Besides, it would ruin it if he knew the real song. This was better. The less perfectly Devin remembered it, the more he was free to make it his own.
He snapped on the light by his bed, plugged in his amp, slipped on his headphones, and played, fumbling around for the right notes, finding them more and more often. He paused occasionally, scratched down some chord progressions with the nub of a pencil, crossed others out, and filled in the missing parts with his own inventions.
As he worked, it came to him faster, as if he were in a welcome trance. Sitting there, sleepless, working on a dream, reminded him why he’d helped Cody form Torn in the first place, why he was so worried about not being worthy. Because sometimes, like right now, working on the music made him forget all the hesitancy, all the guilt, all the fence-straddling.
In an hour, he was finished, and he liked it. It wasn’t like “Face” or any of his other songs. This was soft, but it had something edgy to it, too. Cody’s voice alone could make it ache. And when he imagined Cody singing, Cheryl on drums, him on rhythm, and Ben on bass, it made Devin feel more than real; it made him feel like he was on fire.
A little giddy, he sang it to himself, in his head so as not to wake his parents, to make sure it all worked. As he sang, a chill went up his spine and settled heavily on his shoulders—as if there were suddenly something right behind him, something thick and dangerous. The feeling was so strong, so pointed, he even stood up and stared out his window.
As he scanned the line where the woods began, he thought he saw something move, but it was only shadow bumping into shadow as the wind twisted the branches of the trees.
He laughed as he realized he’d spooked himself. He’d written a song that actually spooked him!
Was that cool, or what?
Now all he had to do was fire Karston.
Saturday had arrived in earnest. With only a few hours’ sleep behind him, a resolute Devin drove the good-old monster SUV across the abandoned tracks into Karston’s lower-class neighborhood. As he did, he was struck by how everything here seemed held together by wood—old rotting wood that was frayed at the edges, badly painted, and ready to give. Things were shaped like houses and stores, but really they looked like they were ready to call it quits and go back to being forest.
Despite his resolve, driving slowly in the huge car Devin again felt undeserving, conspicuous, and after the Slit attack, unsafe. He also felt annoyed with himself for feeling all of the above. He’d driven here before without any problems, but today everything seemed sharp and pointy, like it was ready to cut him.
It was probably just the lack of sleep.
The block that held the shotgun shack the bassist occupied with his single mom was easy to find; there was an old refrigerator on the corner that no one ever bothered to clear away. It just sat there as if waiting for the bus. The door was missing, so there was a clear view of the brownish stains inside that may once have been some sort of food.
After making the turn, Devin parked in front of a garbage-strewn lot across the street. Before popping open the door and getting out, he gave himself a moment to chill. He looked at his oblong face in the rearview mirror, examining the bump in the center of his nose that his mother suggested he have removed when he was older. His light brown hair looked stiff and stringy. Pleased by how much stubble he had on his face, he rubbed it thought-fully. The little garnet earring in his upper right ear always looked weird to him, but it, and the piercing, were a gift from Cheryl.
He realized he looked like he felt: terrible. But what did that matter? It was time to do the deed.
Cody could be a crazy son of a bitch, but he was right. Devin really did need to do this. Karston, in the end, would be better off finding out sooner rather than later that he didn’t have what it takes…right?
Still looking at himself, he remembered something Samurai warriors did before going off into battle. They would look at themselves, then make some sort of ridiculous face to distract their minds. Following suit, Devin stuck his tongue out at himself, then hopped from the driver’s seat and punched the Lock button on the keys.
The avenue was quiet, since most folks were sleeping off Friday night, so the chirp of the locking car seemed horribly loud. He winced at the sound, but no one else seemed to have heard.
His sneakers crunched along the decaying asphalt as he approached the chain-link fence. Its silver paint bubbled in spots and the poles were marred by reddish rust. Stalky dead plant-things stuck out along the bottom of the fence, threatening to claim the sidewalk. On the other side, a gray walk led to wooden stairs and a porch littered with beer bottles, most empty, some stuffed with cigarette butts.
He would do it, Devin thought; he would get it over with now. He thought about buying himself a new DVD as a reward, but just before his foot hit the first step, he heard shouting.
“I just can’t believe what an idiot you are! How old are you? When are you going to grow up? You’re wasting your life hanging out with crooks and sluts!”
Devin knew the voice. It came from Karston’s mother, a short, pit bull of a woman. She had a kind of back-of-the-throat dying-animal screech that brought up phlegm at the end of every sentence. Even when she was saying something nice, like asking Devin if he wanted some water, you could hear the hate.
“I keep telling you I was with the band! We played at a club! We were really good!” This was Karston. His voice had volume, too, but there was no anger, only a wimpy, surrendering tone.
“Did they pay you?”
“A little.”
Even though he was outside, with the walls of a house between them and no windows open, Devin could hear her disapproving “Tch.”
More whining from Karston: “They invited us back next week to play a full set. I’m recording with the group this afternoon!”
“Recording, right. Makes me sick, all that money you wasted and you can’t even keep that thing in tune. Watch. The two crooks and the slut will dump you first chance they get, just as soon as they can get that bass away from you. That’s all they want.”
Devin felt something in his gut tighten. It was true. Except the slut part.
A long pause followed, as if Karston were considering. Finally, he said, “No. Devin would never do that.”
Great. Devin would never do that. Cody would. Cody would do anything. But not Devin. He was the nice guy. The good kid. The knot in Devin’s gut twisted.
“Oh, Devin! Devin, Devin, Devin. You trust that spoiled brat?” the shrill voice shouted. “You’re going to wind up just like your father!”
For the first time, anger appeared in Karston’s voice. “Keep my father out of this!”
Frozen at the rusted gate, Devin heard footsteps moving on a wooden floor. The next sound was a hard slap of skin against skin, followed by Karston’s whiny, “Ahh! Don’t hit me!”
That was it. Devin turned around, got back in his father’s car, drove home, and spent the rest of the afternoon fiddling with the melody to his new song, trying to get it just right, wondering if it would ever be bright and shiny enough to distract the adamant Cody, if only for a little while.
4
Once Devin’s parents gave him the long list of warnings for his weekend home alone, declared their faith in his maturity, and finally left, the afternoon slipped by quickly and the time for the recording session neared.
Karston, of course, showed up first. It was a mystery how he got around, but he always showed up and never dared ask anyone for a ride. Speculation was that he hitched, or took some bizarre combination of public transport. After exchanging hellos, Devin explained that he had to pick up some soda and left the bassist alone in the garage.