Josh had omitted to mention Kallie's instrument of choice for a good reason: Lo and behold, she was an aspiring guitarist, with the emphasis on "aspiring." Tash saw Kallie removing a guitar from her case and muttered a phrase that seemed to consist entirely of expletives, while Kallie smiled as if it were the most delightful coincidence in the world.

Josh sidled up and grinned at me, presumably to rea.s.sure me that this was all for the best. I even believed it until he wrapped an arm around Kallie's shoulders, easing her toward him like he was claiming her. Meanwhile Kallie ran her fingers along a broken guitar string, seemingly unaware of his attention.

"Guess this is a bad time to say I don't have any spare strings, right?" she asked no one in particular.

Josh squeezed Kallie's shoulders playfully and nodded in Tash's direction. "Don't worry, Tash has spares. Can you fix this, Tash?"

Tash glared at Kallie, no doubt thinking of several better uses for a steel string. I contemplated asking Will to bail Kallie out instead, but then I realized that his ba.s.s guitar strings wouldn't work.

"I only have one spare set," Tash huffed.

Josh produced a five-dollar bill like so much spare change he'd found in the folds of his pocket. "You can get yourself another, right?"

Tash hesitated, but she took Kallie's battered guitar, wound the string around the nut, and tuned it methodically. Then she tried tuning the neighboring string as well, which instantly snapped. She gazed at her dwindling supply of spare strings and shook her head.

"Have you ever tuned this?"

"Of course," insisted Kallie.

"With what? A tuning fork?"

"No. I only play by myself, so I just tune the upper strings to the lowest."

Tash threw up her hands in surrender. "Okay, I'm done. I'm not going to sit here and replace every single string."

Josh dug into his pocket and retrieved five more five-dollar bills. "Just get on with it, Tash."

He meant it to end the discussion right there, but instead all eyes were drawn to the wad of notes he dangled like a carrot inches from Tash's face. Even Will looked up, his face creased like he'd just detected a nasty odor, or maybe in distaste at his brother's flaunting the family wealth in public.

Tash paused again, but it was just for show. It was clear she'd do it, and was privately hoping that every single one of the strings snapped before she was done.

Which they almost did. Twenty-five minutes later, Kallie had four new guitar strings, Tash had twenty dollars, Josh had his arm surgically attached to Kallie's shoulder, and Dumb had significantly less than two hours to learn a new song and discover they had just been reinvented as a soft rock band.

"What?" Tash exploded.

"Soft rock," I repeated. "If we can learn this song today, we'll be heard on KSFT-FM, and interviewed live too." (Okay, so I was getting ahead of myself, but I figured if it all fell through I'd be out of a job anyway, so it hardly mattered. After all, there were only twelve more days until my month was up.) "It'll be serious exposure, the kind we can use to get Dumb's music heard on other stations, maybe even get us paying gigs."

I knew I had Josh at "exposure." At "paying," I had Tash too. I never knew when I had Will, so I just discounted him completely. Then I looked at Kallie-she was technically a member too now, hard as that was to believe-and she smiled back vacantly, which was perfect. Then I signaled to Ed to get started, which he did after an annoyed glance at his watch.

For the next hour and a half I watched with morbid fascination as Kallie tried to coordinate her playing with Tash, Will seemed to slip in and out of consciousness, and Josh sang "I'll stay with you / We'll see this through" like he was dry heaving. By the time it was all over, Ed looked exhausted, Kallie seemed to be having second thoughts about joining us, and I'd discovered that my least favorite song in the whole wide world was the one I wrote myself.

CHAPTER 20.

If I'd thought that Dumb's first recording session had taught them a lesson about discipline and studio etiquette, I was sadly mistaken. Tash spent the first five minutes outside with Baz, lecturing him about some aspect of the recording that I probably wouldn't be able to hear anyway. When she finally joined everyone else, she moved her chair as far away from Kallie as possible, even though they were playing roughly the same music.

"You'll be pleased to know I brought an extra broom," said Baz, taking a seat beside me. "You know, just in case you wear out the first one."

He erupted into laughter, which was kind of annoying, so I pretended that my hearing aids had been turned off. By the time I signaled they were on again, he didn't bother to repeat the joke.

Even with several legitimate reasons for the recording to go badly-lack of rehearsal time, ongoing issues with the studio headphones, Kallie's inability to play guitar-Josh decided to spice things up a bit by adding some sound effects (pretend coughing, burping, vomiting) to the first two renditions of "Loving Every Part of You." I couldn't exactly hear what he was doing, of course, but I could see it clearly enough. Meanwhile, the rest of the band plowed on, lost in their own little worlds.

When Josh reprised his hilarious antics for the third run-through, Baz had clearly had enough. He jumped out of his chair, shut down the mixing console, and began pacing around the control room.

"If I spend much more time with your band, I may just check back into prison for a break!" he cried.

