Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
Author’s note
Acknowledgements
DIAL BOOKS
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Copyright © 2010 by Antony John
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
John, Antony.
Five flavors of Dumb / Antony John.
p. cm.
Summary: Eighteen-year-old Piper becomes the manager for her classmates’
popular rock band, called Dumb, giving her the chance to prove her capabilities to her parents
and others, if only she can get the band members to get along.
eISBN : 978-1-101-44530-3
[1. Rock groups—Fiction. 2. Bands (Music)—Fiction. 3. Deaf—Fiction.
4. People with disabilities—Fiction. 5. Family life—Washington (State)—Fiction.
6. High schools—Fiction. 7. Schools—Fiction. 8. Seattle (Wash.)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.J6216Fiv 2010
[Fic]—dc22
2009044449
http://us.penguingroup.com
TO MY PARENTS, ROY AND ANGELA JOHN,
WHO DIDN’T MISS A BEAT WHEN
I SAID I WANTED TO BE A MUSICIAN ...
THEN A WRITER.
AND TO TAMSIN: DANCING QUEEN AND
INDISPENSABLE RESEARCH ASSISTANT.
Please don’t put your life in the hands
Of a rock ’n‘ roll band
Who’ll throw it all away
“Don’t Look Back in Anger”
— Oasis
CHAPTER 1
For the record, I wasn’t around the day they decided to become Dumb. If I’d been their manager back then I’d have pointed out that the name, while accurate, was not exactly smart. It just encouraged people to question the band’s intelligence, maybe even their sanity. And the way I saw it, Dumb didn’t have much of either.
But they weren’t in the mood to be reasoned with. They’d just won Seattle’s annual Teen Battle of the Bands, and they were milking their fifteen minutes for all it was worth. Never mind that no one else at school even knew the contest existed, the fact is they won. The Battle organizers had even hired Baz Firkin—lead singer of defunct band The Workin’ Firkins—to mentor their inevitable ascent toward rock stardom during three all-expenses-paid recording sessions. Baz hadn’t heard them yet, of course—he wasn’t up for parole for another week—but he was a man with experience and connections, both of which were sure to come in handy as soon as he was released.
Meanwhile, Dumb celebrated their victory by giving an unscheduled performance on the school steps first thing Monday morning. It would have been the most audacious breach of school rules ever if the teachers hadn’t been attending their weekly staff meeting; instead, the band cranked up their amps, to the delight of their numerous groupies. I wanted to ignore them, but they were strategically blocking the school entrance, and hustling past would have marked me out as anal-retentive (“Doesn’t want to be late for homeroom!”) and indirectly critical (“Didn’t even look at the band!”).
Or maybe not, but that’s how it seemed to me.
Anyway, I stuck around for a few minutes and watched the threesome thrashing their poor defenseless instruments with sadistic abandon: swoony Josh Cooke on vocals, his mouth moving preternaturally fast and hips gyrating as if a gerbil had gained unauthorized access to his crotch; Will Cooke, Josh’s non-identical twin brother, on bass guitar, his lank hair obscuring most of his pale, gaunt face, hands moving so sluggishly you would think they’d been sedated; Tash Hartley on lead guitar, her left hand flying along the neck of the guitar while she stared down her audience like a boxer sizing up her opponent before a fight. Not that anyone—male or female—would be stupid enough to take on Tash.
I was going to slide past them as soon as they finished a song, but as far as I could tell that never actually happened, so I just held back. Anyway, the scene on the steps was oddly compelling, even aesthetically pleasing. The bright, late September sun glinted off the teen-proof tempered windows. Beside me, Kallie Sims, supermodel wannabe, was a vision of flawless dark skin and meticulously flat-ironed hair. Even Dumb’s instruments looked shiny and cared for. And all the while I could feel the music pounding in my hands, my feet, my chest. For a moment, I understood how Dumb might have won the Battle of the Bands on pure energy alone. I could even believe they were set to conquer the world—if the world were a small public high school in a predominantly white, middle-class suburb of Seattle.
There must have been a hundred of us out there when I first noticed someone staring at me. I didn’t even know her, but when I smiled she looked away guiltily. Then someone else glanced over. She tried to look nonchalant, but was clearly confused to see me with a group of mostly popular kids, listening to music of all things.
Suddenly I couldn’t watch the band, couldn’t enjoy the scene. As I scanned the crowd I saw more pairs of eyes trained on me, each of them
wondering what I was doing there. And there was whispering too, which should have seemed comical—why go to the trouble of whispering around me, right?—but instead made me feel even more self-conscious. I just wanted to make it to the end of the song, but I was beginning to wonder if that would ever happen.
