Even Heroes Have Scars

[49] Gonna Get Caught

Demi's P.O.V.

The greatness of the whole affair ended at around dinner time, after we had been downstairs for a couple hours. I was left surprised. This is how it went...

She brought the guitar papers downstairs and I brought the piano papers and lyrics. On my tippy toes again, I reached up and found the key above the doorjamb, then unlocked the door, turning the lights on before shutting the door back behind us.

Ansley stood by the door while I moved a few things aside. The whole room was a sound booth. The wall separating this room from the rest of the basement wasn't actually a wall. The top half of it was glass while the bottom half of it was the control panel. The control panel was on the outside of the room, covered by a blanket and a couch pressed up against it, so it was awfully hidden. Covering the windows were large pieces of wood. I dragged a chair over to it and stood on it, reaching almost to the ceiling to undo the snaps at the top of the wood. They folded down because of the hinges at the bottom of them. I did this three more times until all of the wood was hanging down, nearly touching the ground.

After that was all set, Ansley followed me out to lift the couch and push it forward about four feet. On this side of the glass, all the wood could be pushed to each side like an elevator door. It was certainly a lot easier than standing on a chair. I pulled the blanket off the panel and balled it into a clump, tossing it on the couch.

My eyes lifted to the ceiling and I stared at the tiles, thinking about how each of them had meaning, thinking about how this song, too, had meaning.

"Has this always been here?" Ansley pointed to the booth as we reentered the music room.

I looked back down and over to her, then shut the door. "Sorta. We don't really like having a sound booth slash recording studio all out in the open, that's why we lock the door and hide it. We got it about two years ago."

"Well, you sure did one hell of a job hiding it. Damn." She stared at the control panel through the glass. "So many buttons. Do you know what they all do?"

I laughed. "Of course not. But one of my friends does. I'll probably call him over later or something to work on it."

She nodded in understanding.

I set myself up at the piano and adjusted the microphone near it while Ansley did the same with the guitar. Over and over again, she played the chords, softly singing along with them as she tried to memorize it. I listened to her practicing and we occasionally made changes, like "What if, in the bridge, we hold it all silent for four beats, then break into the chord progression again?' or "How about we change that to a D chord instead?" or whatever.

It was like songwriting was a third talent for her, next to her musical talents (playing piano, guitar, and singing) and drawing. Everything just flowed out of her, pouring onto the sheets of paper and through her fingers, to the guitar. She and I made changes together for half an hour, then she played the new version repetitively until she could do it with her eyes closed, like it was natural.

I played the piano with the new changes, memorizing where to put my finger on the keys and when. She even rose from her stool to sit beside me, watching me play.

"I can't reach it!" I groaned when both of my hands were on the piano and my pinky couldn't reach one of the keys while my thumb was pressing down one six keys away.

She giggled and pressed it for me. "The struggle is real."

I laughed with her, then continued playing, moving with the beat as I tapped the pedal and sang along at the top of my lungs. Following the lyrics written on the paper, she sang with me. She laughed and smiled, swaying as she joined me on the piano.