Hendrix drifted past the living room. “Shut up, loser.”
I knew Dale would’ve taken that personally, being that he wasn’t interested in any extracurricular activities that didn’t involve skateboarding, and he wasn’t even in the band. Hendrix had tried to include him last time, but it didn’t work out. Dale was worse than me at anything that created sound, and that was saying something.
He’d dubbed himself their band manager, to which they’d all laughed at but had still agreed. Hendrix said it was better to let him think he was helping.
They remained in the kitchen for a while, trying to revamp some lyrics Hendrix had written a year ago. I kept the TV volume low, awaiting that rare sound. The sound of Everett’s laughter.
“No, no, no,” Graham practically yelled over the noise of their bickering. “First things first, we need to nail our sound.”
“Our sound?” Hendrix asked.
“Yeah, our sound.”
Everett seemed baffled. “We’re in a fucking band. Bands are full of sounds, you idiot.”
“No, you aren’t listening,” Graham explained. “We need the sound. You know, hard rock, reggae, country, blues, alternative rock, pop-rock, hard-core, screamo…”
“You lost me at algae,” Hendrix muttered.
“It’s reggae.” Graham groaned. “Amateurs. Fucking amateurs, man.”
“Let’s worry about our sound later and actually make sure we can string something together long enough to call ourselves a fucking band.”
He had nothing to worry about. Everett had the kind of scratchy, melodic, soul-infused voice that could fit with the Spice Girls and Slipknot combined.
But if they had a sound, I’d call it blues rock with an edge. Everett’s voice held too much grief, too much honesty, too much of everything to venture into boy band territory.
“Okay, well what about a name?” Hendrix said. “I can’t even with The Studs, Graham. Fuck that.”
“Orange Apples,” Graham said.
“What?” three voices said at once.
“Orange Apples.”
I bit my lips, but when the laughter threatened to burst free, I stuffed a cushion over my face.
Hendrix cursed. “Nice. Real fucking sophisticated.”
I could almost see Graham shrugging his shoulders up to his ears as he said, “That’s the thing. It can’t be too sophisticated, or no one will take us seriously.”
Hendrix sounded exasperated. “I’m going to need you to repeat what you just said so you can hear how stupid it sounded.”
“No, wait. He’s right,” Everett spoke up, surprising me. I would’ve thought he’d be the least enthusiastic to name the band Orange Apples.
“Thank you,” Graham practically shouted.
Everett wasn’t done. “But I still don’t think Orange Apples is the, um, right fit.”
“No one will show up to our gigs,” Hendrix said. “We’ll sound like a bunch of twats.” Hendrix’s previous failed attempts at forming a band had never even made it this far, so I could see why he was hesitant to seemingly poke fun at something that meant a lot to him.
“Uh, excuse me?” Graham said. “The Arctic Monkeys, Queen, The Doors, Pink Floyd—”
Hendrix cut him off. “Okay, shut up.”
“Point made.” Graham made a hissing sound, and I could imagine him licking his finger and sticking it in the air.
“Yeah but Queen is sophisticated as fuck,” Dale piped up. “Just saying.”
Groans sounded, then Everett snapped, “Jesus. Fine. Orange Apples will do.”
“Will do?” Graham scoffed. “It’s fucking brilliant. I can just see it now… sold-out stadiums, the glowing orange apple on billboards around the globe, stickers to slap on chick’s ass—ouch.”
“Stevie’s home, dickhead.” That from Hendrix.
“Like she hasn’t heard the word ass before,” Graham grumbled.
“Christ.” From Everett, who I bet was probably rubbing his temples.
“Screw it,” Dale said, followed by a thump that sounded as though he’d slapped the dining table. “Let’s vote. All in favor of Orange Apples, raise your hand.”
“That’s bullshit. There’s no other option,” Hendrix protested.
Tossing the pillow aside, I rose from the couch and crept down the hall to the kitchen.
Graham laughed. “Not my fault you don’t show enough initiative. Snooze and lose, bro.”
Everett tilted his head, watching me as I leaned into the corner of the counter.
Three out of four hands shot into the air, and slowly, I raised mine too.
Hendrix sputtered, fingers aimed at me and Dale. “Those two aren’t even in the band!”
Graham stabbed a drumstick his way. “You never stated the rules before voting. Again, show some initiative earlier instead of whining like a baby after.”
“Oh, I’m the baby? Orange fucking Apples? Really?” Hendrix turned to Everett. “Rett, are you hearing this crap?”
“Yeah.” Everett dragged his eyes off me and cleared his throat. “And I don’t care. Let’s just play already and quit dicking around.”