as1.e10 – Give it Away

as1.e10

Give it Away (Red Hot Chili Peppers)

            On a warm Saturday in March, a little past noon, Olive took me and River to a Taco Bell for lunch. Of course, this was back when fast food places still had personality and were visually distinguishable, so the slice of Mexico across the street from Desert Tree had the charming white adobe-style exterior and a brown sign with the classic red, yellow, and green coloring. You never know what you’ll end up missing as an adult.

            With our parents away shilling barely-owned residences in Oceania again, Olive would be taking me to my third weekly lesson with Vanni, and then watching River play in a Little League game out in Kettlebrook. Vanni’s chaotic and social teenage life forced her to cancel a few times, but I understood, and we agreed that there was no great hurry. This meetup felt like it was happening, but she told me to leave the guitar at home again.

            There was a reason I’d chosen to endure mediocre taco meat. This was one of those visits that had left an indelible mark in my memory, even if that imprint took its time forming. By high school, while Olive’s life was changing majorly, I found myself wondering more and more about her behavior today. As a kid, I thought she was sad.

            Now I could see the nuance, yet still couldn’t quite place it. She’d always been elusive with her feelings when she chose to be. As I sat across from her next to River—always three basic crunchy tacos for me, and two chalupas for him—I studied our sister’s eyes closely. What was she today? Pensive? Broody? Nostalgic? Just good old depressed?

            Surely, with my not-so-newfound gift, I could pry an answer from her, and find out what was on her mind. Tomorrow, and for a long time afterward, she’d be back to normal. If her current display wasn’t so uncharacteristic and mysterious, I wouldn’t have cared, and this moment wouldn’t have stood out. Ollie. Who were you today?

            I kept the proceedings simple at first, and after I crumpled up my first empty wrapper, asked her as she poked listlessly at her taco salad, “You okay, Olive?”

            Her jaw resting on her hand, she looked up at me, faked a tiny smirk, and gave me her disingenuous answer, “Sure, Maze. Just fine… Is your food… okay?”

            “I mean, for Taco Bell, I guess. But you look kind of sad. Is there anything I—”

            “Don’t worry about it, Maisy,” she said, and gave me a bigger smile to try and get me to drop it. “How’s practice with Vanni going so far? Is she letting you drum?”

            “N-no, that’s not… I’m not going to be a drummer, too. She’s teaching me how to play along with others and keep in time better. Eventually, I’ll even bring my guitar.”

            “Oh. Well, at least it’s free, which is nice of her. That girl’s almost my age, but so very different, huh? Pure California adolescence, I guess. What about you, Riv? Do you think your team’s going to beat… What was the other team again? Oh, the Dukes?”

            River shrugged and said through a half-full mouth, “It’s a practice match. Low-pressure, no stakes. Those are more fun.” He swallowed, took a sip of soda, and added, “Maybe baseball should only be just-for-fun games. The sport would be… funner.”

            “We’re great, Ollie,” I said. “Are you? Did ya want to be somewhere else today?”

            She frowned. “Don’t worry about me, seriously. You guys want cinnamon sticks?”

            This soft approach wasn’t working. I had to start stronger. I went back a minute, and my taco returned. I didn’t feel like eating it again, and instead got right into it.

            “Olive, you look sad. I’m worried about you,” I said, and she looked up from her food as if my concern concerned her. “You’ve been ‘off’ all morning. What’s wrong?”

            She shook her head and sat up straight. “Maisy, where’s this coming from? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m all right, really. Eat before it gets cold.”

            “River, back me up here,” I asked of him. “You noticed, too, right? The way she made our pancakes all slow-like, and burned one, and got eggshell in the other?”

            River put down his chalupa and glanced between me and Ollie. “I dunno if I’d call it sad. Maybe she’s just not her usual happy self today? She’s like me, most days.”

            “Guys, I’m fine!” Olive tried to assure us. “Look, maybe I can’t be all smiles and my usual perky self every single day, but that doesn’t mean I’m sad right now.”

            “I know you think I’m young and got no life experience, but you can talk to me when you’re having a difficult… week,” I said like some life coach, as I cringed inside.

            This time, Olive groaned, got out of the booth, stood up, and announced, “You know what? I should’ve gotten us some of those cinnamon stick things. Be right back.”

            I grumbled as she set off, and River turned to me and said, “Wow. Maybe you’re right. She is a little weird today.” He bit into his chalupa, adding, “Maybe it’s hormones?”

            This wasn’t working. River knew all about swinging for the fences. I could try that, too, but this was beginning to feel like an old computer text adventure. Sure, you could steer things in different directions for a variety of results—instant death was a ridiculously common one—but typically everything came together again into a single ending. Two, if it was a good title. Setting: Taco Bell. Talk to: Olive, who you see eating in front of you. Outcome: Conversation gets shut down. Possibly makes her angry. Has the potential to result in instant death after she shoves Fire hot sauce in your mouth.

            Back I went a second time, and I wasn’t playing around. I got up on my knees on our side of the booth, slammed my palms on the table loud enough to attract the gaze of other customers, and startled her by demanding, “Okay, Ollie! What is wrong with you?!”

            “Maisy!” she exclaimed and looked around with red cheeks. “What’re you doing?”

            “I think me and Riv have the right to know why you’re so upset, if you’re taking care of us for three months! Are you stable? Are you gonna be like this the whole time? Should I call Mom and Dad, Child Protective Services, or a therapist?! Take your pick!”

            “Maze,” Riv shot a whisper up at me. “People are staring. Get down!”

            “Okay,” Olive snapped, and her sadness was replaced by anger as she glared at me. “Are you upset I didn’t get the cinnamon twists? Fine, I’ll go buy some!”

            She got up and went to the counter, leaving me alone to stare into the table’s old stains as River took a frightened bite of chalupa. I knew Olive was tough to crack, but… wow, did time traveling give me a chance to take things to the extreme. Back I went.

            On my fourth attempt, I tried something new. I just sat there, and ate my tacos.

            She eventually finished her salad a few minutes after me and Riv were done, and then we left. We’d all barely said a word the entire visit, and she still seemed pensive as she put the car into the drive. I just had to give up and let her keep her secrets. Who was I to use cheats to pry into her personal feelings? We all had things we didn’t share, right? While I did still want to know, I recognized that limits existed. Stay mysterious, Ollie.

