Amplified (2 page)

The handles of my guitar cases were making my hands raw. I set them down, reached into the small pocket of my backpack, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It contained the tiny list of rentals that I had some chance of affording.

This looked convenient enough; it gave an address on Washburn Avenue—just off Ocean Street. I threw my hair into a loose ponytail, not wanting to look like I’d been electrocuted.

By 5:20 p.m. I was working on my second double-shot mocha and watching tourists, freaks, and homeless people parade down Pacific Avenue. There was a hair color to match every crayon I used as a kid. A woman in a frumpy blue dress stood in front of the café passing out flyers. Half a cigarette hung from her lips and a cross dangled from her neck. A skinny guy with chains for suspenders took one from her and ripped it in half, shaking his head.

The rental situation down here was far more dismal than I’d expected. If I could sum up a few of the listings I’d seen in one sentence each, they would look like this:

Very NOT clean family wanting to rent out their laundry room. Literally.

Yuppie couple wanted a live-in babysitter in exchange for a “sweet” deal on rent.

Guest house was an old trailer with moss growing on the windows and a view of the neighbor’s swimming pool.

Owner was a guy in a red robe who tried to get me to use his self-built sauna.

They turned me away at the door when I told them I wasn’t vegan.

Creepy as hell Victorian house that smelled like old sheets.

Promising until the grad student launched into a twenty-minute tirade about his former roommate.

Two listings remained; those I’d planned on seeing if all else failed.

I pulled out my laptop and clicked on my bookmark for Craigs-list in Santa Cruz to see if there were any new listings in my price range. Nothing. Unless I knew how to make my own compost or practiced a polyamorous lifestyle.

I sighed and clicked on
MUSICIANS
. Maybe I’d have better luck with bands. Someone always needed a guitarist.

Lots of bands seeking drummers, which wasn’t surprising. Good drummers were a rare breed—always in high demand.

My guitar playing could be described as eccentric and atmospheric. I loved complicated and layered effects—making my guitar sound like an entirely different instrument. Most mainstream rock bands weren’t into that. But industrial and electronic rock were genres I loved because the guitar playing was more about experimenting than straight up shredding or doing solos. I never had to fit a neat little formula.

I clicked on the link and began scanning the ad.

The address was on West Cliff, a curvaceous street with houses on one side and cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean on the other. Jason and I loved hiking around the cliffs and finding a great ledge to picnic on. We’d watch the sun morph into kaleidoscopic bands over the water and fantasize about the guys we wanted to kiss. The thought of having that magic at my fingertips every night was pretty intoxicating.

But I was not a guy or comfortable onstage. I’d never performed in my life.

“Meds” hissed out of my jeans pocket. I fished out my cell, hoping it wasn’t Dad, but Jason’s number flashed across the screen.

“Hey, sexy,” I answered. Just picturing his round cheeks and contagious grin eased my worry.

“I just got your message! I’m so sorry, Jazzy.”

“Well, I’m homeless, but at least I’m finally free, right?”

Jason slurped something—more than likely a piña colada. “I wish I was there to help you. Have you found a place yet?”

I cupped my hand over my forehead to block the sun from my eyes. “The Jetta freaked out as soon as I got off 17. So I’m looking for a place on foot.”

“Do you want me to get a flight back? I will, seriously.”

As much as I could have used the help, I couldn’t ask Jason to leave Maui. His boyfriend’s parents were letting the guys spend the summer at their vacation house as a graduation present. “Don’t worry about me. Just enjoy yourself.”

He took another slurp. “I know you need me right now.”

“I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

“It’s not too late to go to Berkeley with me. We could get a cute little apartment, paint the walls yellow, and laugh at all the freaks on University. You know you wanna.”

“You should go to UCSC instead. It has a cooler view.”

The phone beeped, telling me someone else was calling. A local area code. Oh God. My amp. “Hey, I have to go—they’re calling about my car.” We said good-bye and I clicked over to the other call. “Hello?” I squinted in anticipation of a sarcastic comment.

“Jasmine?” Clover’s voice almost sounded sweet on the phone.

“Yes.”

“This is…from Pete’s…I’ve…estimate…on…” A green-haired Bob Dylan had just set up shop on the bench near me, making it impossible to hear much.

I pressed the phone into my ear. “Can you repeat that?”

“Your…gasket…leak…thousand dollars but…” Coffee oozed up my esophagus with the mention of that much money. No way could I swing that anytime soon.

