Mom pulled her arm away. "Is that supposed to rea.s.sure me? Frankly, I'd prefer to put this down to her influence. It beats the alternative."

"You don't know the first thing about Tash," I groaned.

"And G.o.d willing, I'd like to keep it that way. And another thing: This band experiment has gone on long enough. If you're so desperate to go to Gallaudet, then I suggest you get back to studying and focus on applying for scholarships, instead of wasting your time."

I was about to fire back when Grace pulled away from Mom's breast and began wailing again. "I can't even get her to nurse!" cried Mom.

I waited for Grace to settle. "I know you're angry, Mom, and I'm sorry for not paying more attention to Grace, but the band isn't a waste of time. They're getting better every day."

Grace popped off the b.o.o.b yet again and pawed at Mom's face, leaving an angry scratch across her cheek. Mom flinched as she touched the spot with her fingertips.

"Oh really, honey? And how exactly would you know that, huh?"

I felt my breath catch, her words sharper than a knife. We both knew what those words meant, and so I waited for her to apologize, to point to the bags under her eyes and admit she was too tired to think straight. But when she finally looked up, she just seemed defiant.

"f.u.c.k you." The words came from somewhere deep inside me where the censor had been turned off. I was as surprised as anyone that I'd said it, but I meant it with all my heart.

For a moment no one moved, but then Dad leaped up. "Don't you dare speak to your mother like that."

I needed to back down, I knew I did, but I couldn't. "Oh, that's right. Side with Mom."

"I'm not taking sides. Your mother told the truth, that's all. I'm sorry if that's tough for you to hear."

I could feel the tears coming, but angry laughter slipped out first. "Oh, so I can can hear now?" hear now?"

"You know what I mean."

"No, I don't."

"You're deaf, Piper, okay? That may be painful, but it's a fact."

"You're wrong. You're so wrong it's practically a joke. One of these days you're going to work out there's nothing painful painful about being deaf. But I find it pretty significant that you keep using that word. Is that why you spend every waking minute cooing over Grace instead of talking to me? Does it make you feel better to know that at least you were able to cure one of us?" about being deaf. But I find it pretty significant that you keep using that word. Is that why you spend every waking minute cooing over Grace instead of talking to me? Does it make you feel better to know that at least you were able to cure one of us?"

Dad's hand balled into a fist, and I could feel his anger like a living, breathing presence. In the heat of the moment I willed him to yell at me, to scream obscenities, to declare war once and for all. It would have made it easier for us to admit there was no connection between us-never had been. Suddenly I saw the evening's bonding session for what it had really been: a mirage, brought on by an overdose of Jimi Hendrix, not by me. But then Dad forced himself to relax. "That's not fair, Piper," he said, and I hated him for keeping control, for trying to seem reasonable.

"You're d.a.m.n right. And it's not fair you never bothered to learn more than fifteen signs, even though you know it's how I prefer to communicate. All these years, and the best you can do is ask how my day went, then pretend to understand my response. You don't know a single sign to express an emotion . . . happiness, sadness . . . nothing nothing! Signing with you is like talking to a computer."

I took a deep breath and focused on keeping it together, saying what had always needed to be said, without breaking down. If I broke down, he might feel guilty, and I didn't want him to feel guilty for that moment; I wanted him to see the wrongness of always always.

"I-I'm sorry, Piper. If I'd known you felt this way I'd have ..."

"You'd have what what, Dad? Learned to sign? And you and Mom would've refused to give Grace an implant because you think I'm so perfect you want her to be like me? Don't blame me for this one, Dad. This one's all on you."

I saw the way my words had crushed him, deflated him as surely as a punch to the gut, but I still didn't cry. I didn't even cry when I saw Mom hunched over Grace, a worn-out shadow of a woman with eyes shut tight. It should be them breaking down, not me, I thought.

But then I felt a hand on my arm, warm and comforting. I turned and looked at Finn, his face full of remorse and understanding, and I began to cry anyway. Through the tears I saw my father help my mother to stand, and together they shuffled out of the den without another word.

I turned back to Finn and buried my face in his shoulder, gave up fighting my battle against tears now that it was blindingly obvious I could never hope to win.

CHAPTER 35.

"So much for waiting a while longer before using up your final session," said Baz.

"They're ready for this. Trust me."

"Uh-huh. So who are they today? The Beatles? Barney and Friends?"

"No. We're Dumb. And we're going to stay Dumb from now on."

Baz shook his head in disbelief. "Well, you won't get any argument from me. Are we plugging in the eye candy's microphone this time?"

I clenched my fists. "Her name is Kallie."

"Oh, so now she has a name and someone to support her. Where was that last time?"

"I was wrong."

"Sure. Well, let's get on with it. You've got three hours to immortalize Dumb's greatness."

Even though Baz was being sarcastic, I didn't rise to the bait. I knew there was a side of Dumb he hadn't yet witnessed, and I wanted to enjoy his surprised reaction when he found out. But that would have to wait until Josh and Kallie joined the others. Where were they, anyway?

