Nine
“If they’re awful, I’m not going to be able to hide my laughter.”
“Odette!” I pause, my finger hovering over the doorbell. “You can’t laugh!”
“Shame is an excellent motivator.”
“I’m serious,” I hiss, panic swelling like a tidal wave.
“Oh relax,” she says. “I’m joking. I’ll probably behave.”
I’m considering blowing off this band practice completely when she snakes around me and presses the bell.
“Come on, it’ll be fun! Plus, think how psyched your sexy and scary goth love professor will be with an audience of two instead of zero.”
“He’s not my goth anything,” I say, wincing at the immaculate lawn of the sprawling brick house Ash gave me the address to. “And I don’t know that I would put ‘sexy’ and ‘scary’ in the same sentence.”
“Why? He’s both. Exhibit A—” She holds one hand out. “You literally look at him and can see he’s sexy.” She holds out her other hand. “Exhibit B, he can be scary. Apparently, Devon Black asked him to borrow a pen once, and Mary Beth swears he growled at him.”
“I refuse to believe he growled over a pen.”
“Oh, I believe it.” Odette grins as Ash swings the door open.
“Odette,” he says, both a declaration and a question.
I ignore it and smile up at him. He fills the doorway, as if someone just happened to forget a Dracula cosplayer in an elegant beige foyer.
I don’t realize I say that last part out loud until Odette giggles.
“Gotta say, I kinda thought you at least lived in a creepy Victorian,” she says, leaning around him. “Or a crumbling fortress?”
He sighs and swings the door wider.
“Marlowe! The throw pillows match the curtains!” she yells back as she walks right past him.
I want to apologize, but he looks so put out that I can’t help being delighted. “I couldn’t resist the opportunity for you to make another fan.”
“Are there three robot vacuums?” Odette’s voice is getting farther and farther away.
He reaches out and pulls me into the house by my bag strap. “Let’s get on with it before she starts opening cabinets.”
I leave my shoes by the pile near the front door and follow him across plush carpet to the stairs. Odette catches up, head swiveling at delicate sconces, pastoral landscapes with gilded frames, and a banister that curls down into a finished basement.
Overstuffed chairs and end tables have been shoved in the corner to make room for a drum kit, keyboard, and so many amps he could open his own pawnshop.
Ash pauses in the middle of the room, and I get my first look at the rest of Never Mind the Monsters.
“Everyone, this is Marlowe, like I told you about.” He clears his throat, and I wonder exactly what he’s said about me. “And her friend Odette.”
I recognize two of them from school but am blanking on the others.
I smile and wave, my hand jerking up as if possessed. “Hi! I’m excited to hear you play today.”
“I’m here, but not sure if excitement is on the table,” Odette adds.
The girl I don’t recognize chuckles a little and adjusts the black guitar against her body. Its jagged edges cut like a lightning bolt, clashing with the warm, comfortable room.
Ash follows my gaze. “This is Hazel, lead guitarist. She goes to Saint Mary’s.”
I haven’t met many people from the Catholic school across town, as most of the people I know end up in a Southern Baptist or Methodist pew on Sundays, but her buzzed blond hair doesn’t scream Catholic schoolgirl to me. It pops against her dark brown skin, and nothing about her leather pants or guitar-wielding-zombie T-shirt gives any indication she spends most of her time in knee socks. I smile, willfully holding back from waving a second time.
“Hey there, I’m Odette,” my friend says, a little too loud. Hazel gives her a small nod of acknowledgment.
Ash continues down the row. “That’s Spencer on drums, you probably know him from school.” I do; he also played drums in band, and was football-adjacent enough to show up at a lot of the same parties I used to frequent. Something happened at the end of last year, and I heard he never showed up to another band practice. He looks at me, eyes wary, and doesn’t say a word.
“Mateo’s on bass, and also in our grade.”
I shake off the chill of Spencer’s gaze, and slowly thaw under the warm grin of River Haven’s biggest flirt. I know Mateo Acosta better than Ash might realize. He dated Tiffany last year, and she’s never had a kiss she didn’t want to tell the entire lunch table about. I blush, and I swear Mateo can read my mind because his grin widens. “Long time no see, Marlowe.”