“I’m sorry—can’t hear you. Call me tomorrow, thanks.” Under regular circumstances I’d feel bad about hanging up on someone, but I wanted a roof over my head before dealing with Clover again. So I gathered my things, ignored my throbbing shoulders, and began the mile trek to West Cliff.
Guys preferred
my ass; they just hadn’t met
me
yet. At least that’s what I wanted them to think. Otherwise, I was screwed.

My heart thudded
when I reached the West Cliff address—a swampy green castle. The house was two stories with a white balcony running across the front. I figured those rooms were taken for sure, but it didn’t matter. I could open a window and listen to the ocean every night—maybe even the sea lions. Classy, white-framed windows lined the house, but the front door was painted a dark purple.

I rang the doorbell and took a deep breath, appreciating the hiss of waves behind me.

The door swung open to reveal a girl with cherry-colored braids and a stoic expression. Her kohl-lined eyes scanned me from head to toe, and her full lips broke into a smile. “You don’t look like a Dave.”

“No…I’m Jasmine.” I put one guitar down and held my hand out, but she just stared at it. “I hope I have the right address. I’m here about the listing for a—”

“Did you miss the part that said guys strongly preferred?” she interrupted.

Keep smiling
. “I’m just asking for a chance.”

She eyed me up and down again, crinkling her brow. “Did you catch what kind of music we play?”

“Well, of course, but—you’re in the band?” I tried to hold her gaze, but her eyes were so intense, like she was trying to forklift information from my head.

“I’m the singer.”

“So you guys are like, what—Celldweller, the Birthday Massacre maybe?”

“We’re like nothing you’ve heard before.”

“Is that Dave?” a guy’s voice sounded behind her.

“No, it’s an adorable metalhead chick,” she said over her shoulder.

I looked down at the ground, trying to conceal a blush. I had no idea where she got metalhead from—maybe my messy ponytail and ripped jeans?

“Har, har.” A guy with black dreads pushed past her. His eyes widened when he saw me. “Oh—what’s up?” He reached for my hand and shook it with a tight grip. “I’m Bryn.”

“Jasmine.” I tried not to stare at him too long. Blue eyes against dark skin and a white T-shirt that hugged the right places. The guy was hot—not that it mattered. I didn’t come here to meet boys.

Bryn glanced at my guitar cases, chewing on his lip ring. “No offense, but we’re looking for a guy to move in.” He met my gaze with a squint. “Less weird that way, you know?”

“The ad said guys preferred, not mandatory.”

The cherry-braided girl laughed softly behind him. “She’s got balls, or maybe it’s desperation. Hard to tell.”

“You’ve already got one girl in the band—why not two?” I raised my eyebrows at both of them, like I couldn’t believe they hadn’t thought of that. Maybe it came off as cocky, but anything was better than seeming desperate.

“Veta doesn’t actually live here.” Bryn nudged her. “She just thinks she does.”

“Bite me,” she said.

Bryn eyed Veta’s long legs and the frayed denim skirt that barely covered them. A slow grin spread across his face.

She pinched his lips together. “Keep dreaming, pretty boy.”

Okay, then. I focused on the ground.

“Let her in. She can’t be any more girlie than me,” another male voice called from somewhere in the background.

Bryn opened the door a little wider and waved me in. “Nah, man. You can wear all the poofy skirts you want. It don’t change the dangly parts underneath.”

The owner of the third voice sat on a murky yellow couch in the living room. “Hey, I’m Felix.” He waved before gobbling down a spoonful of whatever was in his red mixing bowl. Felix had a Q-tip of blue hair and more eye makeup than Robert Smith in his prime.

The downstairs looked spacious despite the turquoise shag carpeting and dark furniture. Band posters, paintings, photographs, and sketches covered every inch of the walls.

“How old are you?” Veta asked. “You look thirteen.”

I set the guitars down and shook my hands to get blood back into my fingers. “I’m almost eighteen.” So maybe October didn’t count as “almost,” but close enough.

The three of them exchanged a look I couldn’t quite interpret. But I could’ve sworn Bryn mouthed “jailbait.”

“Why—how old are you guys?”

“We’re nineteen.” Bryn nodded at Felix. “He’s twenty.”

Felix grinned at me. “Don’t worry. Our bassist—the Brain—is, like, fifteen.”

“He’s seventeen.” Veta laughed.

“Cool.” I allowed myself to exhale. “Why’s he the Brain?”

“He just finished his first year at UCSC. He skipped ten grades or something,” Bryn said.