Finally Dumb relaxed, like they were pausing to draw breath. I couldn’t bear to move, however; couldn’t face drawing even more attention to myself. I watched as the performers knelt down before their amplifiers and turned a few knobs. Then, smiling at each other, they attacked their instruments with renewed vigor, spewing out noise that replicated a small earthquake, while Josh gave us an unparalleled view of his tonsils. Satisfied at having initiated seismic activity on school grounds, they played on even when smoke started rising from Will’s amp—maybe they figured it was only appropriate that they should provide their own pyrotechnics as well. They didn’t even seem to mind when the small black box, clearly fed up with this particular brand of thrash-scream cacophony, began sparking, then flaming gently.
Kallie’s supermodel posse was first to evacuate, presumably afraid that the chemicals in their hair might spontaneously combust, although Kallie herself stuck around. This surprised me. Gradually everyone else shuffled off as well. They knew things were about to turn seriously ugly and didn’t want to be at the crime scene when punishments were being doled out. Eventually only Kallie and I remained. Together we watched Dumb’s unofficial concert end in a literal blaze of glory. Even as I struggled to avoid inhaling the noxious smoke, I couldn’t help but admire the showmanship.
I can’t say when Will’s amplifier stopped producing sound altogether and threatened to ignite the school’s electricity supply. But I remember exactly how I felt as I raised my arms and screamed at the top of my lungs—the kind of obnoxious, over-the-top response I normally reserved for our sports teams’ own goals and air-balled free throws. I remember my shock as Kallie raised her arms too, like she thought I was seriously impressed with the band. And I can still picture Josh and Will and Tash smiling and pumping their fists in the air. But most of all I remember how great it felt to vent, whatever my motives, to share an animal scream with four other people who gave even less of a crap than I did. For a moment I even allowed myself to believe that the blackened air was nothing less than the whole damn school disintegrating into beautiful, blissful oblivion . . . right until the principal burst through the main door, drowning everything and everyone in foam from a gratuitously large fire extinguisher.
By the time the fire truck arrived, the amps were nothing but an electrical dog pile on our school’s formerly pristine steps, and Dumb had been hit with a week-long in-school suspension for committing unforgivable acts of “noise pollution”—the principal’s words, but no one seemed to disagree. It should have been the end of the group really, considering their punishment, and the inescapable fact that their amps were ruined. But in one of those crazy rock music situations I came to know firsthand, the moment of their untimely demise became the moment Dumb was truly born.
For the rest of the day, freshmen reenacted the moment when the amp actually caught fire. Even the band’s staunchest critics began scrawling eulogies on bathroom stalls. Suddenly the world of North Seattle High revolved around Dumb—the only topic anyone discussed anymore. At least, that’s how it seemed to me. I think that’s what everyone was talking about. But in the interests of accuracy, I should admit that it’s kind of hard for me to tell because, well, you know.
I’m deaf.
SUCK·I·NESS [SUHK-EE-NIS] -noun
WATCHING your parents pay exorbitant real estate prices so that you can live in a school district with deaf programs
LEARNING that educational budget cuts include shutting down said deaf programs at your high school
DISCOVERING that your equally deaf BFF Marissa’s parents have chosen to protest the decision by moving to San Francisco
LISTENING to your recently laid-off father complain about the aforementioned exorbitant real estate prices, and hypocritically criticizing his daughter for moping about Marissa leaving, when he’s constantly moping about losing his job
REALIZING you’re completely alone . . . even in a crowd
CHAPTER 2
As usual, my brother Finn (he’s a freshman) wasn’t waiting by the car (aka USS Immovable, a 1987 Chevy Caprice Classic Brougham that consumed fuel in legendary quantities) when school ended. What was unusual was that it didn’t bother me. For once I wasn’t in a hurry to get home, so I sprawled across the massive hood and basked in what remained of the sunshine.
I watched my fellow seniors tumble out of school, engaging in ritualistic chest-bumping, conspicuous air kissing, and flagrant butt-groping. When all socially accepted forms of physical contact had been exhausted, they ambled to their cars like they were reluctant to leave the school grounds. Some even pretended to have trouble unlocking their car doors, just in case the opportunity for further socializing might present itself. I waved to a couple of girls from Calc, but I guess they didn’t see me.
