Power Chord by Ted Staunton Page B

They both look at me.
    I sigh. “I’ll have to ask my mom.”
    â€œSo call her,” Denny says.
    â€œShe said not to call unless there’s a disaster. She’s showing a house.” Mom sells real estate. She says the market is slow.
    â€œThen let’s take everything over. How can she say no?”
    â€œShe can say no lots of ways, Den,” I say. “I’ll ask when she gets home.”
    Denny grabs the hi-hat anyway. The pedal clunks off on his foot. “Ow, Jee—” He cuts off. Pig’s mom is upstairs.
    â€œSo let’s go,” I say.
    Denny is limp-hopping around the room.
    â€œCall me,” Pig says.
    â€œAren’t you coming?” Denny looks back at him, still limp-hopping.
    Pig picks up an unpolished boot and nods at it.
    â€œLater,” I say.
    â€œLater.”

Chapter Three
    We’re out of cash, so Denny and I walk the seven stops back to my house.
    Denny says, “Pig didn’t even want to come with us.” He shakes his head in amazement.
    â€œHe was busy, Den,” I say.
    â€œYeah, see those boots? What was that about?”
    I shrug. “Maybe he’s a professional grape stomper.”
    Denny says, “Don’t you wear hip waders for that?”
    My mom isn’t home when we get back to my place. We get snacks. Archie, our cat, pads in and stretches. I give him a snack too.
    â€œLet’s check out the stuff,” says Denny, as if we haven’t a million times before.
    We haul everything out from under the basement stairs. There’s a microphone stand, a Yorkville bass amp, two guitar cases and a cardboard box. All of it looks pretty battered. Inside the cases are a Squier electric bass and a Cort acoustic guitar with a pickup. I know there are straps, patch cords, a couple of picks, and an electronic tuner with no battery tucked in there too. When you open the cases they let out a whiff of wood polish and plastic, cigarette smoke and beer. The bass case also smells of cat pee. Arch once took a leak in there. It doesn’t matter. I like it. It reminds me of Chuck.
    Chuck is the owner of all this stuff. He was a boyfriend of Mom’s when I was eleven or twelve. Chuck was a goof, but in a good way. I liked him. I think Mom did too, but she said he had “reliability issues.”
    When Chuck wasn’t driving a truck, he played in a band called Razorburn. He said he was only driving truck until his music took off.
    Mom said the truck would take off before the music did. She was right.
    Inside the cardboard box is a pile of leftover copies of Razorburn’s cd, Mullet Over. I haven’t listened to it in a million years.
    Denny is trying to tune the guitar. He gives up and strums. It’s not music, but it gets your attention.
    â€œPower chord,” says Denny. “See what I’m doing?”
    â€œMangling the guitar,” I say. We hear the door open upstairs.
    â€œHi,” Mom calls.
    â€œWe’re down here,” I call back.
    There are footsteps, and then Mom’s feet and legs appear on the stairs. I spend a lot of time in the basement. I always like how people on stairs seem to sprout magically in front of you. Mom is wearing her house-showing pantsuit. Mom looks at all the gear spread out. She raises an eyebrow.
    â€œAsk her,” Den hisses. “Go on, ask her.”
    There are reasons I shouldn’t ask her. I am supposed to be getting better marks. I am supposed to be looking for a part-time job. I am supposed to be more reliable. Thanks to Chuck, I don’t think Mom thinks reliable and music go together.
    On the other hand, Denny and Pig need this too. And getting out this stuff reminds me of how Chuck showed me chords and bits from songs. I liked that. Chuck said I was good too. Above all, there are girls everywhere who don’t know I exist, but who soon will—if I ask. I ask.
    â€œWe want to start a band. Can we practice here?”
    Denny