Shout Down the Moon Read Online Free PDF Page B

He’s smirking now, barely able to contain his laughter. “I’m sure a decision as important as this requires extensive research.”
    I want to kick him, but mainly I want to kick myself. I’m such a fool.
    When I don’t reply, he says, “All right, we don’t have to talk about hair,” leaning his head to the side, still smirking. “What would you rather discuss?” He reads from the magazine cover. “Glamour makeup in ten minutes? Or maybe the hot new fashions for fall?”
    What I want to say, what I have to bite my top lip to keep from saying, is “No, let’s talk about why you’re an asshole.” But I can’t let myself fight with Jonathan. I tell myself it’s immature, but I know there’s another reason. I’ve never mentioned it to anyone and I try not to dwell on it too much—it messes up my confidence.
    The truth is, I only sound good because of Jonathan. With him backing me up, I can cut this gig. But if he quit or, God forbid, if Fred fired him, I’d be exposed as what I really am. Competent, yes, but weak in certain areas. Definitely not the power singer I’m supposed to be.
    Fred hired me because he was impressed with my range and depth, my ability to belt out whatever music he put before me. My problem, as I found out when we started playing six nights a week, was that my voice was inconsistent. By the third night, my lungs were hurting and sometimes I got into trouble. I had too much vibrato when the tune was supposed to be clean, or worse, I couldn’t hold the high note without taking a noticeable breath, leaving a nasty silence in the middle of what should have been the climax.
    But Jonathan would cover for me. He’d use his keyboards as a distraction, an enhancement, whatever it took. And he made it look like it was supposed to be that way, like I was singing perfectly. After almost a year of playing together, we’re so in sync that sometimes he seems to know what I need before I do. I’m always careful not to look at him then; I’m afraid I’ll get confused, think it means more than it does. He’s just being a professional, doing what’s best for the band.
    “We don’t have to talk at all,” I say, after I tell Willie to eat up. My cheeks are burning; I want to get back in the van, on the road.
    “I was just joking, Patty,” he says, leaning back, replacing his smirk with a small smile, lowering his eyes so they’re half-open, clearly bored. He’s back to being cool.
    I can’t resist blurting, “No, you weren’t. You think my magazine is stupid and so am I. But that’s fine. I don’t care what you think.”
    “Of course you don’t,” he says, and he sounds mad suddenly, although I can’t imagine what I’ve done.
    “Well, why should I?”
    “Exactly. You’ve just started out and you already have your own band. Why should you care what I think?”
    I put the magazine back in the diaper bag, out of sight. “It’s not my band. You run the rehearsals, Jonathan, you decide the sets. You decide everything.”
    “But you’re the attraction. The product. You’re the one Fred is grooming for bigger things. And in the end, you’ll get the prize.” He stands up and grabs his check off the table, hissing, “Most likely to succeed in an anti-intellectual, art-hating world.”
    Even Willie is surprised at how mad Jonathan seems. He points with a french fry at the register where Jonathan is handing money to the waitress, and asks if Jonathan is leaving without us.
    I’m wondering the same thing, but I tell Willie no. And I force myself not to worry as he drinks the rest of his milk and we head to the bathroom. I have to pee, that’s all there is to it. Even if we do get left at a truck stop in God-knows-where, Missouri.
    As we walk up to the van, Jonathan is sitting motionless in the driver’s seat, staring out the window. When we get in, he doesn’t say a word, he just starts the engine, turns on the radio. Willie is asleep less than five minutes after we hit the