Chapter Eight
Noah
I don’t know why I’m so nervous for the band’s gig at Levi’s Diner tonight. Maybe because we’ll be performing a new song that I’m not confident about. But I try to not let it distract me from what’s important. That we’re here and we’ll be rocking it out and hopefully this could turn into something.
The guys and I have practiced nonstop since school let out, and we arrived at the diner half an hour ago. We’ve got this.
“Packed house out there,” Mateo says as he peeks through the curtain. Levi’s is a tiny diner with very few customers, so having a packed house doesn’t say much, but the important thing is that we’re here.
We’ve only been performing publicly for a little while and haven’t gotten many gigs yet. Hopefully that will change after tonight.
“Let’s give them a show, then,” I tell my bandmates.
Elliot gestures to Aggie, the owner of the diner, that we’re ready. She walks onto the small stage and waves her arms around, trying to talk over the excited chatter.
“We have a special treat for you tonight,” she says. “The Rock’n Jocks are here to perform their new song. So without further ado, let’s welcome The Rock’n Jocks!”
The crowd claps and cheers. The curtains are pulled aside, exposing us to the small audience. Elliot hits his drumsticks, giving us a beat, then we start jamming it out. My nerves shoot out the window and I live in the moment.
We’re a rock band, but sometimes we like to change things up. Today, though, it’s strictly rock. I shout the lyrics into the mic, with Mateo and Wyatt backing me up.
I know the song isn’t our best, but the crowd is cheering and clapping along, and the music is great. We’re killing it.
And I’m loving every second of it. I don’t think about my conflicting two paths, or that I have a mountain of homework waiting to be done, or that I’m dreading college. It’s just me, the music, the guys, and the crowd.
I feel like this is what I’m meant to do. Where I belong.
My eyes are shut as I belt out the first half of the song. But when I open them and start the second half, I notice the crowd glancing at one another, as if they’re unsure what’s happening right now.
This is the part of the song where I struggled, but I hoped the crowd would get it. From the blank expressions on their faces, I understand that they don’t.
Trying not to panic, I force a smile and finish the song with a bang—at least what I hope is a bang.
The crowd, still glancing at one another in utter befuddlement, slowly claps. The guys and I exchanged looks, unsure what to make of their reaction.
“Shake it off,” I mutter to myself. Clearing my throat, I force another smile and start to sing the next song.
It’s one of our old ones, but no one really seems into it. I guess the vibe is gone after that awful song. Somehow, we make it through the night and rush off the stage to another room in pure embarrassment and shame.
“That was terrible!” Elliot chucks his drumsticks against the wall. I slip my guitar strap off my shoulders and slide down against the wall, covering my face with my hand. He’s right. We were dying up there. I can try to convince myself otherwise, but I know the truth.
We bombed our performance.
“So we had a bad gig,” Mateo says, setting his guitar against the wall. “Happens. We’ll do better on Sunday.”
“Sure we’ll do better,” Wyatt mutters with a scoff. “It’s over, guys.”
I lift my head. “Why are you giving up?”
He shrugs. “Not giving up, man. Just saying it’s a tough world out there and we need to be flawless.”
I glance away. “I’ll write better songs.”
“You’ve lost your touch, Noah,” Elliot grumbles.
Is that true? Have I? I know I’ve been distracted and worried about the future, but…
“I’ll try harder next time,” I tell him.
Wyatt crosses his arms over his chest. “We got a gig in two days. Think you can come up with something new?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “I can.” I hope.
Elliot nods once. “Good. I’m getting out of here while I still have some dignity.”
We thank Aggie for the opportunity. She tries to talk us into staying and eating something, but we assure her that we’re okay and need to be somewhere. Truth is, we’re too embarrassed to show our faces.
We pile our stuff into the van and drive toward Wyatt’s house. None of us says or does anything for the first few minutes. Then Elliot, at the wheel, mutters under his breath and Mateo’s browsing social media.
“There’s nothing here,” he tells us. “No one’s posted about us. Maybe word won’t get out about our crappy performance.”
I’m in the back of the van, scanning my lyrics notebook, trying to figure out what I can do to improve the song. But my brain is stuck.
I have nothing.
“Maybe we should just forget this band thing,” Wyatt, in the passenger seat, says. “Seems like a waste when we’ll go our separate ways after the summer.”
I bang my head on the window. Darn it.
“Heck no,” Mateo says. “We worked too hard to just give up. Noah, say something.”
I lift my head off the window and look from one guy to the other. “It’s my fault.”
“Dude, don’t blame yourself. You wrote one crappy song. It’s cool,” Mateo says.
Elliot grits his teeth. “One song is all it takes to finish us.”
Mateo scowls at him. “Give the guy a break.”
Elliot throws his hands up. “Easy for you to say. You guys will be done with the band after the summer. I want to pursue a career in music and I can’t do that with a tainted reputation.” He turns to me. “Fix this, Noah.”
I could demand someone else take responsibility for the songwriting, but what good will that do? We’re all upset and hurt, and shouting at each other will bring us nowhere.
“Let’s take a deep breath, all right?” I say. “Shake this off and prepare for our gig on Sunday. I’ll work on another song and if it’s not ready in time, we’ll just perform our old stuff.”
No one says anything for the remainder of the drive. We stop at Wyatt’s house to empty the van, then Mateo drives me home.
“You know Elliot doesn’t mean to be a jerk,” he tells me. “He’s just…you know.”
“Stuck in a band with his younger brother and his friends because he can’t find a better one.”
Mateo nods. We all know how frustrated and stressed Elliot is. Not only is he in a band with us, but he dropped out of college to pursue a music career.
My phone beeps with a notification. It’s a text from Wyatt, giving me a link to the popular social media app, Spill It!. The feedback is coming in now.
Everyone hated the performance.
Some reviews are helpful and constructive, while most tear us apart. I read a few out loud to Mateo, but after a bit, it gets too much and I throw my phone aside.
Mateo claps me on the back. “We’ll do better next time.”
Maybe my dad’s right to push me to football. I’m good at it, even though my heart isn’t into it. My heart breathes music, but if I’m not good enough and won’t be successful, will I regret choosing that path?
Sighing heavily, I rest my head on the car window and try to forget this terrible night.
I need to focus on Sunday’s gig. We can’t mess up again or it’s over.