I peered through the window in the control room door and caught sight of Josh's face in a wall-mounted mirror. He looked animated, almost imploring as he dominated a conversation with, I guessed, Kallie. And it wasn't exactly hard to imagine what they were discussing.

He ran a hand through his blond curls, his eyes crying out for a little understanding. Even I'd have hugged him, but when he stepped forward, antic.i.p.ating Kallie's embrace, it was clear she wasn't playing along. Suddenly he slapped the concrete cinder block with the palm of his hand, and I gripped the door handle in case things were about to turn ugly.

Josh was talking again now, but he was angry, not pleading. I figured his voice must be loud, but Baz was nearby and seemed completely oblivious to what was happening on the other side of the door. I tried to lip-read, but it was hopeless with Josh in profile, so I just watched to make sure Kallie was safe, and let him vent. Sure enough, he slapped the wall again a few seconds later, then waltzed into the control room and on to the studio like nothing had happened.

Kallie didn't immediately follow him, so I opened the door and stood beside her as she fought back tears.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She nodded. "I guess there was some kind of misunderstanding about me joining the band."

"You mean it came with strings attached?"

"Yeah. I didn't realize, and now . . . now I just wish he'd get it, you know?"

"But he's not getting it. So you need to spell it out for him."

"I can't do that."

"Why not? He's being an a.s.shole."

"No." She bowed her head. "It'll ruin everything."

I was sympathetic, I really was, but her stubbornness was infuriating. "You can't just let him walk all over you, Kallie."

"Yes, I can. Sometimes it's better that way. Anyway, I'll be okay." And with that she took a deep breath and rejoined her bandmates, her insecurity and anguish bottled up inside where no one else would see.

Five minutes later, Ed had Dumb running through the band's original three covers, exactly as I'd instructed him to do. Through my daily dose of web-based research, I'd discovered that while we'd never be able to sell copies of the songs without paying the copyright holders, it was unlikely that anyone would try to sue us for including them in promotional materials. Just as important, it meant that only twenty minutes into the three hours, Baz already had good recordings of all three songs, and Dumb's confidence was high.

The next songs slowed Dumb down, but everyone soldiered on together, and with an hour to go, another three songs had been recorded for posterity. Baz glanced at the clock as if to rea.s.sure himself he hadn't lost track of time. I felt vindicated.

I'd only antic.i.p.ated getting recordings of those six songs, so I was thrilled when Dumb revamped "Loving Every Part of You" as a punk rock anthem. Then they tried a cover version of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" by Nirvana, but Josh was making up new R-rated lyrics as he went along. He was also unusually still, simply blaring into the microphone instead of his usual habit of performing for an imaginary, adoring audience. While Dumb was soaring to new heights as a band, Josh seemed to be in free-fall, rejected by Kallie and probably aware that his dreamed-of greatness might never come to pa.s.s after all. So much conniving, yet so few results. I couldn't help smiling.

I spent the session taking photos, posting comments to rock music blogs, and researching Seattle Today Seattle Today. But even then I'd run out of projects about half an hour before the session was over. Finally, out of boredom and desperation, I began to draft a letter to the school princ.i.p.al, requesting that Piper Vaughan be granted absence from two periods plus lunch break on Tuesday, November 5 to partic.i.p.ate in Dumb's live performance on Seattle Today Seattle Today. And since Baz had a printer in the control room, I ran off a copy and forged my father's signature right there and then, before I had time to second-guess myself.

Even so, by the time I folded the letter and sealed it in an envelope, I'd read it at least a dozen times. I wondered if the wording was too formal, or the sentences too long. I imagined that the signature was too legible, the paper too fancy. In my mind I'd been tried and found guilty of impersonating a stay-at-home dad, and the sentence was too appalling to contemplate. I even began to doubt I'd have the courage to hand it in to the school office, but really, what other choice did I have? Ask Mom? Ask Dad? No thanks. Just because Mom knew it was coming up on Tuesday didn't mean she'd let me attend, not after Friday's showdown. Anyway, it was about time I capitalized on my reputation as the school's most upstanding student. The moment had come for Bad Girl Piper to test the theory that it's better to beg forgiveness than ask permission. It usually worked for Finn.

When our three hours were up, Baz ejected another new CD and handed it over. "Tracks one, two, three, five, eight, and ten are good," he said, all business. "And believe me, I don't use that word lightly."

"Thanks."

"I still wish you'd waited longer before coming in. I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, but Kallie just isn't ready for this yet. When the band got off track, it was almost always because of her."

"She's getting better."

"But how long are the rest of them going to hang around waiting for her to get good enough?" he asked. I shrugged, and Baz seemed to understand that I needed him to let it go. "Seriously, though, they're so much better than the first time they came in here. They just need to attack every song with the same energy and commitment, you know?"

"I know. But we'll be back. And next time I hope we'll be able to pay our own way."

Baz raised his eyebrows like he admired my optimism, and possibly even shared a little of it. "Well, if you do get some paid work and want to book another session, let me know. I really believe we could get some good material-the kind that generates real real interest." interest."