“
One
grade, technically.” Veta rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, I—never mind.” I wanted to say I knew how that went, being younger than most of my graduating class. But the age subject wasn’t going to win me any points, and I definitely wanted to avoid any talk of college. “You’re renting a room, right? Can I see it?”

“This one doesn’t waste any time,” Veta said.

“Follow me,” Bryn said.

“Don’t get your hopes up, Goldilocks,” Veta called behind me as I followed Bryn upstairs.

Part of me wanted her words to be true. If the room was awful, I wouldn’t be tempted to join a band right away and humiliate myself. I’d never played in front of anyone but Jason. Still, these were the kind of people I’d always wanted to hang out with. They seemed artistic and free. Nothing like the douches back home—all bred to be carbon copies of their parents.

The staircase led to a loft area that separated four rooms. I had to keep my mouth from dropping open when I saw a black leather couch and a matching pool table—even the
cloth
was black. Shelves filled with thousands of CDs sat against the walls.

Bryn stopped and grinned at me. “Sweet pool table, huh? It’s my uncle’s—he owns this place.”

“Oh, is that why the room is so cheap?” Rooms on the ocean didn’t come cheap in this town. Usually they were closer to a grand.

“Yeah, he’s giving me a deal. But it also means that everyone wants to live here—so you better rip on that guitar.”

No pressure or anything.

I held my breath when he pushed open the white door to the vacant room—the Pacific Ocean glittered just outside those windows. The room formed a decent-sized rectangle, and it included white walls and the same blinding turquoise carpet. But it could’ve been a Porta-Potty for all I cared. I was already dreaming about playing my acoustic on the balcony and watching the fog roll in over the water.

“Nice, huh?” Veta’s husky voice in my ear made me jump. Felix stood behind her, still munching on what looked like Cocoa Puffs.

“Why isn’t this room already taken by one of you?” I asked.

Bryn looked down at the carpet, playing with his lip ring again. “Well, our bassist had it, but he moved back there when Teddy moved out.” He nodded to one of the rooms on the other side of the loft. “He said it was quieter or something.”

“Does he have a problem with the sound of the ocean?”

Felix snorted, and Veta elbowed him in the ribs. “Sometimes West Cliff gets a lot of traffic,” she said.

“Yeah, but it’s not
that
bad. Sean is just weird,” Bryn said.

“Mmm-hmm.” Veta squinted at him. “And you’d be right next door to Bryn, which is a real pleasure.”

“Where do you live?” I nodded at her.

“In the fourth dimension.” Felix wiggled his fingers in her face, and she slapped them away.

“I live with my mom. It’s free.”

“And convenient,” Felix said. “Veta and her mom run this psychic shop across the street from the Boardwalk. They live right above it.”

“Yeah, they read the auras of tourists all day,” Bryn said with a half smile.

Veta yanked one of his dreads. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

“Nah, I’ve got more productive things to spend my money on.” Bryn jutted his chin at me. “Have you played live before?”

Live? Sure, every night with an audience of one. “Yeah—of course.”

“Good,” Bryn said. “A couple of guys dropped by who’ve never played in front of anyone outside of—I don’t know, their mom? We’ve got a gig coming up next month opening for Luna’s Temptation. Not the best time to find out you can’t handle the stage.”

Luna’s Temptation was one of the biggest industrial bands to come out in the last few years, and they had a huge fan base. Especially in the Bay Area. That show would be packed. “Yeah, no—that would be bad.” It wasn’t too late. I could politely excuse myself. Not that I had anywhere to go.

“Then there was that one schmuck who lied about playing guitar in the first place. What, like, he didn’t think we’d notice?” Veta laughed.

I inched toward the staircase. “Well, I love the room, and I’ve been playing the guitar since—forever. So, if you’re willing to consider a girl, I’m definitely interested.”

The only sound heard was the clinking of Felix’s spoon as the three of them exchanged a glance.

“You gotta try out before we’ll consider
anything
, babe,” Veta said.

My fingers tore at the threads framing a hole in my jeans. “Right, obviously. When would be a good time?”

Bryn studied me, zeroing in on my hands. “Now?”

I smiled wide even though my face had probably lost all color. “Sure, let’s jam.”

Bryn motioned for me to follow him downstairs, where I grabbed my guitars. Then they led me into the backyard toward a matching guesthouse—just when I
thought
I’d seen everything. Green vines with red edges crawled up the walls, and there was a blue graffitied elf on the front door. My heart picked up with each step; once I got over the initial awkwardness of playing for strangers, my fingers would stop feeling like jelly—I hoped.

