Five Flavors Of Dumb Part 6

Mom was almost never sarcastic, especially when signing, so I knew she was really exasperated. Or maybe just exhausted, as she was getting back later every day.

It's just one more person- Today, yes. By the time I redo the contract it might include half the school.

I clammed up because Mom was making fun of me, and she knew it too, because she sighed and changed gear. So who's new? So who's new?

Kallie Sims, I finger-spelled, then added I finger-spelled, then added school G.o.ddess school G.o.ddess in angry gestures that surprised us both. in angry gestures that surprised us both.

And what does the school G.o.ddess play?

I was about to answer when it occurred to me that I didn't know, because Josh hadn't told me. I had had to know, of course. If I didn't, then the band really to know, of course. If I didn't, then the band really was was a joke. How could it not be? And yet ... a joke. How could it not be? And yet ...

Mom hugged me, saving me from having to incriminate myself. When she stepped back, she tilted her head to the side. Are you sure you want me to redo this contract? Are you sure you want me to redo this contract?

I wanted to say that I didn't have a choice, but I didn't want Mom to think even less of Dumb than she already did, so I nodded with manufactured confidence.

Okay. Kallie, right? She finger-spelled the name for confirmation. She finger-spelled the name for confirmation.

I nodded again, but I'm sure a part of me died right there.

Mom was halfway out the door when she stopped. Would you like me to add a clause about new and departing members? Just something to keep the group fixed at five. Would you like me to add a clause about new and departing members? Just something to keep the group fixed at five.

Yes, I signed with a desperation that must have completely given me away.

An hour later, Mom reappeared with an updated contract. This time she'd printed it on our regular home printer, so it wasn't on the snazzy off-white bonded paper from her office. But I couldn't blame her for that. After all, she probably figured it wouldn't need to last very long.

CHAPTER 17.

Apparently, Phil Kirchen at WSFT-FM didn't need long to mull over my request: Piper: Who's Dumb? Send MP3. Phil.

One line. One freaking line, but the MP3 request sent me into a cold sweat. I figured our chances of getting away with subst.i.tuting hard rock hard rock for for soft rock soft rock diminished significantly once he'd actually had a chance to hear the band, and even a DJ who specialized in six-word e-mails was likely to listen to more than the first two seconds of our only track. diminished significantly once he'd actually had a chance to hear the band, and even a DJ who specialized in six-word e-mails was likely to listen to more than the first two seconds of our only track.

I pulled up Google and started reading articles about soft rock, jotting down notes as I went: * Began as a reaction against hard rock (note to self: bad sign)* Avoids heavy reliance on electric guitars (note to self: another bad sign)* Emphasizes inoffensive and inclusive lyrics (note to self: must try to work out what the h.e.l.l Josh is actually singing)* Proponents include: Chicago, Toto, Air Supply (note to self: survivors of these groups all look old and wrinkly now)* Representative alb.u.m t.i.tles by Air Supply include: Lost in Love Lost in Love (note to self: ick); (note to self: ick); The One That You Love The One That You Love (note to self: bleuuugh); (note to self: bleuuugh); Now and Forever Now and Forever (note to self: Oh G.o.d, I just barfed up my nose) (note to self: Oh G.o.d, I just barfed up my nose) I took a time-out and thought cleansing thoughts. Then, since it was abundantly clear that Dumb was a million miles from being soft rock, I wrote to Phil and said that we couldn't go any further without a.s.surances that there would be some form of payment.

Ten minutes later I received a new message: Expenses only. P.

Barf or no barf, that was all I needed. Without wasting another moment I ran out to the car, drove to the local library, and checked out a bunch of CDs. While I was there, I e-mailed Baz to say we were working on a new song we needed to record at the session on Sunday. Then I hopped back in the car and drove to Ed's coffee shop, wondering how I should break the news that he had less than twenty-four hours to compose a soft rock song called "Loving Every Part of You."

Easy.

"You're kidding."

I shook my head. "No, Ed. I'm not."

"You are. You're kidding. Either that or you're completely insane."

"Technically, no. Although there are times I wonder about that," I conceded.

Ed sighed dramatically, but forced himself to perk up as a new customer joined us. I figured our conversation was about to be put on hold, so I took a seat at the back of the shop and studied the ancient black-and-white photos of guys in uncomfortable sporting attire holding gigantic oars.

The photos made sense, I suppose, as the shop was called Coffee Crew, a tiny place sandwiched between a pizza parlor and a dry cleaner's. To be honest, I'm not sure I knew it existed until Ed drew me a map. Half a dozen round oak tables filled the available s.p.a.ce, while the warmth of an electric fire lured people to stay a little longer than they might have intended. The seven people who sipped coffee from chunky gla.s.ses seemed as much a part of the place as the furniture. I made a mental note to come back again when I wasn't on business.

As soon as another customer had been satisfied, Ed shuffled over and sat down opposite me. "And I repeat: You're crazy."

"It's just one song."

"And you want me to teach it to everyone tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

Ed shook his head like he couldn't believe we were really having this conversation, but he also began to sift through the stack of CDs I was placing on the table, which told me his resistance was waning. I tried to hide my relief.

"So what instruments am I writing for now?" he asked. "What does Kallie play?"

"Uh . . . I don't know."

Ed frowned. "You were the one who wanted her to join. How can you not know what she plays?"

"You voted for her too!"

He sighed and looked toward the door, presumably hoping that a customer would come in and rescue him. "Fine. One song. I'll only use the chords of C, F, and G, and maybe A minor if you can promise me we'll have the whole two hours to work on it tomorrow."

"Deal." I held out my hand.

