wow, um, what he said. C’mon, Jess, we can jam with them this week, make a decision, and start practicing.”

What if we chose the wrong guy? What if we were never as good as we were before? But what if we were better? Wondering about it was safe . . . and stupid.

“Okay, let’s do it. Guess we’re going to a dance next Friday.”