the metal gods they’d once dreamed of being. Jude’s guitar was in bad shape, but by the end of the day, they’d even pieced together one and a half songs of their own.
“Shit’s fast,” Kram said, sweat dripping from his chin.
But the Bastards was no longer a sufficiently menacing moniker. After practice, Jude armed himself with chalk, leading the band name brainstorm on the basement chalkboard:
The Ass-Kickers
The Righteous Ninjas
Salvation Army
Just Say Hell No
The Underground
The Law
X-Ray
X-Men
X-ecute
X-emplify
Against All Odds
Origin of Trust
What Peril Falls
When Truth Hurts
Friend or Foe (???)
It was very likely the greatest number of words Jude had voluntarily composed, and he felt a frenzied sense of accomplishment.
“They all sound like the title of a 60 Minutes story,” said Delph, who had cut off his mullet and was now sporting a crew cut. Kram chuckled, and Delph said, “Shut up, moron, you’ve never seen 60 Minutes.”
“Why don’t you just call yourselves the Get-Along Gang?”
Everyone had forgotten Eliza, who was sitting at the top of the stairs. She had been drifting in and out of their practice all day. She didn’t look up from the toenails she was painting.
“Ha-ha,” Jude said. “Hilarious.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t make fun of things you don’t know anything about,” Johnny told her.
“How could I know about it?” she asked. “You wouldn’t take me to any shows.”
“That was for your own safety,” Johnny reminded her.
“Whatever,” she said, blowing on her nails. “I don’t really care what you call yourselves.”
“I don’t like any of the names either,” Kram admitted.
“There are a lot of Xs up there,” said Delph.
Kram and Delph had adapted quickly to the presence of Johnny’s new wife, treating her with a distant awe. Jude had told them that the baby was Teddy’s. It had been a relief to tell someone, and he hadn’t thought twice about it. Wouldn’t Teddy want them to know? But Johnny had gone ape. What if it got out? Jude didn’t see why it mattered. It wasn’t like he’d told his parents. And Johnny and Eliza were married now.
Jude doubted it was a coincidence that Delph and Kram had jumped back into the band with such little resistance. Kram, he was a pushover—he would have joined an a cappella group if Johnny had asked him to—but two months ago Delph was selling pot, and now he had joined a band that was, at present count, 50 percent straight edge. It was the baby they were in awe of, Jude thought, the little punk Eliza carried in utero, the embryonic offspring of drug-ruined Teddy. As they’d inventoried their ancient equipment this morning, lifting the sheet off the rusty drum kit, the heady, homesick feeling of being together again sparkled with the slow-falling dust, and Jude recognized what was holding them together. It was the unspoken absence of the missing band member.
But it appeared Jude still had some convincing to do. He did care about this band. He hadn’t cared about much before. He didn’t care about school, or girls, or his family; he’d cared only about getting fucked up, about getting Teddy fucked up, about getting Teddy to laugh that fucked-up laugh, and now that laugh tormented him. He wanted to wipe that laugh off the face of the earth. He wanted to wipe the smile off the face of every hippie he met.
“This isn’t boarding school,” Jude said. “This is not the talent show, this is not your mom’s church bake sale, Kram.” Now he had his place at the front of the classroom, stabbing the air with his chalk, and Johnny took a seat in one of the schoolhouse chairs, as though to say, Let’s see what you’ve got, grasshopper. Now Jude was the one who had something to sell Delph and Kram, even if they’d already been sold. Pictures of the insides of clubs they’d never even heard of. A record label, distribution, tour dates. In Delph’s expression, Jude could see the familiar battling forces of excitement and suspicion. But no. It’s true. Go to New York. Go to D.C., L.A., Boston, even Connecticut. You’ll see. This was not MTV. This was not Ticketmaster. This was not get-discovered-in-a-shopping-mall. Start-a-record-label-in-your-dorm-room-and-turn-into-millionaires. Make-your-dad-your-manager-so-he-can-sell-your-rights-and-fuck-you-over. Fuck millionaires, fuck managers. This was 100 percent grassroots—of the people, by the people, for the people. This was jump off a stage and know ten guys will catch you. This was fuck your dreams and make your destiny.
Jude let his chalk rest at last. He was sweating. Johnny, legs crossed, gave him a nod of approval. When Jude looked up at