“Last but not least we have Julian.” I look up when Ash’s voice softens. Julian stands quietly behind the keyboards in a starched polo and jeans that someone has definitely ironed. His baby face is hidden behind glasses that are a touch too big for him, but that he’ll grow into in a few years. I put him at fourteen or maybe fifteen. A touch of pink blossoms under our attention on his light brown cheeks. “Julian’s dad works with mine, and he’s homeschooled. We’re calling this a music extracurricular, right?”
“Something like that,” Julian says, polishing a key with his finger.
“And then there’s you,” I say.
“Then there’s me.”
“And you’re the singer?” I confirm.
“And guitar, although we could unplug me and Hazel’s good enough to take the place of two people.”
“I am,” she says, looking up from her amp.
Odette makes a small sigh beside me.
“Okay,” I say, feeling like I’ve caused enough of a disruption. “We don’t want to interrupt. Please pretend we aren’t here.”
“And you’re supposed to be what? An influencer or something?” Hazel asks, a frown on her painted-black lips.
“Not really,” I say, but the question is fair. “I’m just trying to help Ash with revamping the band’s online presence.”
“And what makes you think you can do better?” Her tone leaves no time for nonsense, and I deeply appreciate a person that says what they think.
“Well, since you currently have a neon-green website that nobody can read, and pictures so outdated I didn’t even recognize you as the guitarist, I don’t think I have to try very hard.”
“The bar is in hell,” Odette confirms.
“Hey, what’s wrong with the website? I still owe twelve trips to the mall for that.” Mateo frowns.
“You were overcharged, but I respect the hustler,” I say, settling into one of the chairs shoved in the corner. Odette perches on the arm, and Hazel goes back to untangling pedals and cords.
Ash sheds his oversized black button-down and slides a white electric guitar across his body. He walks over to me and carefully drapes the shirt across the back of my chair, his black tank top riding up against the instrument. Deep riffs fill the air as Mateo warms up, and Ash leans in.
“Marlowe, I just wanted you to know that it can get a little loud in here.”
I blink, waiting for the point. “This is a band practice, Ash. I’m aware.”
He pauses and fidgets with the guitar strap. “I just wanted to make sure that was okay.”
I’ve gotten lost in the conversation, and he’s just hovering over me like I’m supposed to understand what he’s saying.
Odette shifts next to me, before breaking the tension with a sharp “Not all autistic people have issues with loud noises.”
I flush, and the meaning becomes clear. There it is again, rearing up like a scarlet A that brands me as different. I appreciate him trying to be thoughtful, but I would also like everyone to mind their own business and just let me navigate things by myself. Unless it’s something surprising and overwhelming, in which case I would like a heads-up.
But also not, if that makes sense?
I want it both ways, and for them to read my mind so we can avoid these conversations. Or maybe a different brain. Or maybe for everybody else to have a brain like mine.
Josh would frequently ignore whatever he felt was not relevant to his plans or interests, and in a way, it was almost freeing that he never acknowledged my differences. Until he finally did, and decided he felt I was a little too broken to keep.
Ash is still hovering, so I nod once. “It’s fine.”
He looks like he wants to say something else, but he turns and walks back to the band without another word. They all move into position, and I pull up the camera on my phone. Hazel tests a few notes, and they fill the room while feedback buzzes through the amp. I try to frame some shots, but the composition feels off. The group looks the part—there are enough pieces of electronics here that speak to some level of competency—but the shots also include pictures on the wall of Ash and his parents at Disney World. They include the tub of summer clothes in the corner waiting for someone to store them in the attic. They still capture Ash’s mother’s dedication to beige linen drapes.
None of this screams rock band or big time. It all feels a little small.
But him… there’s nothing small about Ashton Hayes. Not his giant-sized combat boots, or his towering body blocking out the light when he’s looking down at me and trying to pretend like he’s annoyed.
And not his voice. He leans forward toward a microphone that feels frankly unnecessary in this space, and every syllable winds around me.
Spencer’s drums and the dissonant sounds Hazel is coaxing out of her guitar are almost too much, and the build to the bridge crashes all around me.
Odette moves a little closer, and her raised eyebrow tells me what I feel but wasn’t sure wasn’t biased by this deal we’ve worked out.