            I went to the game originally, and I remembered it well. 13-2, Dukes. Sorry, Riv.

            “I can’t be sure when the game will end,” Olive called out to me through the passenger’s side window after she rolled it down. “Will you be okay here a while?”

            She still looked a little forlorn, but luckily, she didn’t know yet about me getting obliterated in video games yet, so I could mention that time-killer without making her feel even worse. On that note, she’d still have the Sun Dogs walloping for that.

            “Yeah, I’ll be all right,” I promised her. “They have… a few games we can play.”

            “Okay, then. Have fun at practice today, Maisy,” she said plainly, and drove off.

            Trying my hardest to shake away the thirst for the why when it came to Olive, I went up to the door. Right as I was about to knock, Vanni opened it instead, greeting me with a finger over her mouth that indicated she wanted me to stay quiet.

            “I think Gav’s napping in his room,” she murmured. “Perfect chance to get in a little drumming without him bothering us. C’mon, you’re playing along with me today.”

            “I am?” I whispered back as I followed her into the garage. “You told me not—”

            “That’s okay—we’re still not ready for that, anyway. You’re going to snap along in time with me. Guitar string, keyboard key, thumb… What’s really the difference?”

            Able to speak at a normal level as we entered the garage, I replied, “I dunno. Will that actually help me? It feels like you’re making this up as you go along.”

            “Of course I am! You think I’ve taught anyone before? I mean in music; Gavin would be hopeless in an arcade without me. I’m still learning myself, Maisy.”

            “You’re right. Know what? Let’s try it. Everybody learns best in different ways.”

            “Yeah, guess that’s true. No harm in seeing how this one works for you. I think it makes it simpler, too; with your guitar, you’ll want to play well and get distracted from just trying to focus on playing in my tempo. This makes it about time and nothing else.” She picked up her sticks on the way to her drums and got seated. “Okay, let’s start with the basic 4/4 and 6/8. No song yet, only a beat. We’ll move on fast, I swear. I hope.”

            Common signatures in rock, of course. I felt foolish as I raised by hand and got to snapping in time, but I could also acknowledge that going back to basics often helps.

            “Good, Maze,” Vanni said as she tapped at a snare lightly. “Perfect, actually.”

            “Yeah, this isn’t where the problem’s going to be,” I assured her as I kept up on the snapping with my right hand. “I think part of it is getting lost in the music, mixed with me becoming nervous about getting it right, and falling out of sync with others.”

            “You really have enough experience already to have discovered all that?” she asked with an incredulous look. “Who have you been playing with so far?”

            “Oh, just my family. Guitar lessons are paying off, but in a group, I’m, uh…”

            “Whatever ‘it’ is, I’ll do my best to find the problem and help you get past it. Again… it might be a weird psychological quirk or something. Anyway, I’m going to advance to the bass drum. At the risk of the low sound waves waking up Gavin.”

            “Could you throw some cymbals in there, too? Those really screw me up.”

            She did so, and over the next forty minutes we tried all variety of percussion types and time signatures, but had yet to move onto an actual song. Still, I really tried to take Vanni’s reductive teenage philosophy of “feel the rhythm inside you” to heart, with nothing other than my thumb muscles that were getting sore and the tap of my foot.

            “Okay, Maisy. We got fifteen minutes left,” she eventually said over the latest six second loop of a basic but pretty swanky little rock beat. “You feel up for a real song?”

            “I think so,” I huffed. “But my thumbs really need a break. Just a few minutes, okay? I’ll rotate and stretch them and stuff. I think I have learned some things today.”

            “That’s great, but I’m doing this out of the kindness of my own heart, for some reason, so as far as I’m concerned, you sitting on the floor listening to me ramble about music is ‘okay,’ too. Or, we could just talk. You must have an interesting story, Maze.”

            “Uh… nah, not really. Moved from Chicago, parents had a band, and I like my visits to Desert Tree. What about you? What got you into drums of all instruments?”

            She stopped grooving, and took a moment to think about how to answer.

            “Well… My uncle taught me how to play drums when I was, like, five? Just the basics, of course. Which I mostly forgot until I picked it up again last year. I never lost the interest, though. Funny thing about him—guy’s right arm is paralyzed, so he held both sticks with his left and still learned to play really well. He lives up in San Jose. I got family all over Cali. Almost too many cousins to count. Some, I’ve never met.”

            “Huh. Yeah, most of my extended family is still back in the Midwest. Is Gavin… Which of your parents did he ‘belong’ to before he came to stay? And how’d that go?”

            “His dad died when he was a baby, and his mom and my dad met at the old Main Street arcade of all places if ya can believe it. He played there; she worked the counter.”

            I was a little surprised, and replied, “Ya got your gaming chops from him, huh?”

            “Definitely. He was on the scene when it was just starting in the 70s. Was always into computers, too. He rolled with an older set of gamers in the prime early 80s days, sure, but, yeah, he rocked the local scene. Got me playing when I was just four—even brought a step stool to the place and everything. Don’t… ask about my birth mom. She’s a mess. Anyway, that reminds me that I have a name to drop for you. If you’re serious about starting a band, and you’re desperate for a manager… If he’s still around, look up Hugh Lancaster. He was on the arcade scene, too, and was a friend of my dad’s.”

            “Hugh… Lancaster,” I replied, and wouldn’t need to write it down since I could always just return to this moment. “Is there something special about him, or…”

            “Nah, this is just me giving you one option. But last I heard, he has reasons for staying local, and he’s always on the hunt for new talent. Might even take on a group of ‘teenyboppers’ if you show promise. Fynn didn’t want to ‘go that route,’ but you could give him a try. He’s pretty ‘hands off’ from what I’ve heard, for better or worse.”

            “We’re probably at least three years away from even practicing, but thanks, Vanni. I’ll keep him in mind.” I looked at her classic Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt, which looked like a red asterisk, and had to ask, “So… what do you think of Chad Smith?”

            “Dude’s a great drummer! You wanna try snapping along to one of their songs? I know a few. Heh. The band always makes Gav a little uncomfortable. He’ll whine about them not wearing shirts and getting all sweaty. Okay, think you can keep up with—”

            “They really should wear shirts,” Gavin suddenly interjected as he strode into the garage with a perspiring can of Dr. Pepper in his hand. “What are you doing, anyway?”

            “I’m teaching Maisy how to play along, Gav!” Vanni snapped in the other way. “Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell her how annoying you were when you came to live with us!”

