Read Online Her Wild Oats by Kathi Kamen Goldmark - Free Book Online
Authors: Kathi Kamen Goldmark
Tags: Literary Fiction
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“You’re playing on the big stage, then?”
“Yeah, and I think we have sound check in a minute. When are you playing?”
“I don’t play anything. I twirl with the Angels of the Lamb Drum and Bugle Corps, high-school level even though I’m only in middle school. I’m really good.”
“And you’re modest too, I see.” Oats was proud of himself for coming up with something halfway clever, instead of being dumbstruck and thinking of a good line six hours later.
“Well, I’m the only one in town who can twirl a flaming baton without setting her uniform on fire, so I’m basically just honest.”
“Oats!” Peter Rawley ran toward them, short of breath and red in the face. “Oats, there you are. We’ve been looking all over. It’s time for sound check,” he shouted.
“I gotta go—maybe I’ll see you around later?” Oats ran after Pete—the last thing he wanted was to miss his first sound check. It wasn’t until he was getting his harps out onstage that he realized he hadn’t asked Melody for her phone number, didn’t know her last name, even. Sheesh, what an idiot a guy can be sometimes.
*
They were all onstage, finally ready to run the first tune for sound check, when Oats’ new cell phone rang. He ignored it, too busy trying to remember the parts and watching Bobby Lee for cues. But Bobby Lee had been a sideman for so long, taking direction and waiting for someone to nod his way to take a solo or start a song or whatever, that he wasn’t looking so sure of himself as a bandleader. “Tentative” was the word that came into Oats’ head. Even a thirteen-year-old could tell that the only way to get anyone’s respect was to act forceful even if you didn’t feel that way. Oats hoped that Bobby Lee’s band members liked him enough to cover until he got more confident.
They started with the first track of the new CD, “Party Time Gal,” an up-tempo rocker with easy one-four-five changes and a fast shuffle beat. Because he was nervous Bobby Lee counted it off too fast, and everyone raced through trying to keep up. He finished the second chorus and nodded his head in Oats’ direction, meaning he was supposed to duplicate the great harp solo on the CD, or try to come close anyway. Unfortunately, Dickie Jaspers was also standing on the same side of the stage and he thought Bobby Lee was nodding at him, and they both ended up starting solos at the same time, playing over each other. Oats backed off right away—and Bobby Lee looked confused, then kind of concerned. But with a mean lead guitar player glaring down at him, Oats figured he had taken the safest course of action.
The band had just about finished the one song and tested microphone levels when the sound guy yelled that time was up. Bobby Lee shook his head, looking really frustrated. Oats’ new cell phone rang again; it was his mom, Sarah Jean.
“’Lo,” he whispered into the phone.
“Baby!” she yelled loud enough for the whole stadium to hear her through the phone. “How’s it going? I already miss you so much.”
“OK, I guess. Listen, we’re in sound check…” If anyone understood about sound check, it should have been Sarah Jean, but she was in mom mode and not musician mode. So Oats had to stand there on the edge of that huge stage, watching the roadies set everything up for the gig, listening to his mother go on and on about pretty much nothing, while the rest of the band drifted off to explore the garlic festival, get some dinner, whatever it is that grown-up people in bands do before a show. The garlic smell had taken over every molecule of air hours earlier, and it made him think of his dad’s special garlic bread, which he always made when the family had spaghetti. Oats suddenly realized he was starving.
“…so Hank Wilson said, ‘Monkey, monkey, boat’ and everyone just cracked up,” Sarah Jean shouted into the phone. “Oats, were you listening to me? Don’t you think that’s a hilarious
“Yeah, and I think we have sound check in a minute. When are you playing?”
“I don’t play anything. I twirl with the Angels of the Lamb Drum and Bugle Corps, high-school level even though I’m only in middle school. I’m really good.”
“And you’re modest too, I see.” Oats was proud of himself for coming up with something halfway clever, instead of being dumbstruck and thinking of a good line six hours later.
“Well, I’m the only one in town who can twirl a flaming baton without setting her uniform on fire, so I’m basically just honest.”
“Oats!” Peter Rawley ran toward them, short of breath and red in the face. “Oats, there you are. We’ve been looking all over. It’s time for sound check,” he shouted.
“I gotta go—maybe I’ll see you around later?” Oats ran after Pete—the last thing he wanted was to miss his first sound check. It wasn’t until he was getting his harps out onstage that he realized he hadn’t asked Melody for her phone number, didn’t know her last name, even. Sheesh, what an idiot a guy can be sometimes.
*
They were all onstage, finally ready to run the first tune for sound check, when Oats’ new cell phone rang. He ignored it, too busy trying to remember the parts and watching Bobby Lee for cues. But Bobby Lee had been a sideman for so long, taking direction and waiting for someone to nod his way to take a solo or start a song or whatever, that he wasn’t looking so sure of himself as a bandleader. “Tentative” was the word that came into Oats’ head. Even a thirteen-year-old could tell that the only way to get anyone’s respect was to act forceful even if you didn’t feel that way. Oats hoped that Bobby Lee’s band members liked him enough to cover until he got more confident.
They started with the first track of the new CD, “Party Time Gal,” an up-tempo rocker with easy one-four-five changes and a fast shuffle beat. Because he was nervous Bobby Lee counted it off too fast, and everyone raced through trying to keep up. He finished the second chorus and nodded his head in Oats’ direction, meaning he was supposed to duplicate the great harp solo on the CD, or try to come close anyway. Unfortunately, Dickie Jaspers was also standing on the same side of the stage and he thought Bobby Lee was nodding at him, and they both ended up starting solos at the same time, playing over each other. Oats backed off right away—and Bobby Lee looked confused, then kind of concerned. But with a mean lead guitar player glaring down at him, Oats figured he had taken the safest course of action.
The band had just about finished the one song and tested microphone levels when the sound guy yelled that time was up. Bobby Lee shook his head, looking really frustrated. Oats’ new cell phone rang again; it was his mom, Sarah Jean.
“’Lo,” he whispered into the phone.
“Baby!” she yelled loud enough for the whole stadium to hear her through the phone. “How’s it going? I already miss you so much.”
“OK, I guess. Listen, we’re in sound check…” If anyone understood about sound check, it should have been Sarah Jean, but she was in mom mode and not musician mode. So Oats had to stand there on the edge of that huge stage, watching the roadies set everything up for the gig, listening to his mother go on and on about pretty much nothing, while the rest of the band drifted off to explore the garlic festival, get some dinner, whatever it is that grown-up people in bands do before a show. The garlic smell had taken over every molecule of air hours earlier, and it made him think of his dad’s special garlic bread, which he always made when the family had spaghetti. Oats suddenly realized he was starving.
“…so Hank Wilson said, ‘Monkey, monkey, boat’ and everyone just cracked up,” Sarah Jean shouted into the phone. “Oats, were you listening to me? Don’t you think that’s a hilarious
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