Jr. said.
Joe turned to me. âI think thatâs reasonable.â
âJoey played the cello for me,â said Rachel. âI never thought Iâd live to hear someone in this family playing Bach.â
âWas that Bach?â Joe Jr. asked, looking pleased with himself.
I noticed how Simon kept glancing at me from across the table. I could see right in his mouth as he chewed, beans stuck on his braces, mud on a wire fence. When I met his eye: dart, dart. Normally Joe Jr.âs friends ignore me. When I come into the room they immediately mute themselves, except for the yelps when they punch each other, or the snickers. They hardly look at me, not the way Simon kept looking at me now. How to describe it? With interest .
And a horrible thought came to me. Joe Jr. did have the article. He had it and heâd shown it to Simon.
Joe: âBoys? What do you think of this? The Streptococci?â
Thumbs down from Joe Jr. âNobodyâll get it.â
âWhat is it?â Simon asked.
âThen how about The Cankers?â
âI thought we were going to be The Cretins,â Simon said. âLike? One, two, three, four, Cretins wanna hop some more?â
âJane has a problem with The Cretins. She doesnât think itâs very nice.â
âI like The Joes,â I said.
The boys groaned.
âThink of it as a tribute. Joey Shithead. Joe Strummer. Joey Ramone. Joey Normal and the Fuck Ups.â
Rachel frowned. âWhatâs all this nasty talk about?â
âWe need a name. Weâre, like, a punk band, Gran.â
âYouâre like one or you are one?â
âDadâs getting us a real gig.â
âIâm working on it,â Joe said. âI still have connections, Ma.â
âThough half of them are lawyers now,â I pointed out. âYou remember Molly? Sheâs a lawyer.â
Rachel: âHow about The Tone Deaf? Are you playing the cello in this band, Joey?â
âNo, thatâs for school. No one else was playing it. Mom told me that story so I thought Iâd try it.â
âWhat story?â I asked.
âYou were reading that book. About the guy who brings his crazy friend home and is embarrassed because his dad plays the cello.â
âYou mean Fathers and Sons ?â
Iâm the odd reader out in this family. The Joes have no use for books; they live for the music I mostly tune out. I was so touched that my son had actually paid attention to something I cared about that tears came to my eyes. Quickly, I wiped them with my napkin because crying is a hundred times worse than playing the cello, even old Kirsanov knew that. Joe rose from the table and went into the kitchen to get dessert, trading a concerned glance with his mother on the way. Then I really felt foolish, because I knew for certain that they all knew what had happened to that article. They all knew and I didnât. I was the cretin.
The apple crumble hit the trivet; the boys attacked. Joe set the ice cream down beside it and I remembered that Russian word, the one Iâd imagined bulging in Simonâs throat. Morozhenoye . I got up to put the tea on. When I got back to the table Simon was saying, âThereâs, like, a demonstration.â He glanced at me, ears reddening around the peepholes. âYou should come.â He seemed to be saying this to me specifically. Inviting me .
â I should?â I asked.
The colour spread from his perforated lobes. âYou all should,â he said. âItâs totally illegal, their being in Iraq.â
âWhereâs the demonstration?â I asked.
âAt the Art Gallery. It would be awesome if you came.â
Awesome? What the hell? I wondered. What was that kid thinking about me?
After dinner they went downstairs to practise. Joe Sr.âs lair is down there, a TV, a stationary bicycle, an unambitious set of weights. Itâs also where he stores and listens
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