            “Aw, sis, be nice! I heard you playing a half-hour ago and only just now came in to ‘bother’ you. I don’t get how you’re teaching while learning, but I wanna see your Mr. Miyagi-style techniques. How the heck is she ‘playing along’ without an instrument?”

            “It’s actually been… pretty helpful so far,” I defended Vanni’s honor. “It makes me feel like I missed a bunch of the basics when I got deeper into my guitar lessons.”

            “Huh. If you say so.” Gavin plopped onto the ratty old plaid couch in the corner, where he sat cross-legged with his drink. “Now try playing for an audience, if you can.”

            “Gavin,” Vanni sighed sharply. “Can’t you just go away for a few more minutes? We’re almost done, and then I’m sure Maisy will let you wallop her in video games until she gets picked up. I know that’s what you’re really after. Nothing better to do, right?”

            “It’s okay, Vanni,” I told her, since I really didn’t mind playing for a ‘crowd.’ “He can watch us. I need to get used to this anyway. Not like I have anything to play poorly.”

            “Oh, nice. Put all the pressure on me. Just so you know, I think I could play for a stadium just fine, but one-on-one? Blech. Well, fine… Do you know Give it Away?”

            “Of course! You ready for a rock-out sesh? At least this beats air guitar.”

            Vanni’s answer came in the form of the hip funk rock song’s opening beats, and I took up Flea’s role by turning my right thumb into a bass guitar. I wanted to totally feel the music and get my entire body into it like always, but through sheer willpower, I kept fully focused on only “playing” in Vanni’s tempo. She was getting pretty good, too, and I could recognize one of the big hits of the early 90s, but it wasn’t much of a song with only the beat and one-note finger snaps. I steadied my breathing, and I tried my best to stay in sync. I didn’t rush ahead to finish, nor did I lose confidence and fall behind.

            After Vanni drummed the big finale—her beats were loud enough to just rattle the garage door—she gave her sticks a twirl and exclaimed, “Maze, that was great! You totally stayed in tempo. I think you’re ready to bring your guitar next time, for real!”

            “What do you mean ‘that was great?’” Gavin let out a mocking laugh. “That had to be the dumbest performance I’ve ever seen.” He took a big sip, and belched to put a cap on his critique. “But if she beat your challenge or whatever… Can we game?”

            “Gav, you are so rude,” Vanni muttered. “Let’s see you try playing along.”

            “It’s okay,” I huffed happily. “He can teach me all about losing now. I bet I’ll be even less of a challenge than usual with my thumbs worn out.”

            “Uh, yeah, okay…” Gavin murmured, “Sheesh, make me feel bad about it, then.”

            “Maisy, you know, you can always say ‘no’ to him,” Vanni replied and got up from her seat to stretch. “Me and Gav are some of the city’s top players, and we don’t take it easy on anyone. I don’t get why he can’t just impress you in single-player.”

            The truth was, I kind of figured I needed a little humiliation that I wouldn’t just undo, to keep me humble and grounded. Charlie certainly had none, and I could clearly see how he was going to turn out. Besides, I was getting better all the while. Sort of.

            Another hour later, I was freed from the hazing ritual when I ran out to Olive’s car and got into the back. The first thing I noticed, other than River’s dirtied uniform, was the smile on his face. It was still subtle compared to others, but for him, this grin felt like the equivalent of beaming. But hadn’t his team lost as much as I just did?

            “Hey, Maze,” Olive said and got the car moving. “How’d practice go?”

            “Uh, yeah, just fine—how’d the game go? Riv seems pretty happy…”

            He looked back at me and replied, “Oh, we lost 12-9, but that’s okay. I hit a home run that got us a double, and we got some momentum for a bit and really came from behind! The Dukes were getting so nervous, and my team cheered for me!”

            “Um, wow. Good job,” I congratulated him, and got right to wondering.

            Was this random chance? Or was River finding some confidence he didn’t have before? And if so, was it because of me somehow? What had I changed enough to give him a boost? Unless… Hm. Could it have just been my overall personality shift? We did share a home; he was around me all the time, and siblings were sensitive to each other’s feelings and emotions. Whether this was good or bad, I’d have to keep an eye on it.

            I was really starting to make the most of my weekends, and Sunday included the “A-side” of the trio visiting Quincy’s place for the first time, where the plan was to lay our eyes on what would hopefully be our garage studio in a few years. I had an urge to jump ahead and see us practicing in there, but I knew that we wouldn’t be; not when my other self would doubtlessly flake on the whole band thing. I’d have to stay in control and keep diligently guiding Old Maze towards the dream, day by day, to make it real.

            Quince’s family lived just off the outer edge of the old apartment and townhouse blocks, where one of the city’s first suburbs sprouted up in the early 50s. His home was near a busy street because of that, but it was okay since we’d be playing too loudly to hear traffic anyway. His was a small ranch-style house like Vanni’s, only about ten years older and plainer, its blue paint faded and chipped. But the garage was surprisingly big for the home’s age, and since they’d never paid to have its door repaired to make use of it for their cars, it could be all ours. We’d just have to help Quincy clean it out first.

            “Um. Can we really jam in here?” Liesel was the first to speak up after we’d gone through Quincy’s side yard gate and used the garage’s people door. “It’s a total mess!”

            Indeed, the space was filled with cardboard boxes, three old bicycles in need of repair, forgotten exercise equipment from a failed attempt at a home gym, a workbench that was covered in scattered tools, furniture from the 1960s, shelves of mildew-covered books, and other assorted knickknacks and objects that had origins lost to time.

            “Quince’s parents aren’t ‘sleepy’ like him and his brother,” Adelina explained. “But they don’t exactly, like… get around to cleaning that much, either.”

            “Wait, hold on, man,” Edmond groaned. “I thought your brother’s band played in here before he got kicked out or whatever. How’d they pull that off?”

            “Oh, that was two years ago,” Quincy replied after one of his yawns. “It was a lot emptier back then. He keeps saying it’ll be a studio again when his ‘burn out’ ends.”

            “It only took two years for this place to become like this?” Liesel sighed.

            “Guys, it’s not a problem! I’ll just clean it out one thing at a time—get my folks to sell or donate this stuff really slowly, so they don’t, um, really notice or care. It won’t even feel like work, and in a few years, it’ll be spotless except for our instruments.”

