I'm With the Band

PROLOGUE

It's nine o'clock on a Saturday. Nine in the morning, to be precise. Seven past nine in the morning, to be even more precise. The point is, it's too early a Saturday morning and I'm already late for a band rehearsal. 

Who the fuck schedules practice on a Saturday? I'll bet it was Ari and his healthy sleep schedule. 

It gives me no pleasure to hoist myself out of my car into the frigid February morning, lugging my bass past the picket fence, up the wooden steps to Tony's front door. I press the doorbell, the familiar clamour echoing inside. There was once a time when I'd pick the key from the red pot by the door and let myself in. I wonder if it's still there. It's been three months. Maybe they've moved it. 

Before I can check, the door swings open and I'm met by Tony. His expression is blank, his eyes barely gloss over me and he takes half a step back to invite me in. A chilly breeze seems to accompany me as I pass the threshold, as I pass him. And it leaves as soon as he turns down the hall without a second glance at me. 

The other two are in the dining room. Tony doesn't need to lead me to them. I can hear their harmonious laughter like the chords to a song that doesn't need instruments. They're making music without even trying. That's how I know I've picked the right people for this band. 

Well, almost all the right people.

I take a deep breath as I pull the beanie from my head and attempt to comb my hair so that it is presentable. Practically as soon as I set foot in the room, the joy from seconds earlier dissipates quietly. 

Reggie rises from his seat. In a second, he's squeezing me in a hug that I don't reciprocate, mostly because I'm carrying my bass. "Look at what the cat dragged in," he says in a tone I can't quite identify. "It's good to see you." His words sound like they are preceding pain. 

"Wow. You're not gonna tell me off for being late?" 

"Well, ten minutes never killed anybody." 

"Seven. I was only seven minutes late." 

Reggie pulls back, giving me a tight smile. "See? You're getting better." 

Back at the table, Ari is idly swirling his can of ginger ale, raising a two-fingered salute to me, and Tony is scrolling through his phone avoiding all contact with me again. I know because his thumbs are moving too fast for his eyes to fixate on anything. I also know because I would be doing exactly the same if I were in his shoes. 

As Reggie returns to his seat between the two boys, it occurs to me that they are waiting for something. I thought that they might have been waiting for me, but now that I am here, no one moves an inch. I don't even think they're breathing. It's almost as if they are trying to avoid something inevitable. 

"Okay," I begin, shifting my weight to my right leg. "Who decided to have practice early as fuck today?" 

"I did," Tony replies, the chill from earlier returning to the room. He doesn't even look up to acknowledge me. He stopped doing that months ago. 

"Right, so let's practice," I say, trying to keep my voice light. I look over to Ari and Reggie, but neither of them can meet my eye. "I didn't wake up at the asscrack of dawn for nothing." I spin on my heel, heading for the basement. 

"Sawyer, wait." 

I turn back to see Ari set down his can and heave himself up like his bones weigh a hundred kilos. He starts his next sentence with a sigh. "We didn't come here to practice." 

"Oh shit, did I misread the chat again?" 

"No, you didn't." He rubs his forehead as if anticipating a headache. I've only seen Ari in this state once—back in eighth grade when he'd tripped and destroyed his history project in the fall. But there is no broken diorama in sight. It scares me to see him in such a state. "We just... didn't know how to tell you." 

My heart is racing by the second. "Tell me what?" 

"Fuck, man." He turns to Tony, setting two hands on his hips. "It was your decision, why don't you tell her?" 

"It was equally your decision," Tony grumbles back. Then, too casually he says, "We're kicking you out." 

Wait. What the fuck?

I feel like I'm sitting in a furnace, scalding with anger. My fists are two balls of fire, an impulse away from pummelling and burning everything down. And yet, I can't seem to get a single word out of my mouth. 

"I'm glad that you're taking this so well," Tony says condescendingly. 

Then, I find my words. "You all decided to get rid of me?" 

Reggie looks at Ari, who looks at Tony. It is Tony who answers. "Yes—" 

"I don't give a fuck about what you have to say, Tony."

"We thought it was for the best," Reggie says, his voice sounding more strained than it was before. "It's been really hard to rehearse with all the tension between you and Tony." 

"And that was reason enough to get rid of me?" 

Reggie looks down at the table, unable or unwilling to participate anymore. I toss a glance to Ari as if to say what about you? He hangs his head in defeat. 

"What the hell, guys?" I mutter. "Battle of the Bands is only a couple of months away and you're trying to kick me out now? You could've come to me first, we could've fixed things." 

"If you haven't noticed, it's very hard to speak to you—" 

"Oh, shut the fuck up, Tony. No need to air out our dirty laundry in front of these two," I say sharply, holding back on roaring at him with all my rage, though I know I've still proven his point. "And why wasn't there an option to get rid of him? This is my band, I started this goddamn thing! Without me, there is no band. Without me, there is no Nocturnal Ghosts. You can't kick me out." 

"We can and we are." 

"I told you to shut up—" 

"No." Tony stands up and looks at me, properly for the first time in many months. "Enough of you yelling, Sawyer. You wanna know why we're kicking you out? Because you're always late and you're always fucking angry. Except for playing the bass, you contribute nothing else to this band. You don't write songs, hell, you don't even sing backup. And now you're making everyone uncomfortable. You might've started this band, but you sure as hell aren't going to end it. So you can respectfully leave, or the three of us will go." 

It feels as if someone has punched my drywall ribcage and I'm about to crumble into a pile of dust. But it also feels like nothing, like I'm not even here anymore. Like I'm a ghost to these people. If I stuck around, I'd only be haunting them with the burdensome memory of these last three months. 

"If that's what you want, then I'll go." 

And when there is no immediate rebuttal, I stride out of the dining room, out of the house, back into the morning that isn't so cold after all.