I closed my eyes and concentrated on feeling the sun against my face—so warm, so relaxing, so rare in the Seattle fall. I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, Finn was shaking my arm pretty hard, which scared the crap out of me.
If anyone asks, I’ve been with you here the last ten minutes, okay? he signed feverishly.
I narrowed my eyes, but nodded anyway. Whatever he was about to be accused of, he was clearly guilty—otherwise he wouldn’t have willingly signed. True, sign language is my preferred mode of communication, but when there’s just the two of us in an empty parking lot, my hearing aids plus lip-reading are perfectly adequate.
See, deafness is complicated. I used to hear perfectly, but when I was six my hearing began to fail. It was a gradual process, but undeniable; and not completely unexpected, as my mom’s parents were both deaf. When I could only follow conversations by lip-reading, my parents shelled out a few thousand dollars for hearing aids, but they work best when I’m talking to one person in a quiet place. The constant noise of school is not conducive to hearing aid use, which is why I still prefer to sign whenever I can. Finn knew this, of course, but that didn’t stop him from speaking to me most of the time. Which is how I knew he was sucking up to me. Which meant that, yes . . . he’d screwed up again.
Barely ten seconds later, Mr. Belson—reluctant math teacher yet enthusiastic mascot of the school chess club—waddled through the door and made a beeline for my car. He came to an abrupt halt a few feet from Finn, but his enormous stomach continued to wobble. I could tell by his heightened color and incensed expression that the words were going to be shouted.
“I saw you in that room, Vaughan!”
Beside me, Finn shrank lower on the trunk.
“Admit it. You were there.”
I have to say, someone who breaks as many rules as Finn really ought to work on perfecting a look of innocence, or defiance, or something. All he seems to have mastered is the deer-in-the-headlights look.
I conjured a broad smile. “Hello, Mr. Belson,” I said.
He did a double take. “Oh, hello, Ms. Vaughan. What are you doing here?”
“Finn is my brother.”
“Him?” Belson shuffled uncomfortably on the spot. “Surely not. It can’t be true.”
“Believe me, Mr. Belson, it still takes me by surprise sometimes.”
Belson looked genuinely sympathetic. “Well, I’m sorry to say your brother was engaging in nefarious after-school activities.”
Of course he was, I wanted to say, but if I did, then we’d be here another hour while my parents were summoned to appear before the principal.
“Finn and I have been here ever since school ended, Mr. Belson,” I said innocently.
“That’s patently untrue. I saw him in that room.”
“It, uh . . . must have been someone else.” Despite years of covering for Finn’s misdeeds, I still felt my heartbeat quicken as the lie dribbled out.
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Belson wiped the sweat off his forehead with a carefully folded paper napkin. “Don’t do this, Ms. Vaughan. You’re an excellent student. And an exceptional chess club captain, I might add. Don’t jeopardize your own reputation to cover for him.”
I shrugged, allowed the silence to linger. After all, if there was one area that I was extremely experienced in, it was prolonged silences.
Belson remained frozen to the spot, pondering his next move. Eventually he replaced the napkin in his pocket with a measured gesture and stared directly at Finn.
“You’ve only been here a month, Vaughan. The fact that I’m already onto you is an ominous sign for your future at our school. Your next transgression will result in suspension, you understand? There’s no three-strike rule here.”
He didn’t wait for a response, just spun around with the grace of the Marshmallow Man and hurried back to resume patrolling the school hallways.
I’ll make it up to you, signed Finn, his movements slower now, calmer.
What were you doing? I shot back.
Nothing. Just hanging out.
With all your new friends, I assume.
He looked away and refused to take the bait. Or maybe he was just trying to spare my feelings, refusing to confirm that one month into high school he was already more popular than me.
I got into the car and shoved the key in the ignition. I wanted to believe that I was pissed about having to lie to Belson, but really, that wasn’t it at all. I was just pissed at Finn . . . for serially screwing up and always living to tell the tale; for knowing he could always count on me to bail him out. It was all so predictable.
But it was more than that, even. I knew he only reverted to sign language as a way to soften me up—it meant nothing to him; he had no personal investment in it—and I hated myself for being secretly grateful to him anyway. Sure, it was an improvement on Dad’s complete unwillingness to sign at all, but I felt manipulated. Finn had no idea what my life was like, and I guess I had no idea what his was like either. I just knew that when he met a girl for the first time, he didn’t have to worry about how his voice sounded or whether she was freaked out by the way he stared at her lips the whole time.