Sweet Spot

Blue

We hit the sweet spot about 10 o’clock. After a couple hours playing a random set, it feels like our lousy little cover band is finally coming together. Not bad, considering we threw the thing together at the last minute.

Bryson gives extra credit to students in the program who perform publicly, especially if they do it in groups. And ever since Hunter started throwing parties with live bands in the living room of his stepdad’s house, we have an incentive to get together and play.

Two of the guys I used to play with graduated last spring, so lately I have to play with newbies who sometimes aren’t that good. I’ve been on lead vocals most of the night while also playing bass, with Corey King taking over on a few songs when we don’t need him on keyboard.

There’s a buttload of people in the house, and even more milling around in the front and back.

By the time I realize I haven’t yet seen Keegan at the party, I’ve switched to acoustic guitar and told the guys we should go ahead and do the Frasier Bryson mix we planned, even though Bryson himself hasn’t shown up. I invited him to the party, but I wasn’t sure if he’d come.

It’s silly, but I can’t help feeling disappointed that he’s not here. We can’t play later than 11 if we want to keep the local cops off our backs so there’s not much time left for him to make an appearance.

I don’t need to look at my twelve-string Gibson as I start the haunting intro riff of “Comrade in Arms.” That song, like all of Bryson’s songs, is embedded in my fingertips. But I look down anyway, staring not at the strings but at the words scrawled in Sharpie on the worn mahogany body of the guitar: Monti, Cunny, Hud. Heroes of Hell’s Highway, Lameass Singers. I know better than to look at those names; I know what kind of memories it’ll stir up.

The guys signed my guitar as a joke after a karaoke contest I won handily. I was basically the only one in our unit who wasn’t completely tone deaf. A scene flashes into my mind: four of us from the Hell’s Highway Company tossing a football around, lackadaisical in the desert heat but needing a diversion.

I can see Cunny’s red hair and lopsided grin, with those pearly-white teeth of his that seemed to gleam in the sun. It is seriously weird, the things I remember. Cunny had fumbled the football, and it knocked off the expensive sunglasses that were a gift from his girlfriend. He accidentally stepped on them, crushing them with his heavy boot. Then he furiously unleashed a blue streak of swear words as the rest of us doubled over laughing.

If it was anybody else, it wouldn’t have been funny. But Cunny was one of those people who could make you laugh just by walking into a room. And we were desperate for every chuckle we could get.

I’ve stopped playing and singing before the song is over, and people are staring at me. I shake my head, hot with embarrassment, then launch into “Gild the Lily,” the tune I sang for Keegan. It stings a bit, that she’s not around to hear it. She did tell me she’d probably be working late though. She got the reporter job she talked about, and she seems to have a full load of classes. Every time I’ve seen her this week, she’s either on her laptop or phone, or with her nose in a textbook. She works a hell of a lot harder than I do, that’s for sure.

I’ve started picking up the school paper every morning on campus and checking for any stories with Keegan’s byline. She writes well; the girl is smart AF. And firmly stuck in my head.

It was such a goofy thing for me to do her first night in the house, scrambling up the tree with my guitar slung over my back and singing to her like some lovesick fool. Who does shit like that?

I stare into the crowd, trying not to think about Keegan. That’s when I see Bryson slip into the living room, wearing his standard denim shirt and jeans and holding a red cup. I wouldn’t admit it to anybody, but I am about as excited as a little kid who’s just spotted Santa.

Bryson finds a spot along the opposite wall to lean on while he sips his beer. He gives me a smile and a friendly wave. The little lights Hunter strung from the ceiling shine down on the old man’s mane of white hair. There are some girls in the music program who claim to have the hots for Bryson. He does look good for his age; he’s fit and tan, and he’s always got this amused expression on his face.

He’s hard to read, though. It’s impossible most of the time to know what he is thinking. I guess that makes him seem mysterious and cool. To girls, anyway. Hell, who am I kidding? To me, too.

I’ve slowed down the tempo of “Gild the Lily” and added a weepy guitar flourish in the middle and another at the end. The other guys in the band were anxious about making changes to Bryson’s work, and Corey hasn’t tried to hide that he doesn’t like what I’ve done. “Sounds kind of sugar-coated, if you ask me,” he sniffed when I first played it my way for them. “Where the hell do you get off thinking you can improve Bryson’s stuff?”

As if that bushy-haired maggot Corey would know a good song if it came up and bit him in the ass. I can’t figure out how he even got into the Ikana program. He’s probably got a rich daddy who made a big donation.

Thing is, I really like what I’ve done to the song, and I can’t resist trying it out in front of Bryson. “Gild the Lily” sounds more soulful my way. It throbs with this delicate anguish that suits Bryson’s bittersweet lyrics. But I’m sweating bullets as I start playing it in front of him; I have no idea how he’ll react. It was a ballsy thing to do, messing with his work. It could screw up my future in the program. But what the hell. I’m going for it.