            “At that rate, I’m not sure you’ll keep up with the stuff coming into the garage,” I remarked. “It’s got promise, though. It has thick walls, and plenty of outlets.”

            “You wanna see the rest of my house?” Quincy asked and turned the lights off.

            Once we were out in his backyard again—he had one of those old garages that didn’t connect directly to the home—Hayden said, “Also, Quince, I keep telling ya, man. Two years is a long time to feel ‘burned out.’ Face it. Devin’s not playing again.”

            “He will play,” Quincy countered. “As soon as he’s out of his slump. And he’ll teach me how to work a bass guitar, too. I’m gonna play some wicked beats like he can.”

            Quincy went over to the back door that led into the kitchen, patted his pockets, and then looked at us with a smile before giving the discolored relic of a door a knock.

            “Left your keys on your dresser again, didn’t ya, Quince?” Adeline scoffed.

            “No, I just feel like knocking today. S-so they can meet one of my parents!”

            Regardless of what the others thought of him, Quince sure thought ahead. Maybe I’d put him in charge of planning, scheduling, and bed-testing when we went on tour.

            His mom won the coin flip and became the first of his parents the other three of us would meet, and her appearance and vibe explained so much. With her long hair and eccentric, loose-fitting, vibrant clothes, she was certainly a former 1960s flower child.

            She’d be on the younger side of that generation, sure, and while I could respect their “love everyone” nature, no doubt the Chambers brothers were not getting enough structure in their lives, at least from this side of the family. How would Dad compare?

            “Oh, Quince,” she said in a wispy yet warm voice. “These are your new friends, hm? Just delightful. Please, come in. I’m so glad my Quincy’s making more pals.”

            “Hi, Mom,” Quincy replied as we were let in. “I showed them the garage where we’ll be playing music as a real band one day,” he added, matter-of-factly but not boldly.

            “You will? That’s nice, Quince. Yes, dreams are just lovely, even when they don’t come true. Oh, my, look at you all. Hello! Please, come in. Our home is your home.”

            There was no way she had any idea that little unassuming me would be the lead guitarist of a band she probably never expected to materialize. But she was supportive, and that was always helpful for kids. Even though a little discipline was valuable, too.

            “That’s Devin,” Quincy said as we passed through his carpeted living room, and pointed at the teenager in acid-washed jeans and a long black shirt snoring on the futon.

            “Don’t tell me he actually sleeps more than you do, Quince,” Liesel whispered.

            “He didn’t used to. I guess being in a metal band for six months really wears you out for a while,” he said, still naïve to the fact that maybe his brother was just a burnout instead of only burned out. “You should’a seen him play in Filthy Piggies. He was great.”

            “Your home is very…” Edmond, looking around at various dreamcatchers and tie-dye tapestries on the walls, murmured, “Woodstocky. Is your dad a hippie, too?”

            “Edmond,” Liesel said in her chiding tone, “what’d I tell you about labeling?”

            Quincy laughed. “It’s okay; Mom sort of is. My dad’s just a typical busy business guy. I don’t know how he finds time to play in the band. Anyway, here’s my room.”

            We’d gone down a tight hallway, and Quincy opened his door, which was directly across from his brother’s closed one. And I knew it was Devin’s, because I doubted his parents were the kind of people to hang up an “Enter and Die” sign with a skull on it.

            Seemingly eager to compare, Eddie squeezed past the others to get a look inside. But there wasn’t much to see. Quincy’s room made good use of space with its multiple shelves, one of which held a small combo TV/VCR, and some posters of guitarists from rock bands lined his walls, but his room was tiny; barely larger than a big closet. It was almost surprising that it even had a single window. How did his sleepovers work?

            “Quincy, it’s so little and cramped!” Liesel remarked. “Are you okay in here?”

            He shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be? I got everything I need in arm’s reach, and it’s very cozy. I spend most of my room time asleep, anyway.” He closed the door, almost right on Eddie’s face before he was done looking. “Devin’s room is cooler, though.”

            Hayden eyed Devin’s warning and asked, “You sure that’s a good idea? Last time we went in there, he came really close to catching us. I’m not sure he wouldn’t kill us.”

            “I think he’ll only do that if he finds out we touched one of his guitars.”

            Luckily, my gift could extend to saving the others, so I was pretty sure we’d each survive our trespasses if it came to that. Or, we could just all point to Quincy and move on with our lives, and only be in need of a bassist. Either way, he foolishly led us inside.

            As expected, Dev’s room was a terrible mess of clothes and trash, and his walls were covered in poster album art for Judas Priest, Metallica, Black Sabbath, other metal staples… and a few Sports Illustrated models for good measure, to bring out his sensitive side. More impressive, especially considering his age, was the collection of three electric bass guitars hanging on a wall, each armed with a custom pickup. There was no way he’d held down a job for more than a month; they must’ve been Dad hand-me-downs.

            All that, and I’d become pretty quick over my years with a band at sniffing out a place where the devil’s been chopping his lettuce. I couldn’t say I was shocked.

            “This one’s my favorite,” Quincy said and too-casually plucked a black Fender off its rack. I think we all cringed as he put the strap over his shoulder and a finger on a string. “Guys. I know how to hold these things. As long as he doesn’t hear me play it, he won’t find out. What do you think, Maze?” he consulted me. “Am I holding it right?”

            “Er, sure. Great handling. It’s just, you know, you should probably put it back.”

            Hayden crossed his arms and added, “You can’t join the band as a corpse, dude.”

            “Aw,” Quincy sighed and carefully returned the guitar to its nest. “You guys are no fun. I was only going to pretend to play it. Okay. I’ll show you the local park now.”

            We left as quietly as we’d entered, but even so, the instant Quincy closed his brother’s door, Devin yelled from the living room, “Quince, you better not be showing off my room to your weird little friends! I’ll knock your head off with one of my guitars!”

            “Wouldn’t think of it, bro!” Quincy called back confidently, but gave the rest of a nervous smile. “Don’t worry. He usually forgets about his threats after about an hour.”

            After enjoying the rest of my weekend, I skipped ahead to the club guest drawing on Monday morning, and after learning about the winners, jumped to Thursday’s recess. It had taken longer than I expected, but I was finally getting a chance to see the shed again after so many kids from three different grades had passed through it.

            Hopefully the place wasn’t trashed. Sometimes I was amazed it was still standing.

