CHAPTER 10

The road to Zoey’s place was already crowded when we drove over Friday night. Hummers, Escalades, and every model of Mercedes could be seen. Of course there was a gate at the entrance where security guards were checking invitations. It took us a half hour to get inside the villa, even though we were early.

We’d be playing out by the pool. All the sound equipment was provided. When it was our turn we’d just have to plug in. My bandmates were gawking at the estate. The main house was designed to look like a French country mansion, and to get to the front you drove around a tree-circled artificial lake dotted with fountains. To one side were garages and an acre of cobblestone where the guests could park, and it was already filling up. Valets circled around in golf carts, ferrying guests to the house.

Since we had equipment, the valet took us straight to the back. Beyond a huge expanse of lawn and trimmed hedges were the white marble columns that surrounded the big pool. The smaller one apparently was right behind the house. When Manny saw the pool he whistled. “Wow, man, this will be like playing in an arena!”

The bandstand was at the far end of the pool; the patio that surrounded the water was probably bigger than the parking lot, and all around it were tents and tables with things to eat and drink. Lisa had told me that Zoey’s mom was totally strict about underage drinking; if you tried for the champagne you’d get carded. I wasn’t tempted anyway—I’d had beer a couple of times and I didn’t like the way it made me feel—but I’d seen parties get rowdy because of kids drinking and doing other stuff, and I was glad this wasn’t going to be one of them. Assuming the adults behaved themselves.

We weren’t going to play until around sunset—ten or so—so we put our stuff in a safe place and went looking around. As the crowd grew, we all saw kids we knew from high school. But most of the people here would be relatives or folks Zoey’s mom, Nadia, knew. After half an hour I spotted Lisa, who was looking for us.

“Hey, Trip,” she called, and then came over and gave each of us a hug. “Nice place, huh?” Manny’s eyes were still big as he took in everything.

“Yeah,” I said. “Any idea how many guests?”

“Three or four hundred invited, plus whoever they bring,” Lisa said. “Come on up to the house. I want you to meet the birthday girl.”

We followed a wavy marble path back across the lawn and entered the house through the back. A huge hall with a ceiling two stories high stretched straight through the house from front to back. Zoey and her mom were at the front, greeting guests. We walked up, and Lisa said, “Zoey, this is Trip Costas and his band.” Zoey turned around, and I caught my breath. She was a green-eyed blonde, about my height, with a smile that left me, and I expect a lot of guys, tongue-tied.

“Hi Trip,” she beamed. “Lisa talks about you all the time.”

“Uh, happy birthday!” I said and introduced her to the guys. While I was searching for something clever, but not too clever to say next, her mother noticed us.

“Nadia,” she said, and shook each of our hands. She had a heavy accent. “Trip, you’re Julio’s boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well I can see his features, but you’re taller.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well,” she said when she realized I was not good for much more than single syllables. “Make yourself at home. I’ll look forward to hearing you fellows play.”

Lisa put a hand on my shoulder as we all headed back to the pool. Leaning over, she whispered to me, “In case you’re wondering, she doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

I looked at her mischievous grin and laughed. “You are hilarious, girl.” But she was also smart. I had been wondering.

 

. . .

Celebrities. By the time were setting up I’d seen a dozen. I guess they were fans of Zoey—and the makeup line. Somebody said Justin Bieber was there, but I didn’t see him. It was crowded around the pool, and the lights were turned on as the sun was setting.

Our set went well. There was a place where people could dance if they wanted. But you could tell that a lot of them were just listening. That’s what we wanted—for the sound to get people’s attention.

For our last number we’d worked up something new. “Thank you,” I said. “Our last song is special to me because it was written by my father. I hope you’ll like what we’ve done with it.”

Dad’s version has a full orchestra—more than full, it’s got about a million strings—and a bunch of dramatic high notes. We started it a little more up-tempo, but we let the wistful melody do its thing. What I’d added was a short guitar solo after “I know one thing will haunt me”: a few bars based on a Venezuelan folk song Dad used to sing to us when we were little. It slows things down, and there really is something haunting about it, before I speak the last line without any accompaniment: “The dream I left behind.”

It worked. There was a second of silence before the applause started, and we were saying our final thank-you when I noticed one of the guests who wasn’t applauding, just looking at me with an expression I couldn’t read: my dad.