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Authors: Scott Westerfeld
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a girl who lives in an apartment that has stairs . Whole other floors !”
I looked down at my tattered shoes. “It’s not a contest, Zahler. It’s just business.”
“Business?” He laughed. “You don’t know jack about business.”
I looked up at him, expecting to feel the death stare, but he was just confused. I didn’t understand myself, not completely, but I knew I had to get some part of this band under control. If I let Pearl decide everything and pay for everything, Zahler and I would wind up just a couple of sidekicks along for the ride. “Just don’t tell her about the money, okay?”
He blinked, his dogs winding around his feet in disarray. I saw him wondering if I’d gone insane, wondering if I was going to screw this whole thing up, and knew I was right on the edge of losing him.
Which was fine, if he really thought I was that hopeless. Maybe it was better to walk away now than later.
But finally, he exhaled. “Okay. Whatever. I won’t tell Pearl you’re paying. I guess I can pitch in some of my dog money too.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got it covered.”
“But maybe we should warn Pearl . . . before we all show up for rehearsal.”
I frowned. “Warn her about what?”
“Um, that our new drummer drums on paint buckets . . .”
9. FEAR
-PEARL-
I took the subway to Brooklyn, so Mom wouldn’t find out from Elvis.
Skittering sounds wafted up from the tracks as I waited for a train, the shuffling of tiny feet among discarded coffee cups and newspapers. The platform was empty except for me, the tunnels murmuring with echoes. The subways sounded wrong these days, almost alive, like there was something big down here. Something breathing.
I hated facing the subway on Sunday mornings, with no rush-hour crowds to protect me, but we didn’t have much choice about when to rehearse. Minerva said that church was the only thing that kept Luz away till after noon.
This would all be much easier when we didn’t have to sneak Minerva out of her room, but she needed to join the band now . Lying around in bed all day was never going to cure her. She had to get out of that dark room, meet some new people, and, most of all, sing her brains out.
Moz, Zahler, and I had rehearsed together four times now—we had a B section for the Big Riff and two more half-formed songs. We were better every time we played, but we needed structure: verses and choruses, a drummer too. We didn’t have time to wait for Min to get completely well. The world was in too much of a hurry around us.
Except for the F train, of course. Ten minutes later, it still hadn’t come, and I hoped it wasn’t broken down again. The subways were having some kind of weird trouble this summer. Minor earthquakes, they said on TV—Manhattan’s bedrock settling.
That was also the official explanation for the black water infecting the pipes. They said it wasn’t dangerous, even if they didn’t know exactly what it was—it evaporated too quickly for anyone to find out. Most people were drinking bottled water, of course. Mom was bathing in Evian. I wasn’t sure I believed any of it, but in any case, I didn’t have time for earthquakes today. The rehearsal space was reserved in my name, on my credit card—the others couldn’t get in without me. If I was late getting up to Sixteenth Street, everything would fall apart.
I fished out my cell phone. It searched for a signal, until a tremulous 7:58 A.M. appeared. One hour to get to Brooklyn and back.
Still hovering on the screen was the last number I’d called the night before—Moz’s—to remind him again about this morning.
Lonely and nervous on the empty platform, I pressed send.
“Yeah?” a croaky voice answered.
“Moz?”
“Mmm,” came his annoyed grumble. “Pearl? Crap! Am I late?”
“No, it’s only eight.”
“Oh.” He scratched his head so hard I could hear it over the cell-phone crackle. “So what’s up?”
“I’m on my way
I looked down at my tattered shoes. “It’s not a contest, Zahler. It’s just business.”
“Business?” He laughed. “You don’t know jack about business.”
I looked up at him, expecting to feel the death stare, but he was just confused. I didn’t understand myself, not completely, but I knew I had to get some part of this band under control. If I let Pearl decide everything and pay for everything, Zahler and I would wind up just a couple of sidekicks along for the ride. “Just don’t tell her about the money, okay?”
He blinked, his dogs winding around his feet in disarray. I saw him wondering if I’d gone insane, wondering if I was going to screw this whole thing up, and knew I was right on the edge of losing him.
Which was fine, if he really thought I was that hopeless. Maybe it was better to walk away now than later.
But finally, he exhaled. “Okay. Whatever. I won’t tell Pearl you’re paying. I guess I can pitch in some of my dog money too.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got it covered.”
“But maybe we should warn Pearl . . . before we all show up for rehearsal.”
I frowned. “Warn her about what?”
“Um, that our new drummer drums on paint buckets . . .”
9. FEAR
-PEARL-
I took the subway to Brooklyn, so Mom wouldn’t find out from Elvis.
Skittering sounds wafted up from the tracks as I waited for a train, the shuffling of tiny feet among discarded coffee cups and newspapers. The platform was empty except for me, the tunnels murmuring with echoes. The subways sounded wrong these days, almost alive, like there was something big down here. Something breathing.
I hated facing the subway on Sunday mornings, with no rush-hour crowds to protect me, but we didn’t have much choice about when to rehearse. Minerva said that church was the only thing that kept Luz away till after noon.
This would all be much easier when we didn’t have to sneak Minerva out of her room, but she needed to join the band now . Lying around in bed all day was never going to cure her. She had to get out of that dark room, meet some new people, and, most of all, sing her brains out.
Moz, Zahler, and I had rehearsed together four times now—we had a B section for the Big Riff and two more half-formed songs. We were better every time we played, but we needed structure: verses and choruses, a drummer too. We didn’t have time to wait for Min to get completely well. The world was in too much of a hurry around us.
Except for the F train, of course. Ten minutes later, it still hadn’t come, and I hoped it wasn’t broken down again. The subways were having some kind of weird trouble this summer. Minor earthquakes, they said on TV—Manhattan’s bedrock settling.
That was also the official explanation for the black water infecting the pipes. They said it wasn’t dangerous, even if they didn’t know exactly what it was—it evaporated too quickly for anyone to find out. Most people were drinking bottled water, of course. Mom was bathing in Evian. I wasn’t sure I believed any of it, but in any case, I didn’t have time for earthquakes today. The rehearsal space was reserved in my name, on my credit card—the others couldn’t get in without me. If I was late getting up to Sixteenth Street, everything would fall apart.
I fished out my cell phone. It searched for a signal, until a tremulous 7:58 A.M. appeared. One hour to get to Brooklyn and back.
Still hovering on the screen was the last number I’d called the night before—Moz’s—to remind him again about this morning.
Lonely and nervous on the empty platform, I pressed send.
“Yeah?” a croaky voice answered.
“Moz?”
“Mmm,” came his annoyed grumble. “Pearl? Crap! Am I late?”
“No, it’s only eight.”
“Oh.” He scratched his head so hard I could hear it over the cell-phone crackle. “So what’s up?”
“I’m on my way
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