"That wouldn't exactly help," I pointed out.

"No, but then, what would? Don't misunderstand me: I need the cash. But I'm still tempted to call the Battle of the Bands organizers and tell them to keep their money."

I couldn't exactly blame him, but flouncing around the room wasn't achieving anything. "Sit down, Baz. Can't you just pretend this isn't about the money? It's your chance to make them sound better."

"And what about you? You're a manager, or at least you claim to be. But you've suddenly got an extra member you don't need, and the group's sound has done a one-eighty. So what are you in this for, if it's not the money?"

I sighed. "Okay, yeah, it's about the money."

He smacked his thigh. "See?"

"My parents raided my college fund to pay for my deaf sister to get a cochlear implant, and I thought maybe I could get Dumb some paid work."

Even as I said it I realized how stupid it sounded, but Baz's look of triumph disappeared immediately. He ran his hand along his ponytail, looked through the window into the studio, and rolled his eyes as Josh ogled Kallie from behind. "You seem like a honest person, Piper, and you know these kids better than me. So just tell me they're worth the effort. Convince me this is a band worth fighting for."

I watched Josh strutting, Ed practicing, Kallie hiding, Will s.p.a.cing, and Tash gazing at Will, and realized that Baz was right. This wasn't a group at all. There was no togetherness, no blending-just five separate flavors of an indigestible dish called Dumb.

Baz opened a magazine and sat down, propping his feet up like he was settling down for a restful afternoon. I didn't even blame him. What else was he supposed to do? Dumb wasn't his group, it was mine. Countless bands had come and gone in the time he'd been running his studio, most of them too insignificant to be mourned by anyone except the members themselves. And yet I already felt nostalgic as I peered through the gla.s.s and my eyes glazed over with tears. I wondered what might have been if they could only have put their egos aside and concentrated on the one thing that mattered most: playing music.

And that's when the activity inside the studio stopped, and five pairs of eyes stared right back at me.

I walked through the door and stood before them, sighed deeply as I recalled the opportunity we'd thrown away. It was too wasteful, too frustrating to comprehend. And even though I knew I should apologize for contemplating quitting on them, I couldn't do it. I was too angry. So angry I needed to hit something. Which is how my fist came to make contact with the cinder block wall.

"You idiots!" I screamed. "You've got free use of a studio, a professional mentor, and you still can't even pretend to play together. Well, that's about to change. You're gonna work your b.u.t.ts off for the next hour, or I'm pulling the plug on everything: the Mys.p.a.ce page, the radio shows, every everything." Josh raised his hand, but I shut him down. "Whatever the h.e.l.l it is you think you're about to say, Josh, forget it. Just shut up. Right now, all of you should be ashamed to be heard by anyone. Right now, I'm ashamed to be your manager." No one moved a muscle. "Now, I'm going to beg Baz to give us one more hour. Just one hour. Unless you can make a song work by then, he's done with you. And so am I."

I turned on my heel and strode into the control room, where Baz greeted me with a subtle nod that a.s.sured me he approved of the plan. And for the next hour-while my knuckles bled and my hand throbbed-Dumb worked hard. My eyes told me that no single rendition was perfect, but after each one they compared notes, and listened as Baz offered suggestions.

When the session was over they looked exhausted, packing up their instruments in silence. One by one they filed past me without a word of support or dissent, and I realized that in forging a group from Dumb, I might have alienated myself. But then Ed shuffled by, and the grin he wore told me I'd done exactly what I needed to do.

In the far corner of the room, Baz ejected a CD and handed it over. "Here's the best track-not perfect, but useable. If this is who Dumb is going to be, then send it out to radio stations, put it on your webpage. Start generating buzz. Get people listening."

"Okay."

"Look, you've got one recording session left. Do us all a favor and wait a while before booking it, okay? There's a whole world of rock music out there, and you should get acquainted with it. Get everyone up to speed. Learn new material. When you're ready, I'll be here."

He held out his hand and I shook it gratefully, and as our eyes met I had the feeling I'd earned that most elusive prize-his respect.

"One more thing," he said, letting go of my hand. "I know the sacrifices rock bands make for their image, but people are going to notice if one of the members isn't even playing."

I gasped. "What? Who?"

"That new girl. Tash told me you wanted her microphone turned off. . . . Didn't you?"

I didn't answer that question, because I didn't have to. Baz shook his head sympathetically, but as I left the studio I knew that whatever respect I'd just won had already evaporated. Maybe it was deserved too, because instead of thinking about how I should bring Tash back in line, I spent the rest of the day wondering if I could just cover the whole thing up.

But when had things ever been that easy?

CHAPTER 21.

The following day I received an e-mail from Phil: Got your MP3. Dumb's a go. This Wednesday.8PM. Arrive EARLY. Go to 4th floor, suite 416.Please confirm. P.

