What we see
Is not always what it is
Chapter 4
Tim scanned the pages. Some songs were familiar; others weren't. "I know a few of these songs," he said slowly. "The rest… I think I can learn them in time."
A gig, he thought, the word sending a small shiver through him. He had sung before, but only in front of friends and family—not a crowd of strangers. Still, he steadied himself. If he wanted something more, he had to be ready.
"Good," Jax said. "Let's get started."
"W-wait," Tim said. "Did you write these songs?"
Jax shook his head. "No. They're from my old albums."
Tim felt the urge to say he could write songs too, but he stopped himself. Not yet, he thought.
Moments later, everyone took their places, and rehearsal began. They started with songs Tim didn't know, but little by little, he found his way through them.
After about four hours, Jax stops the rehearsal. "Since it's your first day, we'll stop here. You did well picking up on the songs." He said to Tim.
Tim smiled. Singing was all he had ever wanted to do. His mother used to say he had a gift—give him a song, and before long, he'd be singing it like it was his own.
"Hey, man," Martin said as he stepped away from the drums. "I think I'm going to enjoy singing with you."
"You don't sing," Paul said with a smirk. "You drum. Or have you drummed that out of your head already?"
"I'll drum on your head if you don't shut up," Martin shot back, half joking.
Paul fired back, and the two broke into a playful banter.
Tim stiffened, unsure if they were actually quarreling. He glanced at Jax and Mary, but they calmly packed up their instruments.
"Don't worry about them," Mary said as she passed by Tim, a guitar in one hand and a mic stand in the other. "They're always like that."
"Don't worry about them," Mary said as she passed by Tim, a guitar in one hand and a mic stand in the other. "They're always like that."
Tim was a little startled by Mary's remark. He turned to watch her step outside, a strange feeling washing over him—as if she had read his mind. Still, her timely explanation eased his confusion.
"When you two are done slugging it out, take that stuff to the van, okay?" Jax called out.
When Mary returned, Tim grinned at her. It was his quiet way of saying thank you for clearing up Martin and Paul's petty argument. Mary smiled back. She's kind of pretty, he thought.
He found himself studying her more closely. She had short, black, curly hair, parted slightly off-center, hazel-brown eyes, and well-shaped lips. She wore a black, skin-tight, sleeveless top with sky-blue jeans that hugged her thighs, highlighting her rounded hips and slim legs.
As she passed him again, he noticed her face wasn't round but egg-shaped, with strong cheekbones. Her upper lip dipped slightly at the center, her eyes were a little deep-set, and her lashes were thick. She probably doesn't shave much, he thought, and it gives her a slightly boyish look.
"Let me help you with that," Tim offered when she reached for the keyboard. She let him take it and picked up the stand instead.
"I'm sorry for calling you a singing waiter yesterday," she said shyly, "and for what I said to you today. It was really stupid of me."
"It's—it's alright," Tim said with a shrug. "I've already forgotten about it." He ended with a smile.
As they walked toward the door together, Mary asked, "So, do you have any other tricks up your sleeve?"
"Uh?" Tim let out.
"I mean, is there anything else you're good at besides singing?"
"Oh, well," he shrugged again, modestly, "I can play the piano and the guitar."
"Really?"
"Yeah, but I kind of prefer the guitar."
"Wow," she smiled, "a man of many talents."
Tim returned her smile, a little shy, and wondered what she would say if he told her he also wrote songs.
They reached the van and loaded the equipment. When they went back for more, Martin and Paul were dismantling the drums while Jax folded the wires. Tim glanced at Martin and Paul. What an awkward pair, he thought. They were both skinny and dressed almost the same—black jeans and skin-tight T-shirts. Martin's shirt had a picture of Bugs Bunny, while Paul's showed Spider-Man. The shirts clung so tightly to their bodies that they looked like something meant for ten-year-old kids. Later, Tim learned they both lived together. Mary lived with Jax.
"Tim," Jax called, "please take these wires to the van."
"Sure," Tim replied, walking over.
Jax carried himself like a true leader, Tim admitted to himself. He had confidence, control, and the respect of the others. Physically, he had the build of a swimmer. His hair was black like Mary's, but his eyes were dark, and a light moustache shaded his upper lip. He wore a blue lumberjack shirt and brown jeans. Though the shirt was untucked, he still looked neat and put together.
After they finished loading the instruments, Jax told Tim they rehearsed four times a week, starting at four o'clock.
"I—I don't think four o'clock will work for me," Tim said regretfully. "I close by five, and today I had to lie to leave early."
Jax paused to think. "Five-thirty," he said. "Will that work for you?"
"Oh yes, perfectly," Tim replied, grateful for Jax's unexpected consideration.
When they asked if he needed a ride, Tim declined. He said he wanted to stop by a friend's place nearby. As soon as they drove off, he quickened his pace. He was eager to get home and prepare dinner for his father and sister. He checked his watch—it was thirty-three minutes past eight. No doubt they were already wondering why he was so late.
If he had accepted the ride, he wouldn't be hurrying home on foot. But he was afraid of what they might think of his shabby home. He didn't want anything that might make them look down on him—or worse, reconsider having him in the band. That was why he lied about visiting a friend. Still, he knew he couldn't hide where he lived forever. They would find out sooner or later. He only hoped that by then he would have blended well into the band.
Even so, the thought of them seeing the one-room, rundown building he shared with his father and sister made him uneasy. Their home sat in the ghetto area of the Pike District, where houses stood like huts, spaced only a few meters apart. Scattered the way they were, the place looked more like a refugee camp than a neighborhood.
Suddenly, Tim realized how close he was to the bus stop. It was just four blocks ahead. Soon, he thought with relief, he would be on a bus, heading home. The moment he arrives, he will tell his father and sister the news about joining a band. The surprise on their faces would be worth it.