trying to figure out what exactly her condition was. She twitched and tapped like she had Tourette’s, but she never swore uncontrollably. A disease called Asperger syndrome looked about right, except for those hallucinations. Maybe Minerva had called it during that first rehearsal, and Alana Ray was a little bit autistic, a word that could mean all kinds of stuff. But whatever her condition was, it seemed to give her some special vision into the bones of things.
So now that we had a drummer-sage and a demented Taj Mahal of a singer, the band only had two problems left: (1) we didn’t have a bass player, which I knew exactly how to fix, and (2) we still didn’t have a name. . . .
“How does Crazy Versus Sane sound to you?” I asked Ellen.
“Pardon me?”
“For a band name.”
“Hmm,” she said. “I guess it makes sense; you’re going to be all New Sound, right?”
“Sort of, but better.”
She shrugged. “It’s a little bit trying-too-hard; the word crazy , I mean. Like in Catch-22 . Anyone who tells you they’re crazy really isn’t. They’re just faking, or they wouldn’t know they were crazy.”
“Okay.” I frowned, remembering why hanging out with Ellen could be a drag sometimes. She had a tendency toward nonenthusiasm.
But then she smiled. “Don’t worry, Pearl. You’ll think of something. You playing guitar for them?”
“No, keyboards. We’ve got one too many guitarists already.”
“Too bad.” She pulled up an acoustic guitar case from the floor, sat it in the chair next to her. “Wouldn’t mind being in a band.”
I stared at the guitar. “What are you doing with that?”
She shrugged. “Gave up the cello.”
“What? But you were first chair last year!”
“Yeah, but cellos . . .” A long sigh. “They take too much infrastructure.”
“They do what?”
She sighed, rearranging the dishes on her tray as she spoke. “They need infrastructure. Most of the great cello works are written for orchestra. That’s almost a hundred musicians right there, plus all the craftsmen to build the instruments and maintain them and enough people to build a concert hall. And to pay for that, you’re talking about thousands of customers buying tickets every year, rich donors and government grants. . . . That’s why only really big cities have orchestras.”
“Um, Ellen? You live in a really big city. You’re not planning to move to Alaska or something, are you?”
She shook her head. “No. But what if big cities don’t work anymore? What if you can’t stick that many people together without it falling apart? What if . . .” Ellen’s voice faded as she looked around the cafeteria once more.
I followed her gaze. The place still was only two-thirds full, with entire tables vacant and no line at all for food. It was like nobody had been scheduled for A-lunch.
It was starting to freak me out. Where the hell was everyone?
“What if the time for orchestras is over, Pearl?”
I let out a snort. “There’ve been orchestras for centuries. They’re part of . . . I don’t know, civilization .”
“Yeah, civilization. That’s the whole problem. . . .” She touched the neck of the guitar case softly. “I was so sick of carrying that big cello around, like some dead body in a coffin. I just wanted something simple. Something I could play by the campfire, whether or not there’s any civilization around.”
A weird tingle went down my spine. “What happened to you this summer, Ellen?”
She looked up at me and, after a long pause, said, “My dad went away.”
“Oh. Crap.” I swallowed, remembering when my parents had divorced. “I’m really sorry. Like . . . he left your mom?”
Ellen shook her head. “Not right away. You see, someone bit him on the subway, and he . . . got different.”
“ Bit him?” I thought of the rumors I’d heard, that some kind of rabies was spreading from the rats—that you could see people like Min on the
So now that we had a drummer-sage and a demented Taj Mahal of a singer, the band only had two problems left: (1) we didn’t have a bass player, which I knew exactly how to fix, and (2) we still didn’t have a name. . . .
“How does Crazy Versus Sane sound to you?” I asked Ellen.
“Pardon me?”
“For a band name.”
“Hmm,” she said. “I guess it makes sense; you’re going to be all New Sound, right?”
“Sort of, but better.”
She shrugged. “It’s a little bit trying-too-hard; the word crazy , I mean. Like in Catch-22 . Anyone who tells you they’re crazy really isn’t. They’re just faking, or they wouldn’t know they were crazy.”
“Okay.” I frowned, remembering why hanging out with Ellen could be a drag sometimes. She had a tendency toward nonenthusiasm.
But then she smiled. “Don’t worry, Pearl. You’ll think of something. You playing guitar for them?”
“No, keyboards. We’ve got one too many guitarists already.”
“Too bad.” She pulled up an acoustic guitar case from the floor, sat it in the chair next to her. “Wouldn’t mind being in a band.”
I stared at the guitar. “What are you doing with that?”
She shrugged. “Gave up the cello.”
“What? But you were first chair last year!”
“Yeah, but cellos . . .” A long sigh. “They take too much infrastructure.”
“They do what?”
She sighed, rearranging the dishes on her tray as she spoke. “They need infrastructure. Most of the great cello works are written for orchestra. That’s almost a hundred musicians right there, plus all the craftsmen to build the instruments and maintain them and enough people to build a concert hall. And to pay for that, you’re talking about thousands of customers buying tickets every year, rich donors and government grants. . . . That’s why only really big cities have orchestras.”
“Um, Ellen? You live in a really big city. You’re not planning to move to Alaska or something, are you?”
She shook her head. “No. But what if big cities don’t work anymore? What if you can’t stick that many people together without it falling apart? What if . . .” Ellen’s voice faded as she looked around the cafeteria once more.
I followed her gaze. The place still was only two-thirds full, with entire tables vacant and no line at all for food. It was like nobody had been scheduled for A-lunch.
It was starting to freak me out. Where the hell was everyone?
“What if the time for orchestras is over, Pearl?”
I let out a snort. “There’ve been orchestras for centuries. They’re part of . . . I don’t know, civilization .”
“Yeah, civilization. That’s the whole problem. . . .” She touched the neck of the guitar case softly. “I was so sick of carrying that big cello around, like some dead body in a coffin. I just wanted something simple. Something I could play by the campfire, whether or not there’s any civilization around.”
A weird tingle went down my spine. “What happened to you this summer, Ellen?”
She looked up at me and, after a long pause, said, “My dad went away.”
“Oh. Crap.” I swallowed, remembering when my parents had divorced. “I’m really sorry. Like . . . he left your mom?”
Ellen shook her head. “Not right away. You see, someone bit him on the subway, and he . . . got different.”
“ Bit him?” I thought of the rumors I’d heard, that some kind of rabies was spreading from the rats—that you could see people like Min on the
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