            I wasn’t being joined by any of the other founding members today, but I would be in the company of an interesting winner: Cass. When I heard her name get picked, an immediate question came to mind. Player One Pete, on the other end, inspired only the sorts of questions I didn’t want to ask because they’d be mean. And as fate would have it, Sarah had been chosen to share some time with me again. The others, I barely knew.

            “Sarah, it’s cool that you’re taking a karate class now, but be careful with those moves,” I asked of her as she tried to demonstrate a kick. “There’s not much room.”

            “You guys should try it!” she said and chopped the air. “Mom and Dad always say I ‘move around too much,’ and now I have a way to ‘do something with that chaos.’ Whatever they mean by that. Oh, but the class does have this scary-tough girl with braids and freckles. She keeps trying to spar with others, even though we’re not doing that yet.”

            “Great, Sarah. Really awesome,” Pete mocked her. “Hey, tell your cousin to hurry up and stock some 3DO games. I got this awesome new system and nothing to play!”

            Sarah turned to him with her hands on her hips and shot back aggressively, “My cousin told me you keep bothering him, Peat Moss. Always complaining about what the place doesn’t have, that he can’t do anything about. Why do you even go all the way to Video Klub? There’s a Blockbuster right around the corner from here, you know!”

            “Okay, first of all, don’t you start calling me that, too! You guys still have the better selection, and your late fees aren’t as… mean. It just needs some work, is all.”

            “What do you mean ‘you guys?’ It’s not a family business, dummy!”

            As they got to bickering, I looked down at Cass, who was browsing the collection of audio tapes that had been contributed by dozens of kids in the upper three grades. It was honestly an impressive assortment, even if it was just kind of a dumping ground for old media that had been replaced by CDs. Or music they didn’t really like, I supposed.

            “Tch,” she scoffed as she flicked through them like a veteran merchant going through her stock. “This could at least be in some kind of order. Guess I’ll sort it…”

            “Hey, um… Maisy, right?” one of the others spoke up. He was a small boy with big glasses, who was either an Adam or a Calvin; I forgot which. “What song is this?”

            “The Smiths, I Know It’s Over, The Queen is Dead, ’86,” I answered fast to impress.

            “Wow, you really do know everything about music, don’t you?” a girl with bows in her hair, a Juniper or a Lauren I think, replied. “Hey, has Claudia been here yet? She is so cool. I wanna be in her circle. Do you think there’s any way you could rig the lottery?”

            “Sorry,” I replied with a shoulder shrug, “but not only would I not do that, but she actually did get picked a few weeks ago and declined. She doesn’t want a turn here.”

            “What?! But this is the coolest place in school! Does she… not like you?”

            I shrugged again. “I don’t really care who likes me or doesn’t. That’s all on her.”

            “Just forget about Claudia, Vera, and all those other girls,” a lanky boy with black hair told her. “They like to make fun of us behind our backs, and they gossip.”

            A smaller girl in the corner, who wore beiges and browns like she was competing with Edmond, murmured, “Claudia came up to me a few days ago, a-and she…” She let out a sniffle, “She came up to me to give me some of her ‘fashion advice,’ and I got kind of excited at first… until she said, ‘well, that’s not working.’ And I was like, ‘what’s not working?’ And then she pointed to all of me and said, ‘this part.’ Then she laughed and walked away. Sarah! Maybe you could beat her up a little? Or karate chop off a finger?”

            “Martial arts is for self-defense only,” Sarah said in a serious tone and punched the air like it deserved it. “And insults don’t count as an attack. She calls my big shirts with the cool movie prints hideous, and I get payback by wearing them even harder.”

            I swear, kid banter was becoming a guilty pleasure of mine. You have to set things up to absorb it at ground level as an adult, but being a kid again yourself makes it “free.” I was going to turn some of the school stories into lyrics one day, I knew it.

            “Cass, you don’t have to do that, you know,” I said with a chuckle. “I get that you have impulses, but the fourthies will have it all messed up again within the hour.”

            “It’s okay,” she said from the floor as she kept sorting. “It relaxes me, anyway.”

            “So… if the store isn’t closed, is someone manning it? And can they be trusted?”

            “Sure. Every grade has an alternate, in case the main keeper is sick or something. And day to day, they help procure goods. Sometimes we just need a day off, also.”

            “Are they Scot’ish, too, then?” the glasses boy asked in a poor imitation accent.

            Cass became very still really fast, stared up at the kid who looked like he instantly regretted his mistake, and replied, “Oh, another comedian. Out of the sake of keeping my professionalism and the club a chill place, I’ll be holding that ‘Scot’ish’ tongue you’re making fun of. But I’ll say this: Royal Valley wouldn’t be my first choice a place to insult us Scots. It was founded by one, you know. Ever heard of the McMare clan, ‘wee lad?’”

            “Cass, I-I was just kidding… Being stupid, that’s all,” the boy said. “Please don’t ban me from the store! I buy stuff there… I’ll apologize to your family if you want.”

            “Calm down, buddy,” Cass replied with a laugh. “You shouldn’t take anything seriously in the club. Just try to take into consideration that ‘no insults’ rule, yeah?”

            “The city does have a bit of a Scottish immigrant population, Cass,” I noted. “A lot of people related to Hadron in some way, too. Is that why your family moved here?”

            “Nah. We didn’t even know about the history; total coincidence. My folks wanted to get away from the Edinburgh weather, were looking at California, and saw the name.”

            Pete looked over from where he and Sarah were busy shoving each other away from themselves and asked, “Hey, Cass, do you eat that, um… haggy stuff?”

            “No, Pete, I don’t. I think it’s gross. I’m not even a fan of regular sausage.”

            I’d been sitting there lazily the entire time, keeping an eye on my watch as I took in and enjoyed the harmless chatter. Until Sarah turned to me with a random question.

            “Hey, Maisy. There’s a rumor going around that you’re gonna make a band? Are you going to play inside the club or something? Ooo, can I come to the premiere?”

            I chuckled. “Sarah, there would only be room for two audience members. When the band outnumbers the crowd, that’s a bad gig. It’s going to be a real rock band, too.”

            “Oh, what’s its name gonna be?” Cass wondered. “Never too early to make some merch to hype it up. I know a print shop in town. Imagine everyone wearing t-shirts!”

