He was never going to forgive her for that.
Me, I still thought Pearl was hot. But for now, there was nothing I could do about it. And actually, I was happy with things the way they were. My best friend and the foolest girl in the world had finally quit fighting, the music was fexcellent, and Pearl loved the band, which meant she wasn't going anywhere without me tagging along.
It was all going so good, I should have known something was about to explode.
We were working on the B section of one of the new tunes, called "A Million Stimuli to Go." It was totally complicated, and no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't play it. Moz kept showing me how on his Strat, but for some reason it didn't work on my fingers.
At least, it didn't until Pearl jumped in. She swept aside the CD cases and a harmonica scattered across her bed and sat down next to me. Unhooking the strap of my guitar, she pulled it over into her lap.
"Let me, Zahler," she said.
Then, like it was no big deal, she started playing the part.
Normally, sitting that close to her would have been pretty fool. But at that moment I was too dumbfounded to appreciate it.
"See?" she said, her fingers practically smoking as they cruised across the strings. "You've just got to use your pinky on that last bit."
Moz laughed. "He hates using his pinky. Says it's his retarded finger."
I didn't say anything right then, just watched her play, nodding like a moron. She was dead on about how to make the part work, and now that I could see it from behind the strings, it didn't even look that hard. When Pearl handed me back my guitar, I managed to get it right the first time.
She stood up and went back to her keyboards, tweaking her stacks while I ran through it a dozen more times, pushing the riff deep into my brain.
I didn't say anything more about it till later, when it was just me and the Mosquito.
"Moz, did you see what happened back there?"
We were wandering through late-night Chinatown, surrounded by the clatter of restaurant kitchens. The thick sweat of fry-cooking rolled along the narrow streets, and the metal doors of fish markets were rumbling down, the briny smell of guts lingering in the air.
It was pretty quiet at night since the pedestrian curfew had been imposed. Moz and I always ignored the curfew, though, so it was like we owned the city.
"See what?" Moz twisted his body to peer down the alley we'd just passed.
"No, not down there." Since that day with my dogs, I didn't even glance into alleys anymore. "Back at Pearl's. When she showed me that riff." My hands lifted into guitar position, fingers fluttering. The moves were in me now, too late to save me from humiliation.
"Oh, the one you had trouble with? What about it?"
"Did you see how Pearl just did it?"
He frowned, his own fingers tracing the pattern. "That's how it's supposed to be played."
I groaned. "No, Moz, not how she played it. That she played it, when it was driving me nuts!"
"Oh," he said, then waited as a garbage truck steamed past, squeaking and groaning. For some reason, there were six guys hanging onto the back, instead of the usual two or three. They watched us warily as the truck rumbled away. "Yeah, she's pretty good. You didn't know that?"
"Hell, no. When did that happen?"
"A long time before we met her." He laughed. "You never noticed how her hand moves when she calls out chords?" His left hand twitched in the air. "And I told you how she spotted the Strat, same as me."
"But - "
"And that stuff in her room: the flute, the harmonicas, the hand drums. She plays it all, Zahler."
I frowned. It was true, there were a lot of instruments lying around at Pearl's. And sometimes she'd pull one down and play something on it, just for a joke. "I never noticed any guitars, though."
He shrugged. "She keeps them under the bed. I thought you knew."
I looked down and swung my boot at the fire hydrant squatting on the curb, catching it hard in one of its little spouty things. It clanked and I hopped back, remembering I didn't mess with hydrants anymore. "That doesn't bug you?"
"Bug me? I don't care if she keeps them in the attic, as long as I get to play the Strat."
"Not that. Doesn't it bug you that I'm supposed to be our guitarist, and I don't even play guitar as well as our keyboard player?"
"So? She's a musical genius."
I groaned. Sometimes the Mosquito could be spectacularly retarded. "Well, doesn't that sort of imply that the 'musical genius' should be our second guitarist, and not me?"
He stopped, turned to face me. "But Zahler, that won't help. You don't play keyboards at all."
"Ahhh! That's not what I mean!"
Moz sighed, put his hands up. "Look, Zahler, I know she plays guitar better than you. And she understands the Big Riff better than I do, just like she does most music. She probably drums better than a lot of drummers - maybe not Alana Ray, though. But like I said, she's a musical genius. Don't worry. She and I were talking about you, and Pearl's already got a plan."
"Talking about me? A plan?"
"Of course. Pearl's always got a plan - that's why she's the boss." He smiled. "I got over it, why can't you?"
"Why can't I get over it?" I stood there, breathing hard, hands flexing, looking to grab something by the throat and choke it. "You weren't over jack until a couple of weeks ago! And that's only because you think that weird junkie friend of hers is hot!"
He stared at me, eyes wide, and I glared back at him. It was one of those things I hadn't known until I'd blurted it out. But now I could see that it was totally true. The only reason Moz had been so fool lately was that Minerva had clicked the reset button on his brain.
I'd already told Moz what I thought of her. She was a junkie, or an ex-junkie, or a soon-to-be junkie, and was bad news. Even before she'd freaked out at Alana Ray during that first rehearsal, the whole dark glasses and trippy singing had been totally paranormal.
I'm not saying she wasn't a good singer, just that I like my songs with words. And I like my skinny, pale chicks with veiny arms as far away as possible.
"Min's not a junkie," he said.
"Oh, yeah? How do you know?"