Save the Date(80)

“No. That’s why we were booked to play this kid’s bar mitzvah. The theme is Duncan’s Journey to Being a Man.”

I glanced at Bill, feeling my hopes deflate. It was bad enough we didn’t have the band we wanted—and now we were stuck with an eighties-era cover band?

“We’re really good, though,” Glen said, maybe sensing what I was feeling. “We’re the tri-state area’s second-best Journey cover band, according to Best of the Gold Coast. I can send you the article if you want.”

“There’s more than one Journey cover band?” Bill asked, sounding surprised.

“Oh man, you have no idea,” Glen said darkly. “It’s really stiff competition. We should have won, but the Streetlight People had some pull with the judges, so . . .” He sighed and shook his head. “Well—some will win. Some will lose.”

I tilted my head to the side. “That’s a Journey lyric, isn’t it?”

“Steve Perry is a poet of the ordinary,” Glen said reverently.

“That may be so,” Bill said. “But the thing is, we didn’t know you were a Journey cover band. I’m sure you’re great. But . . . we were kind of expecting a regular band.”

“But we’re so much better than a regular band,” Glen said, looking appalled by this.

“Do you play any other songs?” I asked, hoping against hope that they did.

Glen brightened at this. “We have some originals.”

“No,” Bill and I said at the same time.

“I’m sure they’re good,” I added quickly, since Glen was looking offended. “But we were really hoping for some, you know, songs by other artists.”

“Why would a Journey cover band play other bands’ songs? We’re not a jukebox. Also, you need to respect the cover band turf. If we started playing Michael Jackson suddenly, the Men in the Mirror would not be happy about it.”

“Oh,” I said. “I had no idea.”

Glen nodded. “It’s a tough business. Welcome to the jungle.” He paused for a second. “Which is, incidentally, the name of my brother’s Guns N’ Roses cover band.”

“Do you think you could give it a shot?” Bill asked. “We’ve just . . . had a lot of things go wrong with this wedding already, and I’m not sure the bride and groom can handle anything else not going according to plan.”

“I can talk to my bandmates,” he said grumpily. “But I have to tell you, I don’t know how good any songs are going to be if we’re learning them day of.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering if maybe one of my siblings or one of the guests had really well-curated playlists on their phones, or something. “Just . . . try? And let us know?”

“Fine,” Glen said, still not sounding happy. “We’ll try.”

I heard the sound of a bike coming down the street and turned to see Sarah Stephens riding right in the middle of the road. When she passed me, she took one hand off the handlebars, then pointed to her eyes, then at mine, the I’m watching you finger point that I’d honestly not expected to be on the receiving end of from a middle schooler.

“What is that?” Glen asked, sounding panicky, and I saw that he was also looking at Sarah. He turned to me and Bill. “Do you guys see that too?”

“That’s just our papergirl,” I said, as Sarah biked away.

“Oh, good,” Glen said, looking hugely relieved. “I thought I was having a flashback, or that it meant I only had twenty-four hours to live or something.”

“So,” Bill said, turning to Glen. “You’re going to talk to your bandmates . . .”

“Yeah,” he said, not sounding all that enthusiastic about the idea. “But right now, I just need to know where we’re going to be playing. Despite the fact you don’t like our music . . .” He muttered this last part in an undertone.

“Around back,” Bill said, gesturing for Glen to come with him, and I followed them around the side of the house to the backyard—which was now filled with people wearing Tent City shirts. They were in the midst of erecting a tent while Will paced around, shouting instructions, and my uncle Stu followed in his footsteps, giving advice that I had a feeling wasn’t actually wanted or at all needed.

“So, I’ll show you where the stage is going to be,” Bill said, pointing across the lawn.

“I’ll take that,” I said to Bill, gesturing for the garment bag with Ralph’s terrible suit inside.

I crossed the deck to the house and opened the kitchen door—only to stop short and grab on to the counter to stop myself from toppling over. There was a very large man in a bright-blue shirt kneeling in front of the door, peering at the alarm panel. PISCATELLI SECURITY SYSTEMS, it read in bright letters across his back, and then in smaller, cursive type underneath it, Don’t be alarmed!

“Um. Hi,” I said, maneuvering around him. He nodded at me but then went back to fiddling with the alarm panel. I looked around the kitchen, which had gone much the way of the backyard and the driveway—suddenly much busier and crowded than when I’d left it.

My dad was standing behind the alarm guy, leaning over his shoulder, and he shook his head at me when I walked past him, clearly letting me know that my part in wrecking his flower beds had not been forgotten. Danny was standing on the other side of the kitchen, talking on his phone and pacing around, and getting in the way of the people that I presumed were the caterers—they were wearing white shirts and black pants, at any rate—who had appeared since I’d last been there.