            “Thanks for the offer, Cass, but merch is…” I never liked the idea of making or selling it. Though I understood it had a place, I wasn’t going to tell her that. “Merch is a cool idea, it’s just that I kind of want us to come out of nowhere. For the mystique.”

            “Ah, I gotcha. But keep me in mind in middle or high school, or whenever you get around to playing music. I won’t have a store anymore, so I’ll need something to sell.”

            “We don’t even have a name yet, anyway. But I was kind of thinking about…”

            Before I could say it, my watch beeped. Our time together had come to an end.

            I didn’t know most of the kids in the other group waiting to come in just outside of the shed, but Edmond was in it, so we exchanged chill little waves before he led them inside. As long as everyone kept respecting the time limits and the rules, The Rave would persist until someone ratted and became a pariah, or an adult stumbled upon it on their own. It wouldn’t last forever. Hell, maybe not even until the end of the school year. But it’ll be nice while we have it, and the more memories it makes for us, the better.

            On the other hand, there are some memories I could do without. It was a good thing I didn’t immediately skip away, because I had no doubt that Other Maisy could not have handled what happened next; she’d either run away, or make a fool of herself.

            “Hey, Maisy,” slithered a sharp, judgmental voice from behind me.

            With a huff, I turned to see Claudia, Vera, and the other three what’s-her-faces of her little elementary school clique, or whatever they called themselves. The expressions on the four subordinates reeked of “act tough” orders and perceived superiority, but her scowl, tone, and furiously crossed arms? That was all Cat Claws, and genuine emotion.

            “Hi, Claudia!” I said with my best, false sincerity. “Did you come to check out the club? I know you passed up your spot this time around—it was very kind of you to give it to someone else—but you’ll still have to wait. I bet you’ve heard good things.”

            “Ugh! Just shut up, Maisy! As if anyone in my group wants to hang out in there!”

            “Um, well, you know…” I pretended to study the girls’ faces. “I think everyone in your friend circle has been in there except you, and they didn’t complain. Sooo…”

            Vera’s cheeks turned red, and the other girls look at the sky or the grass.

            “You think you’re so funny and liked, don’t you, Maisy?” Claudia stomped up and got aggressive by poking my ribs with her finger. “Where’d this even come from, huh? All of first and second grade, you were a nobody, except for a few days where you were acting different and stuff. But now you’re always being ‘confident,’ and you made a stupid secret club! Are you messing with me? Playing mind games? I’m the popular girl, not you!”

            I looked around, and noticed how alone I was; the kids from my club visit had run off before this even began. Because of course Claudia couldn’t have anyone else see the show she was putting on. While I figured she had thin skin, this was unexpected.

            “Oh, Claudia,” I kept up my facetious smile and gently pushed her prodding finger away, “I’m sorry you think I’m competing with you. I only wanted to make a…”

            She spoke over me, “Don’t care. Close your stupid club, and I’ll forget all about this, and you. I barely even remembered your name until this grade, anyway.”

            I couldn’t keep this up anymore, and my smile fell into a frown as I argued back, “Claudia, it’s not my club. My name gets called, too. It’s for everyone, unlike your group.”

            “Don’t give me that crap, Wilkins.” Oh, so now she somehow remembers my last name, too. “You know the whole grade is aware of who made it, and that’s all they care about.”

            Playing nice wasn’t going to cut it anymore. I had the mind of an adult, damn it. I didn’t have to abide bratty kids or take their abuse. Claudia had to know I had teeth, too. So, I crossed my arms right back, stood my ground, and asked, “So, what do you want?”

            “Hey, don’t act all tough! I wanted to find you and make a formal declaration!”

            I had to admit; she was on top of the game. Her confidence, her poise, her sharp tongue—she had all the bite of a high school mean girl early on. Thinking about that, I realized I didn’t really have many memories of Claudia past middle school. She certainly didn’t stand out at Royal Valley High. Had she burned out by then, or given up this life?

            “A formal declaration?” I scoffed. “There’s no one else here to witness it, Claudia.”

            “So what? I didn’t plan for that or whatever. I got my crew and that’s enough! You’re my rival, Maisy. My rivaaaal. I’m going to bury you, and that stupid club!”

            “Really? My rival, huh? Rivals compete in something. What are we competing in? It sounds like you just want an excuse to bully me. And what’s your plan? You gonna tell Sundren about the club? Everyone will know it was you. There goes your popularity.”

            “Pfft. I have other ways of doing things. I don’t need adults fighting my battles.”

            “You know, Claudia,” I sighed, and let it rip because I knew it would feel so very good to do so, “the truth is, I’m a time traveler from 2045. I’ve seen your future, and you don’t leave a big impression. I don’t remember you being popular in high school.”

            She glowered at me like I was crazy. “What are you talking about? You’re nuts! I think I’ll go tell the whole grade how insane you are. A time traveler? What’s that about?!”

            Darn. Not the reaction I was expecting. So, I went back a few seconds to instead ask, “We done here? Threats don’t scare me. Don’t you have some clothes to judge?”

            “Oh, hush,” Claudia groaned. “Just watched your back, Maisy. If you intrude on my territory, you’re going to regret it,” she said as Vera looked behind her and tugged on her sleeve. “I’ve had to work hard to get where I am, and—Vera, what?!” she snapped.

            Vera pointed, and Claudia and the other girls turned to see our resident guard dog with a nose for bullying approaching. Wren, who could smell a coming fight like it was petrichor and towered over us, came to a stop and put her hands on her hips. She studied the five against one situation, and our expressions, and sized up the sitch quick.

            “Claudia. You’re not being mean to Maisy, are you? You know how I feel about the way you and your friends go up to other kids all aggressively sometimes.”

            “We just wanted to give her some tips about her club’s interior decorating, that’s all!” Claudia said with a barely-hidden sneer. “You don’t need to worry about us!”

            “Y-yeah, we’re not being mean!” Vera added. “Not with you around.”

            Vera didn’t look like she believed any of this, so she turned to me like I had final say. I just slid my hands into my hoodie pockets and gave her a shrug and an eye roll.

            “Well, all right. But I have my eyes on all of you.” Once the Claudia Crew had gone on their way—with their boss giving me a gag after she was out of Wren’s line of sight—Wren asked me, “Are you really doing okay, Maisy? Claudia’s been bad-mouthing you all around school, you know. I have a hard time believing she was giving you tips.”

            “I’m fine,” I tried to assure her. “She’s just jealous. But I can handle that.”