They’re good. Like, really good.
Julian’s fingers fly across the keyboard, and I doubt he’s even aware any of us are still here. I lift my phone to try again. Hazel’s bulky rings slide down the strings of her guitar. Ash’s eyes close, and he leans into the mic, the strain of every note written across his neck and white knuckles. Spencer’s arms rise higher and higher, as the beat climbs to something just out of reach. The sounds swell around me like a wave one last time, and the closing notes fade until all I have are ringing ears and a racing heart.
Ash’s head snaps up, and there are too many threads of too many thoughts to give him anything coherent. I remember to smile, and when that doesn’t feel like enough, I mouth the words I like that one. He ducks his head, the small twitch in the corner of his mouth almost lost in the movement, before he straightens and murmurs “again” into the mic.
They finish, and then they play it again. Then again. It gets a little smoother with each pass, and my foot starts tapping along with Spencer’s beats. By the fifth attempt, I’m humming along with the chorus, and I can feel Odette swaying next to me.
I scroll through my pictures, but they don’t capture that thing they have when they play. That spark. These pictures are all ordinary, and they are not ordinary. They’re not perfect, and my nerves jangle with each wrong note, and the drum solo that’s maybe a little too long, but the melody has found a way under my skin.
I can already tell I’m not going to get anything I need out of this practice. This dim, tastefully decorated basement is not going to impress anyone. I try again and again, each angle falling short.
“Did you get some good pictures, Marlowe? My right is my hot side,” Mateo says on the next break.
“Well,” I start, trying to find the best way to frame this information. Odette wrinkles her nose as I pull up my last attempt. “I’m not sure these are the pictures we’re looking for.”
“Are they blurry? Do you need a phone upgrade?” Spencer asks, his tone sharp.
“It’s the space,” I say, abandoning tact. “It’s clear you’re in a finished basement in the suburbs. It doesn’t match anything about your band.”
“It’s not like we have anywhere else to practice,” Ash says.
“Who says you have to be practicing to get your pictures taken?” Odette asks.
Hazel focuses all of her attention on Odette. “Do you have a better suggestion?”
“The world’s your oyster,” Odette says, her tone flirty enough for me to take a second look at Hazel. “Maybe the school after hours? Abandoned railroad tracks? The middle of an intersection?”
“A graveyard.”
Every head turns to look at Julian. He shrugs. “It works with the imagery of this song.”
Hazel smiles. “That’s sick, I love it.”
“Okay, but I’m not dragging the entire kit out there,” Spencer says.
Ash smiles at me, and it’s not even my idea, but I feel like I’ve somehow earned that dimple. “Oh, this is going to be good. Everyone free this weekend?”
“We’re going to have to think of something to tell my mom,” Julian says, sighing.
We agree on Saturday after next, and Odette smiles slyly between me and Ash as he walks us out. She holds her phone up to her ear. “Yes? Hello?”
“Your phone didn’t ring.” I squint at her as her expression melts into innocence.
“Yes, that’s correct. Sexy and scary.” She holds her hand over the microphone. “So sorry, I’m afraid it’s urgent. I’ll see you in the car, Marlowe.”
She skips down the steps and I pray for Georgia to suddenly develop more fault lines and swallow me into the ground. “I’m going to smother her in her sleep one day.”
“I assume she grows on you.” The corner of his mouth quirks up, and blossoms into a smile (with teeth!) as my face burns like magma.
I slip on my shoes and hover on his stoop, not quite ready to go. “Will you have to come up with something to tell your mom too?”
The smile slips a little. “I’m good.”
“Your parents already know graveyards are your natural habitat?” I desperately try to find the ease that just evaporated in front of me.
“Nah, they’d have to be here to notice.” He leans against the doorjamb, his posture at odds with his words.
“Are they on a trip?”
“Usually.” His eyebrows bunch together before relaxing into a bland expression that feels forced. Practiced. “They own a food-packaging company. Lots of traveling to different branches.”
I look behind him at the pristine beige foyer. “And you’re here all alone?”
He puts his hand on the doorknob, slowly moving the heavy door between us. “Come on, Marlowe,” he says, his tone slightly mocking. “Dracula’s always alone.”