life and have no idea how to play, but after about thirty seconds I realize it doesn’t matter, because no one can hear me. I close my eyes and have at it. When the song clashes to an end, at least six guys lean toward me and say, “Awesome!”
Monster, sitting next to me, beams with pride.
Verbena claps and bounces up and down. “You were great, Janie!”
My novelty act lasts one more song, and then I settle into being one of the guys. One of the Jam Band guys. We plow through six more songs, interspersed with a lot of arguing about who gets to play lead guitar and what the opening chord is and how the drummer—a kid with a shaved head and Ray-Bans named Pete—is lamer than ever, which causes Pete to throw down his sticks and stalk out of the room.
“He does that every Friday,” Monster leans over to inform me. “Fact is, he is a lame drummer. We’ve been trying to get rid of him for two years now. It’s a free country, or else we’d lock him out.”
I decide I like being part of a group where nobody gets locked out, no matter how lame they are.
At four forty-five, after a particularly raucous rendition of “Whole Lotta Love,” Monster stands up and announces, “Gotta pack it in, boys. Janitorial staff locks up at five.”
I shrug off my bass. My shoulders are aching, my fingertips are on the verge of blistering, and it’s possible I’ve lost half the hearing in my right ear. Which is why at first I think I’ve heard wrong when Verbena, caught up in the ecstasy of group participation, jumps up on a desk and announces, “Party at Janie’s two weeks from tomorrow, and everybody’s invited!”
The room erupts in appreciative whoops. I transmit to Verbena the first harrowing glare of our friendship. Sure, this is just a room of twelve misfit guys and a handful of not so misfits, but party announcements are like viruses. They spread. They get out of control. They end up with the local chapter of Hell’s Angels at your front door.
“You still need a ride?” Monster asks me after I put my bass back in its case.
I nod mutely.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,”
Monster tells me, nodding toward Verbena, who is still standing on the desk telling a crowd of Jam Banders that she doesn’t actually know where I live, but she’ll bring in maps next week. “Half these guys never leave the house. Too busy playing Guitar Hero.”
There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I turn to find Jeremy Fitch behind me. “Awesome playing today,” he tells me. “You’re a natural. So you need a ride or something?”
Or something? How about a kiss? A marriage proposal? A trip to Paris? Not necessarily in that order.
“Sure,” I respond before I can stop myself. “I’d love—”
That’s when I stop myself. “I mean, I’ve got a ride, but—”
I turn to Monster. “Uh, Jeremy wants to know if I want a ride. I mean, you probably have to go to work or something. . . .”
There is the barest hesitation on Monster’s part before he says, “Yeah, as a matter of fact I do, so if you want to catch a ride with the ol’ J-Dog, that’d be cool. But how about your friend over there? I can drop her off if she needs a ride.”
“Definitely!” I tell him, remembering my plan to bring Monster and Verbena together to see if anything clicks. “She definitely needs a ride.”
“Happy to do it,” Monster says. “Don’t forget to practice this weekend.”
“I won’t,” I promise, clicking shut my case and grinning like a maniac. “At least thirty minutes a day.”
Monster gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Attagirl.”
And then I follow Jeremy Fitch—the Jeremy Fitch—out the door and into the hallway. Two minutes later we’re in his car (Honda Civic circa the last millennium) and riding down the road to Farm World. The music pumping out of the Honda’s tinny speakers negates the need for small talk, so I relax and look out the window and try not to think about Sarah. Jeremy is just giving me a ride, after all. He hasn’t proposed marriage or asked me out on a date—yet. He’s just thoughtfully offered me a ride home from school.
I snuggle down into the idea of how wonderfully old-fashioned this feels. An act of honest chivalry, mingled perhaps—a girl can dream—with at least a modicum of romantic interest. Nothing physical will pass between us, of