Chapter 24 Chase
Chase
“What do you think of this lyric?”
Stella sings one of the lines to “Hallelujah.” The part about love being compared to shooting someone who outdrew you. She leans back on her hands as we stare out at the wind-churned lake, her bare toes coated in ruby polish and clumps of sand.
I shrug, pulling my knees to my chest. The late-summer afternoon is hotter than a space heater in hell, but the breeze is sharp, adding a much-needed balm. “Never thought about it before.”
She gapes at me. “Really? Lyrics make the song.”
“I tend to focus on the musical progression. The structure, movement, melody.”
“Typical guitarist.”
“I guess.” I glance at her, the humidity curling the baby hairs around her forehead. “Why? What do you think?”
“I don’t know. That line has always stumped me,” she muses, wiggling her toes.
“You’re not supposed to take it literally. It’s poetry.”
“But it doesn’t make sense.” Her nose scrunches.
Before I can reply, a beach ball smacks me in the back of the head. Stella bursts out laughing, collapsing in the sand as a little girl races over to us, apologizing.
Grinning, I toss the beach ball back to her. She scampers away in her Strawberry Shortcake swimsuit and pink bucket hat.
Stella’s coffee-brown hair fans out over the lake-stolen sandcastles and glittering pebbles.
There’s music in her eyes. While my sister was born a fish—and our parents have always steered her toward competitive swimming—I know that with every year that passes, her dreams blur.
She’s almost sixteen. Old enough to know that dreams aren’t always linear.
“Do you ever think about quitting?” I ask, nodding at the water.
I watch her trace circles in the sand with her toe. She doesn’t respond right away. Just stares at the lake like it might answer for her.
“Every time I dive in,” she finally says. “The water feels like home. But music feels like me.”
And there it is. The silent tug-of-war between expectation and identity. Between what we’ve always done and what we might become.
“You’ve got time.”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “Maybe if I become a lyrical genius like Leonard Cohen before college gets here, the path will become clearer.” A beat. “Even though I still don’t get that line.”
A smile tugs. “Doesn’t matter what it means. Just what it means to you.”
“So…someone he loved hurt him first, and he had to learn how to hurt them right back?”
“Could be.”
“Okay, but how do you shoot someone who outdrew you?” She looks up at me, her hazel eyes narrowing in the midday sun. “You’d already be dead.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” I murmur. “Love is a losing battle.”
I press back on my hands, breaking away to look out at the water.
Baby waves ripple across the surface. White egrets flock overhead.
The air stills.
I glance down at Stella. “No one gets out alive.”
***
My knuckles rap against the red door.
Nerves flick down my spine; I have no idea what I’m doing. But options are low, and given the way my neighbor is tearing it up on that kit—clean fills, steady timing, no overplaying—I’d be stupid not to ask.
I ring the bell. Once, twice.
The drumming cuts off mid-roll. A second later, the door swings open.
Rock appears in a pair of ratty jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt, twin drumsticks in his hand. “Yo. If you’re here to complain about the noise—”
“I’m not. Kind of the opposite.” I wedge a shoulder against the age-old pillar and stuff my hands in my pockets. “I was wondering if you’d help me make it.”
He blinks half a dozen times. Slow. Processing. “Pretty sure I’m too high to get the context.”
“I’m putting a band together,” I say, my gaze swinging to the sticks. “And I need a drummer.”
“A band?” He glances around me, as if waiting for Kurt Cobain’s ghost to pop out of the bushes. “I don’t know, man. I’m kinda over the startup-band grind. They’re all busted strings and sheer luck these days.”
Can’t say I disagree. But maybe I can improve the luck.
“Listen, we’re sort of scrambling. And I can tell that you’re good, thanks to the 3:00 a.m. jam sessions rattling my walls.”
He sends me a salute.
“We’re still on the hunt for a bassist, but the rest of us were asked to perform at The Soundproof,” I continue. “It’s a music venue out in New York—”
“No fucking shit.”
“Yeah. It’s a big deal.”
His eyes widen as much as they can. “Whoa. Hell yeah. Shit yeah.”
“We practice a few miles away at my buddy’s house. It’s just been covers up till now, but we have some new stuff we’re piecing together. If you’re interested—”
“Sign me the fuck up.”
“Really?”
“I’m in. I don’t have shit-else to do.”
“Cool. Give me your number and I’ll send you the details. We usually practice around midnight, but I realize that’s not normal. We can figure something else out.”
“Nah. I’m a night owl.” He stares at me, eyes narrowing. “Hey, what about that girl you’re friends with? Borrowed my phone a few months back. She’s got blueish hair. Kind of pink.”
I blink at him. “Purple?”
He jabs a finger in my face, nodding. “That’s fucking it. Purple. She in the band too?” A drowsy smile stretches. “She was cute as hell.”
“Uh, yeah. She is.” My hands curl inside my pockets. “Annalise.”
“Nice, nice.”
“Her brother plays rhythm guitar and sings backup vocals. Tag. If you’re free tonight, I’ll introduce you.”
“Freer than a mall Santa in January.”
My left eye twitches. “All right. Sounds good.” I add his number into my phone, my gaze lifting. “Is Rock your real name?”
“Nickname. Last name’s Rockwell.”
“And your first name?”
“Norman.”
My head snaps all the way up. I stare at him, scratching my cheek. “Norman Rockwell.”
“Yeah, man. Don’t make a big deal about it. The folks didn’t realize it was already taken.”
“Got it.” One more question simmers. “So, is the nickname because you were already into music, or did the nickname trigger your love for music?”
Rock’s pupils dilate to giant inkblots. He breathes out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Dude. That’s deep. I’ll get back to you on that one.”
I hold back the laugh. “I’ll text you later.”
Twirling the drumsticks in the air, he catches them with ease, then points them in my direction. “Let’s fuckin’ go.”
When he shuts the door, I head back to my house. Toaster greets me at the threshold with a dental stick, tail wagging.
My eyes pan over to the wall of guitars, most of them nearly finished, except for one: my big work in progress.
There’s still a lot more to do. Right now I’m figuring out how to ditch the traditional pickups and build something revolutionary by integrating MIDI sensors into the fretboard.
When you strum, the guitar sends a signal, not just to an amp, but to external gear that can manipulate sound and trigger lights.
Like a plasma ball.
The lights flicker, sound bends, the neck reacts, and it’s all tied together by the MIDI system, controlling both sound and visuals.
It’d be the closest you could get to holding lightning in your hands.
The problem I’m running into is the weight. Plasma effects inside a guitar neck would require specialized materials like quartz glass, making it too heavy to take off. Any musician worth their salt would scoff at the notion of carrying this beast through multiple grueling sets.
But it’s something. A start.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, reminded of the other fresh start taking shape.
Swallowing, I shoot Annie a quick text.
Me: Think we have a drummer.
An hour slips by. Then two more.
By midnight, I’m hauling my new amp, two guitars, and some solid news over to Tag’s place, ready to light up the basement with ideas and hours of brainstorming.
But when I hit the bottom step and glance around, it hits me—
Annie never replied.
And she’s not here.