Everyone was gratifyingly enthusiastic about the news, even though they still thought soft rock completely sucked. Tash made sure her mom let her off work that Wednesday evening, and after reminding me that school nights are for homework, my mom gave the go-ahead too.

The euphoria even carried over to the extra rehearsal Dumb scheduled for Wednesday lunchtime. I told them Phil would just be playing their MP3 on air, but they didn't seem to care. For thirty minutes I sat back and felt the glimmer of pride that historically precedes the most catastrophic falls.

Rain was misting in from the Puget Sound when we arrived outside the downtown studio of KSFT-FM; or rather, the stained concrete office building within which the studio was buried. Windows reflected amber streetlamps, but there were no signs of life inside. I pressed a buzzer marked KSFT-FM, and waited.

And waited.

When 7:50 came and went, I pressed the buzzer again.

And waited again.

I was practically shaking by the time Ed tapped my arm to let me know the door had clicked unlocked. It was 7:56, so we tumbled inside, partly because we were getting drenched-being true Seattleites, none of us had brought an umbrella-and partly because our interview was due to start in, oh . . . four minutes.

I scanned the not-to-scale map on the wall and hurried everyone toward the only elevator. It was 7:58 when we made it to the fourth floor.

"What kept you?" said the breathtakingly large man who met us as the doors opened. "Never mind that. I'm Phil, and you need to take the second door on the right and get settled in the booth at the far end of the studio. I need to pee."

As we hurried into the studio I realized there was no way we'd all fit into the booth. There was barely room for three people, and Phil seemed to equate to three people all by himself.

"I'll stay out here," I said. "You guys cram in. Just do your best."

Ed placed his hand gently on my arm. "Where's the producer?"

I looked around but there was no one else in the room. I shrugged.

Just then Phil b.u.mbled back in, scanning the room like he'd lost his keys. "Anyone seen an ugly kid with acne?" he asked.

"No," I said sharply, wondering which of us he meant.

"d.a.m.n. He was here a moment ago." He pulled a fistful of gummy bears from his pocket and jammed them into his mouth, and suddenly I had no hope of understanding him. "That's . . . trouble . . . interns," he mumbled. "When . . . no pay . . . disappear." He gawked at me like I was supposed to respond, but at least it gave him time to swallow. "Forget it. So which one of you wrote to me?"

I raised my hand.

"Great."

Phil wrapped an arm around me and led me over to a desk just outside the booth. The pit-stain in his T-shirt was delightfully visible across my shoulder. Through the large window I could see Josh surrept.i.tiously pulling a microphone toward him, ensuring he'd have a starring role in tonight's interview, but everyone else had their back to me.

Suddenly Phil was tapping me on the arm. "You deaf or something?" he chuckled.

I nodded, pulled back my hair so he'd see the hearing aids. Phil didn't seem thrilled by this discovery.

"Jesus," he groaned. "Look, here's what'll happen. You'll hear us through the studio monitors. Whenever I say it's time for a break, you press this." He pointed to a b.u.t.ton on which the words "OFF AIR" had been handwritten in thick black ink.

I took a deep breath. "I might not be able to hear you."

"But you can hear me now."

"It's different."

Phil's shoulders slumped. I got the feeling he was a man who was used to receiving bad news.

"Okay, look, when I raise my right hand"-he raised it helpfully to show me which one that was-"you press the ON AIR b.u.t.ton. When I raise my left"-the other arm popped up-"press the OFF AIR b.u.t.ton. Got it?"

I nodded, resisted the temptation to point out that deafness hadn't yet compromised my ability to tell right from left, but thanks anyway. Besides, Phil was already barreling into the booth, evicting Josh from the office chair and exiling him to one of the off-balance stools on the other side. The office chair dipped about six inches when Phil sat down.

I swung around as I felt the floor vibrate. Ed had stamped his foot to get my attention. "I can do this if you're not comfortable," he said.

"No way." I pointed into the booth. "You need to be in there."

"You sure?" He squeezed my arm, just once, firm and comforting. I could feel the warmth of his hand through my sweater.

I swallowed hard. "Absolutely," I lied.

Ed nodded and turned away while I examined the place where his hand had been. Seconds later, I glanced up to see Phil waving his right arm frantically.

I launched myself at the ON AIR b.u.t.ton, and immediately Phil began rambling into his microphone. Then he paused and pressed a b.u.t.ton in front of him, and the studio was filled with fuzz and static that resembled Dumb's recording of "Loving Every Part of You."

Behind the gla.s.s, Phil glared at me."Pay attention," he mouthed, all super-slow and super-large and super-duper-patronizing. Schmuck. Schmuck.

I took a deep breath and tried to convince myself this interview wasn't just a gargantuan mistake. It would've helped if I could have seen the band, but they all had their backs to me. I tried to read their body language, but they were all sitting bolt upright, which either meant (a) they had good posture, or (b) they were petrified.

One minute down, twenty-nine to go.