"Thanks, Baz. Thanks for . . . well, everything."

"You're welcome. You're not exactly in an easy situation here."

I waved off the remark. "Deafness is overrated."

"I'm not talking about your deafness." Baz pointed to a framed poster for The Workin' Firkins-a performance at something called the s...o...b..x back in 1985. "We fired our manager just after this concert. Biggest mistake we ever made."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Thought we'd made it, see? Thought the only way was up, so we figured there'd be a little more cash to go around if we ditched him and arranged things ourselves." He tapped the poster, gazed at it like a long-lost friend. "It worked for a while. We played bigger and bigger venues. Even had one show at Key Arena, back when it was the Coliseum. I'm talking eleven thousand people, you know? It was insane. But by then my brother and I were fighting pretty much all the time."

"Hold on. Your brother brother was in the band?" was in the band?"

"Yeah, lead guitar. And let me tell you, the fights are so much worse when it's family. Just look at Oasis."

"Who?"

Baz frowned. "Never mind. Anyway, it turned out the only thing that had kept us together was that we all hated our manager. So when he wasn't around anymore, we just went at each other instead. We held it together for one more year, then disbanded."

"I'm sorry." I meant it too, but I wasn't just talking about his band. I felt like I was seeing the real Baz for the first time. The bohemian clothes weren't retro-cool, or even retro, they were relics of 1985, a refusal to accept that the band was over, time had marched on, and he was rapidly becoming an old man. The studio wasn't really about mentoring future bands or making a living, it was his way of reliving the role of pop star vicariously, making all the corrections and improvements he never got the chance to make with The Workin' Firkins. And something told me that Baz was smart enough to know all this too, that in refusing to move on he had come to terms with the desperately held persona, and felt that it was better than any alternative reality.

"Thank you, Baz, for all you do. I'm getting it, I really am."

He nodded. "I know you are." He smiled his crooked smile. "Tell you what, leave me your number. If I hear of any opportunities for an up-and-coming band, I'll contact you."

"Thanks. Although you could just e-mail me through the band's Mys.p.a.ce page," I said nonchalantly, studying him to see how he'd respond.

Baz grimaced. "I don't do Mys.p.a.ce, or any of those other sites. It's all too weird, if you ask me."

It wasn't the response I was expecting. "But you've visited our our Mys.p.a.ce page, right?" Mys.p.a.ce page, right?"

He rolled his eyes. "No offense, but I've got a million better things to do than trawl through the Internet trying to find your webpage." There was no hesitation, no turning red. Whoever the heck ZARKINFIB was, it definitely wasn't Baz Firkin. "You okay?" he asked as I remained rooted to the spot for several more seconds.

"Yeah. I'm just . . . Yeah. Thanks."

"Okay, that's three times you've thanked me, so we should stop now. I'm not used to it, and it's freaking me out. Besides, I'm supposed to be meeting my parole officer at four o'clock."

It was a good exit line. I just hoped I never had a chance to use it myself.

CHAPTER 36.

Tash surveyed the aging audience of Seattle Today Seattle Today contemptuously from the edge of the studio. "If one of them drops dead in the middle of our song," she said, scowling, "do we have to stop playing?" contemptuously from the edge of the studio. "If one of them drops dead in the middle of our song," she said, scowling, "do we have to stop playing?"

I snorted with laughter before realizing she wasn't completely joking. "That's not nice, Tash."

"Nice, no, but quite likely," she countered, pointing to a couple in the front row who had already fallen asleep.

Selina, the stage manager, glared at us and pursed her lips.

Tash leaned closer. "I don't think that woman likes us."

"And she hasn't even heard you play yet."

Selina hugged a clipboard, her eyes fixed on various people and objects I couldn't begin to identify. A couple seconds later she directed Dumb to take their places on the studio set, exuding all the warmth and charm of an army drill sergeant.

My heart beat wildly as the quintet took their positions and tuned up. I was suddenly glad the audience looked so comatose-watching the old ladies with their knitting had a calming effect I hadn't antic.i.p.ated when I'd signed the contract. I got the feeling the band was pretty hyper too. All except Will, whose hair may have prevented him from noticing that there was any audience at all.

Selina tapped my arm. "I said, 'They don't look like their pictures on the website. Those black-and-white photos are misleading. ' "

I smiled innocently. "Yeah, well, I had to shoot in black and white because Tash's green hair screws with the color contrast."

She rolled her eyes, like my attempt to torment her had actually worked. (Hanging out with Dumb had clearly rubbed off.) Then she left me and walked over to the host, Donna Stevens, who was having her makeup touched up. (She'd only been on air for ten minutes before the first commercial break, and I wondered how on earth she required makeup intervention already.) Donna peered over Selina's shoulder and raised a pencil-thin eyebrow as she beheld Dumb in all their Technicolor glory. I didn't like the look of that, and I liked it even less when Selina paused to talk with someone-the producer or director, I guessed-on her headset, after which she engaged the camera operators in an in-depth discussion. Unfortunately her back was to me, so I couldn't make out what was being said.