Later that afternoon, we scored another ninety minutes of studio time, and while the other band was clearing out, I was at the keyboard working on a chorus hook for a new song. I usually wrote my songs on a keyboard or a guitar, then added the trumpet parts later. Anyway, without warning, a great idea flew into my brain. It was so great, I sat back on the tall wooden stool to think it through all over again before I told anyone else.
"You guys," I said at last. "I have the perfect name for our band."
"Oh, you do, huh?" Lil Lobo had just crawled onto a pile of packing blankets we used for moving the equipment and was resting with his eyes closed. "What is it? 'Two Duds and a Stud?' Won't that put all the attention on me?" He rolled over.
"No, no," I said. "Look, I'm serious. The Fusion Charge is led by us, right? So we rule. We own it and we rule it. And from that comes our name."
Lil Lobo opened his left eye and looked at Tran, who shrugged. Tran looked at my dad, who threw a hand behind his neck, exposing the flying eagle tattoo on his forearm. He laughed and said, "What name, mijo? We Rule?"
"No, no." Really enjoying this, I took a pencil and scribbled the words onto a songsheet. "See? Here. 'Fusion Charge Sk8rs Rool.'"
This time, all I got was silence. Then, in the middle of a yawn, Lil Lobo said, "Dude. I don't know. That's a huge mouthful."
"Yah, mon," Tran agreed. "I be trippin' my tongue on nat."
"Relax, this is just the formal version." I wrote some more and spun the paper their way. "But for short, we'll call ourselves this." I tapped the pencil above the words, "FuChar Skool."
I waited, but no one said anything. "Don't you get it? Dad, remember Grandpa was always telling me about the 'Old School' music? Right? So I'm giving him props, but I'm also saying, 'Hey, we're moving on.' That was the Old School. This is the FuChar!"
"Oh, yeah," said Tran. "FuChar Skool." He snapped his long fingers, then placed his hand on the guitar. He played the rhythm of the name. "FuChar Skool. FuChar Skool. Hey, the future's cool with FuChar Skool."
Pretty soon, they were all moving around, nodding, chanting the words and saying they got it now, they dug it. Lil Lobo started playing a steady horse-clop beat, kind of a tick-tock, tick-tock. "FuChar Skool," he whispered, then waited a measure. "FuChar Skool."
Tran fell in with a walking bassline, mid-range to low, kind of a dune-dune-dune-dune, bah da-da, that he played over and over again.
I hit the high range. A sharp blast followed by a trippy run, four quick notes, as fast as fingertips falling on a table, then Lil Lobo hit a double cymbal clap, and we were on our way.
And after a while, when we finally got back to practicing again, it was with a new fire. Dad even said he'd lay down a bass line for us on our demo tracks. But the FuChar Skool band would do everything else--drums, guitar, keyboard, trumpet, and vocals.
All was cool until we were almost ready to record the first track, and we heard a knock on the studio door. I grabbed the red "Silence! Recording!" sign.
"Sorry, forgot to put this up. It's probably Mom."
I pulled the door open. The vision we saw stunned us all and brought immediate panic to me. In walked the Martinez ladies, Glory and her mom.
They stood just inside the doorway wearing matching orange seashell necklaces, matching gypsy skirts, and completely unmatching make-up. Glory wore lavender eye shadow and purple lipstick, with glitter on her cheeks, while her mom wore dark mascara eyeliner and reddish-brown rouge along her cheekbones.
"You need a set, gentleman," said Mrs. Martinez, stepping into the middle of the studio. "Look, I know you're working on a demo, and that's cool."
"You do?" I asked.
"Sure." She pointed with her thumb toward Dad, and I realized they must've already talked about us.
"But, honey," she continued, "you need at least one forty-five minute, super-polished, ultra tight, kick-down-the-doors type of set by next Wednesday. Comprende?"
Tran had gone behind the glass partition to mess with the sound mixer. Through the studio mic he said, "What're you talking about?"
Lil Lobo pushed himself up from behind his drums. "Yeah, who are you? And why Wednesday? And is either one of you seeing anybody on a steady basis?"
Mrs. Martinez ignored him. Glory grinned and wrinkled her nose.
"That's the Farmers Market gig," said Mrs. Martinez. "Newport Avenue, on Wednesday. I just signed you boys up. And a lot of people are going to be there. You know how that street gets on Market Day."
"You what?" I asked. My stomach was turning quite sour. "You signed us up to play for the street market?"
"You need experience."
"Mom hooked you up through OB Juan," said Glory.
Mrs. Martinez beamed a smile at Dad, who did not return it.
"That's no problem," said Tran. "We got two good songs already and a few more coming along."
Lil Lobo twirled his drumsticks before slapping them into his snare--a cool move, actually--fully noticing Glory noticing him. "And you are?" he asked.
"I'm Glory Martinez." She tilted her head toward her mom. "This lady's daughter." Then she pointed at me. "And I grew up down the street from him, but we moved away, and now we're back."
Lil Lobo nodded with the tough guy nonchalance he practiced so much. "Okay, s'up? I'm Martín Rojas, but everybody calls me Lil Lobo."
Glory was digging this. "Oh, yeah? Why's that?"
Actually, I was curious to hear the answer myself.
"You ever hear of the Big Bad Wolf?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"With the great big eyes and the great big lips and everything?"
"Yeah."
"Well..." He bobbed his head for effect. "I'm his son."
"Oh, lobo," she said, teasing him. "I thought you said, Lil 'Loco.'"
Tran jumped in. "Oh, that part goes without saying."
Glory kept it up. "Good. Because I'm a little loco myself." She bent toward him. "So we should be good friends."
"We should."
All of a sudden--let's say it was a gut feeling--I did not like where this was going. I interrupted, saying, "Hey, flirt on your own time, Little Bad Wolf. This is studio time, eh, brah?"
"Oh, sorry," said Glory. "Mom and I just wanted to tell you guys the good news. We're leaving, right, Mom?"
Her mother smiled. "I'm ready when you are."
Glory started backing away, then put on the brakes. "Oh, Andy, before I go. I wanted to ask you if you could come by the softball field tomorrow. For a couple of minutes? You know." She whispered the next few words, as if hiding some embarrassing secret. "And play your song? My whole summer sort of depends on if I make--"
I stopped her right there, knowing where she was going and feeling certain she did not need me to help her make Kayla's team. Besides, my stomach had been in knots since she'd shown up, and now the knots were in knots.
"Glory, look, I'd like to, but with all this stuff your mom just laid on us--we have so much work to do. No way are we ready for a live gig. I was hoping to do a few open mic nights first, but we won't even have the time to do that."
"At least we have a name," said Lil Lobo. "It's like, 'The Future Is Cool,' or something. I forget."
"Shut up," I told him, then glanced back. "Glory, I wish I could help you, but I can't. Okay?"
She smiled softly, then turned away. Approaching the door, she said, "Yeah, sure. Sorry to bother you." She said nothing more and left.
By the looks I got, I could tell no one had any idea how much I hated saying no to her. Or the pain and complications that would've come from saying yes.
Teaching Aids and Classroom Plans
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Go to the Choosing Up Sides page
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