Page 42 of Our Year of Maybe

MY FIRST BAND PRACTICE IS probably the most Seattle thing that’s ever happened to me. We’re in Aziza’s basement, Dylan is wearing a Mudhoney T-shirt, and Kat’s singing about a girl who only leaves her house when it’s raining and never carries an umbrella.

I stand frozen behind my Yamaha keyboard, fingers perched on the keys. The basement’s small and dark and low-ceilinged, our instruments crowded in one corner while Aziza’s girlfriend, Bette, watches us from a patchy gray couch.

“Just play around on the keys,” Chase told me before practice started. “See what you come up with.”

This song, “Precipitation,” is like Amy Winehouse crashed a Ramones show, crunchy punk guitar chords with Kat’s powerful vocals. When they get to the first chorus, I add some crunchy chords of my own. Chase glances up from his mint guitar, lifting his brows in encouragement. So I keep going, banging out chord progressions that complement his guitar. During the bridge, I slow it down, my sounds low and smooth, but I bring the piano back during the final chorus. Loud. Unforgiving.

We don’t all end in the right place. When Aziza gives her cymbals a final smash, I quickly pull my fingers off the keys, but Chase and Dylan are still playing. Kat taps her foot impatiently, and while Dylan stops after one last bass lick, Chase is still going, fingers racing around the frets of his guitar.

“We get it; you play guitar,” Aziza says.

Chase grins sheepishly, as though so lost in the music he didn’t realize we’d all stopped. It’s a grin that does something pleasant to my stomach. Halloween was a week ago, and I’m still daydreaming about Chase’s handshake. It’s probably the most a person has ever thought about another person’s hand.

“Sorry. I got really into it,” he says. He flicks his longish bangs, which drooped into his face during the solo, out of his eyes. Today he’s wearing a striped button-down, open over a vintage band tee. The Rolling Stones.

“You guys are getting better!” says Aziza’s girlfriend from the couch. Bette is a tall blonde with skin so pale it’s nearly translucent. She’s wearing a Diamonds Are for Never T-shirt she screen-printed herself. “Or maybe that’s Peter.”

“Definitely Peter,” Chase says, dragging the back of his hand across his damp forehead. “The keyboard sounded great.”

Aziza nods. “I liked it.”

“Yeah?” I say. Their words coax my mouth into an easy smile.

“I think your style fits the sound we’re going for,” Dylan says.

“No one wants to hear my opinion?” Bette asks.

Aziza shakes her head, tossing around her spiral curls. “Sweets, no offense, but your favorite band is Journey.”

“What’s wrong with Journey?”

They all laugh as though liking Journey is exactly what’s wrong with Journey, and I make a mental note to never admit that I don’t hate “Don’t Stop Believin’.” I mean, there’s a reason everyone knows the lyrics—they’re damn catchy and fun to sing along to. These are Music People, even more so than I’ve ever considered myself a Music Person, and they clearly take it seriously.

We take the song from the top again, but halfway through, Kat sighs into her mic and says, “Stop, stop. This is all wrong.”

Aziza thumps her bass drum in a frustrated fashion. “I thought it sounded fine.”

“?‘You know that band Diamonds Are for Never? Yeah, they’re fine.’?” Kat shakes her head. “We should strive for better than fine.”

“Not ‘Closer to Fine’?” Bette says, and Aziza groans at the Indigo Girls reference.

“What are you thinking, Kat?” Dylan asks.

“Backing vocals. This song is in desperate need of them. Peter, is there any chance you can sing, too? None of these jerks can.”

“I can, but you guys said I shouldn’t. There’s a difference,” Chase says.

Sophie’s always made fun of my voice, so I only ever sing when I’m playing piano alone. “I’m . . . not sure.”

“You know the chorus with the ‘whoa uh-oh’ part?” Kat says. “If you could harmonize with me, that would sound super cool.”

“I’ll try.”

This time I’m not afraid of the keyboard. I smash my fingers down on the chords, experiment with a few flourishes. And when it’s time for me to sing backup vocals, I follow Kat’s instructions, and it doesn’t sound awful. We try it again, and it sounds a lot better. Again, and it’s more intricate. Again, and we end at almost exactly the same time.

“Whoa,” Dylan says. “We’ve never sounded like that before.”

“You have a nice voice,” Chase says softly, not quite meeting my gaze. “A little uncertain, but nice. I like it.”

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