“I want to make an album.” That was true. I didn’t have any songs to put on said album, but I did want to make one. Eventually. To my surprise, the project no longer seemed so urgent. Probably because, also to my surprise, the notion of revenge was no longer gnawing at me. It had receded, like a wave on the lake outside my door. It had left a scar, mind you, but dealing with scars was better than being actively eaten alive. “And… I want to produce an album.”
“For who?”
“An up-and-comer.”
“A nobody.”
“I guess technically, but when she is somebody, which is absolutely going to happen, do we want to be the ones who helped or the ones who said no?”
He chuckled, and I thought for sure that was it, he was going to fire me, but he said, “I always liked you.”
“Youdid?”
“Yeah.”
“Even though I smashed a TV at the Hilton Garden Inn in Chicago?”
“Not your finest moment, but yeah.” He added, snarkily, “You want me to line up some anger management classes?”
He was needling me, but I took the question seriously. I was still unsettled by my own behavior that day. “I think being here is kind of its own anger management course.”
“Where is ‘here’?”
“I’m at this arts summer camp thing.” I explained the setup.
“You should have had me look at the contract.”
I should have. Then maybe I’d’ve realized what I was getting myself into. But I was glad I hadn’t, because then I wouldn’t have come. And I was, despite the mosquitoes and the heat, settling into a certain groove, even if I wasn’t writing anything. “Does this mean you’re still my manager?”
“Yeah, sure, if you want me to be.”
“What about Scott?”
“What about him?”
“Are you managing him, too?” Because I wasn’t sure if I could do that. It would feel too much like Scott was my stepbrother or something, like Brady had custody of us on alternating weekends.
“Scott’s decided to go in a different direction,” Brady said.
“Wow, you got the same line I did.” He chuckled. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because you destroyed a TV at the Hilton Garden Inn in Chicago?”
Fair enough. “You should know that when I do make a record, I think it’s possible it will be quite different from Concrete Temple.”
“OK,” he said mildly. “You got any songs?”
“Nope,” I said, almost cheerfully. “But I’m going to write some.” Eventually.
“Well, you want to send me a tape of this up-and-comer of yours, and any songs you manage to write for yourself, and we’ll talk when you’re done communing with nature?”
“Yes.” That was exactly what I wanted to do.
This felt, in a real, profound way, like the right next move. It wasn’t reactive, to use my sister’s term. It was just about making some great music. It wouldn’t look the same as making great music in a band, in a songwriting partnership with Scott. But I was feeling, for the first time, like maybe that was OK.
Some of the artists had taken to having campfires on our little beach. Not every night, but maybe twice a week. I hadn’t joined them. I guess I was still sticking to my image of myself as a cranky-ass loner. The only person I actively hung out with at Wild Arts was Jack, and that was because we didn’t talk very much. We just sat and drank. But when I heard them out there on Friday night, the crackling of the fire and the sounds of their laughter carrying into my cabin, I grabbed my guitar and walked out to join them. I had no idea what had come overme, just that my head was… full. Of songs, mostly. Not the ones I was supposed to be writing, but others: “girl” songs and Anna’s songs. But also Tristan’s simplistic guitar god wannabe songs, which, when I was being generous in my thinking, were probably perfectly appropriate for a teenage boy to be into. I couldn’t expect everyone to be a prodigy like Anna. And I was thinking about my drummers, and what songs I could give each of them that would provide the right amount of challenge.
Honestly, if this was what teachers felt like all the time, it was exhausting. I needed to discharge some of this frenetic energy.