"Fine." Ed looked at my hand for a couple seconds before he finally shook it, his grip pleasantly firm. Before we let go of each other's hands I noticed dark stains around his fingernails, and looked closer. "Barista's fingers," he explained apologetically, watching me the whole time. "Coffee stains, you know?"

"You have nice hands," I told him, wondering which of us would let go first.

Ed seemed frozen to the spot until reawakened by the sound of the door opening. "I've got to . . . you know," he said, taking his hand away with him. "So get writing that song."

"What!?"

"Get writing. I said I'd compose a song, but I'm not writing the lyrics as well. That's all you."

"What do I write?"

"I don't know. Look at the CD inlays and read the lyrics, then come up with something similar."

I was about to protest again, but Ed clearly valued his job enough to serve customers in a timely manner. Over the next fifteen minutes I scribbled away, penning verse and chorus of the most insipid love song ever composed: Time has pa.s.sed since last I saw your face, The memory of your touch Your smile, your heart, your grace, The visions that I once enjoyed have gone without a trace.

I didn't hear Ed rejoin me. I didn't know he was there at all until I saw his reflection in the window from the corner of my eye. I flushed red with embarra.s.sment before he'd said a word.

He sat down opposite me, sipping a large cup of what I hoped was decaf coffee; although, given his usual energy levels, I had a feeling that decaf wasn't part of Ed's vocabulary. He saw me staring at the drink and pushed it toward me, reluctantly taking it back when it became clear I wasn't interested in getting even tenser.

"They're good lyrics," he said finally.

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever."

"I'm serious. I can do something with this."

That perked me up. "Really?"

"Really." Ed smiled. "By tomorrow afternoon Dumb will be performing our first love song."

And then there was silence while we both digested those words.

CHAPTER 18.

I'll be home late today, I signed to Mom as she headed off to work the next morning. I signed to Mom as she headed off to work the next morning.

Mom shrugged. Tell Dad. I'll probably be later than you. Tell Dad. I'll probably be later than you.

Dad was in the kitchen, banging spatulas against countertops and pans to see how Grace would respond. For her part, Grace was enjoying the entertainment, swinging her head around to follow every sound. Eventually she seemed to get bored, craning her neck toward the front door.

Dad clapped his hands and laid a big fat kiss on her tiny forehead. "Good job, Gracie!" He beamed at me. "Incredible, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"The way she heard Mom closing the front door. I'm not sure she could hear it a few days ago."

I felt my chest tighten. "That's good," I managed, willing myself to believe I'd actually heard it too.

"Correction: It's amazing amazing." Dad bent down until he was at eye level with Grace in her high chair. "Simply amazing."

I wanted to ask him if he'd been as fascinated by the physiology of my hearing loss as Grace's improvement, but I could guess how that conversation would play out.

"I'm going to be home late, Dad." Dad nodded, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Grace. "I said I'm going to be home late, okay?"

Dad glanced up. "Oh, yeah, fine. Whatever."

Whatever. It was probably one of the top ten words spoken each day at school, but coming from Dad it sounded so very different. I shook my head and was about to leave when he stopped me.

"Hold on. What are you up to?"

"You mean, what am I doing after school?"

"Yeah. That's what I said."

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. "Dumb has a rehearsal after school." "Dumb has a rehearsal after school."

"So? You don't play anything."

"I'm the manager."

"Still? I figured you'd be done with that already."

"No."

"Oh. So have you made any money yet?"

And just like that my pent-up anger dissipated, turning me from ferocious tiger to self-pitying kitten. I couldn't even maintain eye contact.

"Oh," he said again. "Well, I guess it's up to you how you spend your free time."

I nodded vigorously, like we could agree on that, but inside I knew what he was really saying, and I just needed to get away. I yelled to Finn that he had one minute to get in the car, then slammed the front door behind me.

See, Dad, I can hear it too!

Finn used the full sixty seconds, and when he piled into the pa.s.senger seat he was out of breath and his shoelaces were untied. You're angry, You're angry, he signed. he signed.

I rolled my eyes. "And you're perceptive."

Finn tied his laces while the engine turned over a gazillion times. When I slammed my fist against the dash, he sat bolt upright. "What's wrong? Is it me?"

"No!" I shouted. Finn raised his eyebrows expectantly, waited for me to continue. "It's everything, okay? It's Dad, and Dumb, and the fact that I need them to learn a whole new song today, and I'm still not sure how to get us serious money."

"Forget about the money. Focus on getting them to play better. Add some new songs."

I turned the key again, and this time the engine fired up, blasts of black smoke filling the air behind us. Finn covered his mouth with his scarf, knowing that we'd probably get a lungful as I rolled down the driveway.

I took the car out of first gear-my less-than-ideal solution to a faulty parking brake-and ground the gearstick into reverse. Then I paused. "Sitting in the bas.e.m.e.nt playing guitar with headphones on doesn't make you an expert, you know."

Finn stared straight ahead, blinked twice. "Please don't be mean to me."

I could have responded with something sarcastic, or dismissive, but I didn't. Because for all his faults, Finn looked small in the seat beside me, and I knew he was right. Besides, I was about to say something that would annoy him: "We won't be leaving school until five o'clock tonight."

Finn kept the scarf wrapped over his mouth, but his eyes gleamed as his hands produced an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

I figured he must be kidding, but as I continued to stare at him it was obvious Finn wasn't feigning enthusiasm. For whatever reason, the same kid who seemed h.e.l.l-bent on expulsion seemed positively thrilled that we'd be staying late at school.

Something was up, and I just hoped I found out what it was before Belson did.

CHAPTER 19.