            “You know, I feel like you can. But I’m still here for you.” She looked at the club, and then back to me. “Can’t wait to go in there again, by the way. The Rave is great!”

            “Claudia really came at you like you that?!” Liesel gasped at the end of the day in the computer lab, where I finally relayed the encounter. “Wow! She’s so terrible…”

            “Guys, don’t worry about me,” I told the group as other kids around us enjoyed their free edutainment time at the computers. “I’m only sharing this in case she comes after any of you. Just keep an eye out, you know? Her ‘soldiers’ may have orders, too.”

            “Gah, what’s her problem?” Adelina asked us angrily. “Does is it have something to do with you, Maisy? Or would she be mad at anyone who created The Rave?”

            “Maybe we should’ve told people I made it,” Edmond suggested. “Kids already think I’m ‘scary’ anyway. Even if Claudia does insult me, I know just what to say to her.”

            “The creator kinda sets the vibe though, you know?” Hayden noted. “If we had told everyone Quincy made it, they’d probably go in there for naps and lullaby music.”

            “Ha-ha…” Quincy grumbled over some snickers. “And what’d that make you?”

            “Man, you know me, Quince. I’d turn the place into an actual rave. Party central. It would only last a day before getting shut down, but it’d be one legendary time.”

            “So, what you’re saying is, ‘Modest Maisy’ was probably the right choice,” Liesel said. “At least as far as keeping the club around goes. She does have her dreams. Speaking of,” she sat up in her crappy plastic blue chair, “we need to think up a band name!”

            “Guys, no,” I sighed. “We’ve talked about this. Anything we come up with this early on, we’ll try to hang onto too tightly over the years and not even realize how cringey it eventually became. We can hold off on that for now. It’ll come to us; be patient.”

            “But we can still throw around ideas, can’t we?” Adelina replied. “Oh, how about the Six Slingshots. Ya know, a lighter, friendlier version of that one punk rock band.”

            “Ady, I still don’t even know if I’m going to be in the band,” Edmond groaned and stretched his legs out. “Besides, that would just sound like a parody group.”

            “I know! What about the Flaming Guitars?” Quincy contributed and riffed on an air guitar. “Me and Maze can play guitars that are on fire, like that one ‘Jimmy’ guy.”

            I stifled a chuckle and shook my head. “Quince, Jimi Hendrix lighting his axe on fire at the Monterey Pop Festival is a legendary moment in rock, but it’s also kind of been overblown and ‘sounds’ cooler than it is. He didn’t play it while it was on fire. I’ll show you the video…” I turned to the computer—another vestigial reflex; not only did YouTube not exist, but these machines also didn’t have internet access. “Er, I mean, I’ll show you a documentary at the library sometime. He sets the guitar down and makes a small, contained blaze. It was destroyed, sure, but it wasn’t like what you’re thinking.”

            “Um. Wow, okay… What about the Smashing Guitars, instead of Pumpkins?”

            “Eh. That’s Pete Townshend’s and Nirvana’s thing. We won’t be good enough to intrude on their territory for a long time… Or be able to afford the guitars, of course.”

            “Maze, how do you know so much?” Liesel asked me a common question. “Yeah, I know, ‘my parents,’ but it’s still kind of crazy. Anyway, I still like ‘The Cool Kids!’”

            Edmond stared at her flatly. “Leese, we are not calling ourselves that.”

            “Why not? I know it’s basic, but it’s so bold. It’s like calling yourself Prince.”

            “Yeah, and I’m sure that when New Kids on the Block are playing in their sixties, they’ll have no regrets. I say we go for ‘The Prickly Desert Cacti’ and be done with it.”

            Liesel put on her pouty face and muttered, “That’s just you as a solo act, Eddie.”

            I had no reason to stick around, so after lab, I skipped ahead to Saturday night of that week, when I usually updated my journal unless something big enough to report on happened some other day. First, I watched a bit of TV with River on the couch as Olive took care of the bills: Roundhouse on Saturday Night Nickelodeon, the channel’s original sketch-comedy show I barely remembered since it didn’t exactly run repeats for long. Neither one of us really laughed at the jokes, for different reasons, but it was still nice to get some levity now and then in my hectic, time-traveling life full of plans and Claudia.

            When an Are You Afraid of the Dark? episode I’d seen too many times as a kid came on after, I retreated to our room to get to work. These were still the days when it was probably better to keep power-sucking computers turned off when not in use, so I flipped the switch on the back of my old Mac, enjoyed the classic bootup sound and the monitor degaussing visual and noise, and plopped down in my comfy desk chair.

            I took a deep breath as the desktop loaded, grabbed a password-protected floppy disk—I was on my fourth one by this point—and slid it in. The disk icon loaded, and…

            That was when I noticed that it was above a text file. One that I didn’t put there.

            A cold, unsettling feeling formed in the pit of my stomach. With a hand that was already trembling, I reluctantly double-clicked it. What I saw was chillingly disturbing.

            And who am I? Hello? Are you there? If there’s another me inside or somewhere else, you can write about it here. Please. This is getting a little scary. I don’t know who to talk to. I don’t know if I’m losing my mind. This does not feel right or normal.

            I go to bed some nights and wake up on a different day. My friends look at me like I’m acting strange when I’m just being my usual quiet self. They think I’m sad on those days or something. Am I crazy? I have these disks I think I’m writing stuff on, but the memories of writing are blurry, like many others. I don’t know what the password is.

            If there is another me, don’t be mad if you see the this. I just want to understand.  

            Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Charlie never mentioned anything like this.

            Granted, I’d been wondering what the other me experienced, but this, I didn’t plan for. At least she was good at writing? Damn it. I had to organize my thoughts. As much as I should be freaked out and getting away from the computer, it was still my best tool.

            Not good. The other me is aware. Of what exactly, I’m not sure. I can’t become her, so I can’t feel what she’s thinking. Not clearly. Like her, my memories of the other Maisy are blurry. They’re wired in and accessible, but not sharp, I think because I didn’t make them. They’re like trying to watch someone else’s home videos at low resolution.

            I wasn’t filming, and the picture isn’t great and is in two dimensions. Does she see my memories the same way? She didn’t mention time travel, and she apparently can’t remember what I write in these journals, so things could be worse. But I do feel bad for her, even though she’s just me. But should I say “just?” I’m basically a parasite, aren’t I?

