Page 73

Leaf gritted his teeth.

It grew dark. Very dark.

The drumbeats pierced through the darkness, expanding and flooding the room. José picked up the tempo, a fill, a break, and back into the rhythm.

Tristan took a big gulp of the caramel-colored liquid, promising false warmth. With a new sheet of paper, new words began to flow onto it. Too much unspoken churned inside him, rolling over him. Frustrated, he crumpled the paper, discarding the unusable. He continued writing. On and on. Obsessed and intoxicated by the ideas spilling forth.

He hung the paper on the wall with the others—a place for his thoughts. A piece of space for each additional one. Oscillating between table and wall, he introduced a new fragment. A new spot. An empty space. He stepped back and took a sip from his glass, then reached for another paper. He finished his drink and needed a refill. With every new word, new line, and additional thought, he added more to his collection.

The rhythm breaks. Sixteenths on the closed hi-hat, stomping quarters on the bass drum. José whirled over the toms, doubling the beats underneath with crashing cymbals overlaying the fills at progressively shorter intervals.

“Why isn’t there a lighter in this house!” Leaf’s father shouted, grabbing him by the arm.

Leaf flinched, and his body trembled. His father dragged him through the hallway and out into the garage. The light came on, illuminating the massive wall of tools in front of them. Hammers, drills, screwdrivers, files. Everything hung neatly by size, ready to be grabbed. Leaf swallowed hard, his knees buckling.

“Here!” His father shouted and tossed something toward him.

At the last moment, he caught the object. It was a blowtorch. Leaf gasped and stared at the thing in his hands.

“Fire!” the father yelled, holding an unlit cigarette.

Leaf’s hands shook like leaves as he tried to turn on the electric gas burner. It was the first time he had held this thing. From the looks of it, it was protected by a child lock. Grunting with annoyance, his father snatched the device from him, disengaged the safety, and handed it back to him. With a click, Leaf ignited the gas and held the flame up. His father leaned down, held the cigarette to the flame, and took a drag. Leaf turned off the burner, set it down, and took a step back. He desperately wanted to go back into the house.

“Not so fast,” the father growled.

Leaf froze.

“You don’t think you’re getting away with this scot-free, do you?”

Leaf threw the empty lighter and the cigarette away. Something inside him snapped. Out of control, he pushed the books off the shelf and ripped the boards from the wall. Then he grabbed the wooden chair and smashed it to pieces. He threw a chair leg at the lamp, and the light went out. The clatter of glass echoed in his head.

With his foot on the pedal, Jose pounded his sticks across the toms in a mesmerizing blur. The walls trembled with every kick of the bass drum. Sweat clung to his brow as his sticks battered the kit with relentless speed.

A tornado of double bass and cymbals ended the solo.

Tristan taped a piece of paper to the wall and stepped back. He felt dizzy. All the notes, thoughts, emotions, and feelings. Where once they couldn’t reach him, the sight of the paper-covered wall now felt overwhelming. A knot tightened in Tristan’s chest. The wall had become a minefield. Every thought was a danger. Every word a risk.

He set down the empty glass. As he straightened up, his vision went black. Slowly, he turned his head to the side. Then he collapsed.

Exhausted, Leaf sank to his knees, folding in on himself. His breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, the floor cold beneath his palms. For a long moment he stayed like that—head bowed, trying to pull the scattered pieces of himself back together.

José set the drumsticks aside and let the silence settle. He hung his head and exhaled a deep sigh. As he lifted his gaze, he surveyed the dreary rehearsal room.

Friday

30

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Hideaways

“Are you nervous?” Milo asked.

Tristan turned his head to look at his brother, who was relaxed behind the wheel, driving down Sunset Boulevard.

“I know the songs and have plenty of ideas.”

“Ha!” Milo laughed, flicking the ash off his cigarette by holding it out the window. “You do realize you have to stick to a strict schedule. The days when labels paid for unlimited studio time are long gone.”