After Bryn let us in, I took in the well-endowed music studio. Soundproofed walls, mics and more mics, a shiny green drum kit, an eighty-eight-key MIDI keyboard, and a Mac Pro with a thirty-inch flat screen. An SG Goddess guitar the color of a faded blueberry lit up the back wall.

“What’s your band’s name again?” I shoved my shaking hands into my pockets.

“C-Side,” Bryn answered, booting up the computer. “We should leave a note for Dave on the front door. Tell him to come back here.”

“I’ll do it,” Felix said, shuffling outside.

I assumed Dave was also trying out. Maybe I’d get lucky and he’d have car trouble too. “Is there a story behind the name?”

“Me and my brother—the bassist—came up with it in high school,” Veta said. “Our mom’s shop is called Seaside Psychic, and we grew up here, so…it just fit.”

“Where the hell is Sean, anyway?” Bryn asked. “I thought he was just going in for a couple of hours.”

Veta snatched the blue SG guitar from the rack. “Yeah, well, we don’t all have Uncle Moneybags to pay for our shit.”

“Whatever, I work,” he answered.

“Yeah.” She rolled her eyes at me. “He works twenty grueling hours a week for his
uncle
.”

“And I still make more than you do.” Bryn chuckled, grabbing a pair of drumsticks off the computer desk.

She flipped him off and nodded at me. “You going to get set up or what?”

The door swung open, highlighting Felix’s ’fro and large shape. “Nobody’s here yet.”

Good—the last thing I needed was more of an audience. My competition, no less. I opened my electric guitar case and ran my fingers along the smooth body of my purple sparkled beauty.

“Is that a PRS?” Veta asked. “I’ve never seen one that color before.”

“Yeah, it’s a ’95 CE Holoflake. Only about six of them were made, but I got this one cheap.” I pointed to a chip at the bottom—just another reason to love it.

Veta shrugged. “Gives it more character.” Her eyes ran along the fret board. “It really is gorgeous.”

“It’s very you,” Felix said as he hooked up a laptop to the MIDI keyboard. There was something sweet about a guy the size of a football player in a blue taffeta skirt. “Do you have an amp?”

“I’ve got a Diezel Herbert, but I don’t have it with me.” And it would suck to play through anything else.

Bryn let out a low whistle. “Nice. We got one you can use, but it’s no Diezel.” He nodded at a combo amp in the corner. “And there’s an effects processor over there.” He pointed to a little silver box with a couple dozen buttons on the floor, a blessing for lead guitarists who liked their effected guitar sounds and textures.

“Cool, thanks.” I played entirely by ear and went wherever a song took me. Once in the zone, I lost all control over my fingertips and needed a variety of sounds at my disposal.

“What’s that?” Felix asked as I pulled a mini staplerlike contraption from my backpack.

“It’s an EBow—you hold it on the strings and it sustains the note you play. Almost sounds like a tripped-out flute.”

He grinned and went back to fiddling with the laptop. I created my own patch on their processor, adding the effects I used the most—except for wah. I snagged a dusty wah pedal sitting next to the amp. Hopefully it wouldn’t sound as neglected as it looked.

After everyone got set up—Bryn behind the drums, Felix armed with the keyboard and laptop, and Veta behind the mic—Bryn said they’d play the song once through first. Felix would play a prerecorded bass line so I wouldn’t miss anything.

Bryn counted off and slammed the kick drum, Veta backed him up with grinding power chords, and Felix ran a melodic arpeggio over everything. They sounded kind of like the band Garbage on steroids—Bryn wasn’t shy about the tempo and Veta’s distortion was pretty raunchy. Her vocals surprised me the most; they were sugary and fluid—not rough like her speaking voice.

It was the kind of song that I’d dance like a fool to in my bedroom. It hypnotized me, sent tingles up my spine, and took me somewhere completely different.

These guys were really good. Maybe too good. But I had no time for doubts, because they were starting again.

My fingers were slick against the strings, and I couldn’t tell the difference between Bryn’s chaotic beat and my heart. Air escaped my lips, reminding me to breathe. This was it. A chance to be part of a band that completely rocked. And I couldn’t even move.

I closed my eyes and allowed myself to feel the music for a few seconds, pretending it was just me and Jason in his stuffy garage. I yearned for the cinnamon incense he always burned to cover the stench of rusty tools and old engine oil. It made me feel safe. Hidden from the world, from my dad. The one place I could be myself.