            I don’t have a choice. I can’t risk her screwing up the band, our friendships, and everything I’ve accomplished so far, or put my access to this gift in danger. I’m sorry, other me. One day, you’ll be freed from this curse. But until I do some rewiring of your brain and set your course in concrete, I’m sticking around. You’ll thank me later, even if you never understand what was happening to you in these childhood years.

            There’s no choice. I have to limit my skipping ahead even further. I have to relive more days of my life in full. I’ll need to relearn patience and exist day by day.

            But the homework. The chores. The other such drugery. Ugh!

            I’ll change the passwords on all these floppies to be extra safe. And try to limit my thoughts on time travel, or even one day into the future. I’m not sure how to stop thinking about certain things, of course. Guess it’ll take some mental fortitude.

            And here I was planning to write more about Olive tonight. But this scrambled all my planning and I can’t concentrate. Soon, Ollie. I’ll get to your part two soon.

            The next morning, after a bad night of horrible sleep, I tiredly got out of bed and was hit by the reality all over again that skipping was now just for emergencies. At least I could still go backwards. And pay a visit to our Chicago home if I needed some time in my sanctuary away from things. And I could still retry moments. So, it wasn’t all bad.

            River and Olive noticed my sluggish pancake eating, and must’ve commented on it and my messy hair, but I mostly filtered it out. My mind was on the imminent visit to Hayden’s house today; Ady’s place, with its six sisters, we weren’t quite ready for yet.

            Hayden lived in one of the bigger townhouses, a few blocks from Liesel’s place. His family was well-off compared to some of ours, and they even had a rare garage—though it was too small to play in, especially since it was in use. Quincy was the one who ran up the stoop and knocked at the door like he owned the place, which annoyed his pal. Mrs. Nicolson was all smiles and let us in just the same. She had a ‘cute’ relationship with her kid, I’d call it. It wasn’t often that a mom greeted her son with a high-five.

            She looked like a very proud industrious parent of the 1990s, with expensive blue jeans and a stylin’ white leather jacket. She sized up those of us in the “new trio,” and we must’ve passed some quick test of hers because she quickly gave us a toothy grin.

            “Hey, kids! Come on inside. I’ve been wanting to meet all of ya. Hayden’s been talking, and really hyping all of you up. Let’s see… Edmond, and you look like a Liesel.”

            “Yes, ma’am,” Leese said with a smile as she headed inside. “Oh, nice house!”

            “Maisy, you are rocking that beanie, girl,” Hayden’s mom complimented me. “He says you’re like an encyclopedia of musical knowledge. Up for some debate sometime?”

            “Mom, that’s not fair,” Hayden grumbled. “Maze is good, but we’re still eight.” He turned to me. “She’s just joking, I think. She knows a lot about music history. It’s crazy.”

            I told her confidently, “I’ll take you up on that. I prefer learning over teaching.”

            “Oh, I love that. Get in here, Maisy Wilkins. By the way, Hayden, Lily had a fight with her friend and came home early. I told her not to bother you, but I’m not going to punish her if she does. You better be kind and patient with your sis.”

            “Ah, man,” Hayden huffed. “I was really hoping she’d be out of the house.”

            “Don’t be mean, Hayden!” Ady said as he took a peek into the living room. She turned to ‘my’ trio and asked, “You guys have never met Lily, right? She’s so cute!”

            “I didn’t even know Hayden had a sister,” Edmond replied with a cool shrug. “I’m guessing there’s a reason he doesn’t talk about her at school. Is she annoying?”

            “Yeah, exactly!” Hayden confirmed his opinion, looking back at us. “Plus… she has this really weird ‘crush’ thing on Quincy,” he added, and Quince blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not sure yet how she’ll feel about Edmond… Anyway, she must be up in her room. Come on. The ‘music lab’ is this way. You guys will love this.”

            “Uh, you don’t think…” Eddie said nervously. “She wouldn’t see me and…”

            “Hope so,” Quincy replied with a laugh. “I’m more than over it.”

            “Chin up, Eddie,” Liesel said as we passed through a living room full of posters and memorabilia of African American musicians and groups, “maybe she doesn’t like prickly broody boys like yourself. But even if she does, just consider her your first fan!”

            “Oh, great,” Edmond sighed. “Then I’ll definitely be the lighting guy, at most.”

            “Dad works on Sundays, but it’s not like we’re sneaking in,” Hayden assured us as we went down a hallway. “He actually lets me practice, as long as I’m careful. He’s either encouraging me, or teaching me about responsibility. I tore a head last year and felt bad, but he just got me to pay for half. Wasn’t even mad. He’s a pretty chill guy.”

            He opened a door, and we walked into a windowless, soundproof room. It only featured a work or repair bench, some audio equipment, and the full drum kit itself; no distractions. What a beautiful set. The paint on the big boys was a glossy red and black, and the name “Live Wire” was presented in smooth yet intricate reflective gold lettering.

            “Sweet kit, Hayden,” I remarked, my eyes glazing over just a little as I studied its components. “Even the drumsticks look beautiful. I don’t see any brand name, though.”

            “It’s custom made.” He sat on the throne and spun as he explained, “Even the cymbals. Dad wanted his own sound, so he spent a year on these babies.” He grabbed the sticks. “Should I play? I’ve only been serious for a few months, so the beat’s basic.”

            “Sure!” Liesel exclaimed. “I love a nice rhythm. Just do your best!”

            Hayden gave us that “well, okay, I’ll try,” look, and got to playing for us. It began slow and simple, but then, when he got a little more confident… Damn! He really started kicking some ass for a nearly-nine-year-old! It was a classic rock beat, nothing too fast or complex—like something from the 70s era, but it ended with a full attack on each of the instruments that would make Alex Van Halen say, “this kid’s got some potential.”

            “Hayden! That was amazing!” Liesel burst once he was done, and was sweating and catching his breath. “How the heck did you and Maisy get so good, so fast?”

            “C’mon, Leese, I’m just okay,” he showed his modesty, “but I’m trying… Uh-oh.”

            We all heard it: the turning of the doorknob. We looked at the kindergartener in a blue dress who just had the face of a tattletale, and stared at us before saying, “Hayden! Are you playing Daddy’s drums again?” Then she blushed and added, “Hiii, Quincy!”

            Quincy stared at the celling, Edmond breathed a sigh of relief, and I could only wonder… Where does someone go in this town to play the drums without interruption?