Five Flavors of Dumb by Antony John Page B

that Dumb’s first recording session had taught them a lesson about discipline and studio etiquette, I was sadly mistaken. Tash spent the first five minutes outside with Baz, lecturing him about some aspect of the recording that I probably wouldn’t be able to hear anyway. When she finally joined everyone else, she moved her chair as far away from Kallie as possible, even though they were playing roughly the same music.
    “You’ll be pleased to know I brought an extra broom,” said Baz, taking a seat beside me. “You know, just in case you wear out the first one.”
    He erupted into laughter, which was kind of annoying, so I pretended that my hearing aids had been turned off. By the time I signaled they were on again, he didn’t bother to repeat the joke.
    Even with several legitimate reasons for the recording to go badly—lack of rehearsal time, ongoing issues with the studio headphones, Kallie’s inability to play guitar—Josh decided to spice things up a bit by adding some sound effects (pretend coughing, burping, vomiting) to the first two renditions of “Loving Every Part of You.” I couldn’t exactly hear what he was doing, of course, but I could see it clearly enough. Meanwhile, the rest of the band plowed on, lost in their own little worlds.
    When Josh reprised his hilarious antics for the third run-through, Baz had clearly had enough. He jumped out of his chair, shut down the mixing console, and began pacing around the control room.
    “If I spend much more time with your band, I may just check back into prison for a break!” he cried.
    “That wouldn’t exactly help,” I pointed out.
    “No, but then, what would? Don’t misunderstand me: I need the cash. But I’m still tempted to call the Battle of the Bands organizers and tell them to keep their money.”
    I couldn’t exactly blame him, but flouncing around the room wasn’t achieving anything. “Sit down, Baz. Can’t you just pretend this isn’t about the money? It’s your chance to make them sound better.”
    “And what about you? You’re a manager, or at least you claim to be. But you’ve suddenly got an extra member you don’t need, and the group’s sound has done a one-eighty. So what are you in this for, if it’s not the money?”
    I sighed. “Okay, yeah, it’s about the money.”
    He smacked his thigh. “ See? ”
    “My parents raided my college fund to pay for my deaf sister to get a cochlear implant, and I thought maybe I could get Dumb some paid work.”
    Even as I said it I realized how stupid it sounded, but Baz’s look of triumph disappeared immediately. He ran his hand along his ponytail, looked through the window into the studio, and rolled his eyes as Josh ogled Kallie from behind. “You seem like a honest person, Piper, and you know these kids better than me. So just tell me they’re worth the effort. Convince me this is a band worth fighting for.”
    I watched Josh strutting, Ed practicing, Kallie hiding, Will spacing, and Tash gazing at Will, and realized that Baz was right. This wasn’t a group at all. There was no togetherness, no blending—just five separate flavors of an indigestible dish called Dumb.
    Baz opened a magazine and sat down, propping his feet up like he was settling down for a restful afternoon. I didn’t even blame him. What else was he supposed to do? Dumb wasn’t his group, it was mine. Countless bands had come and gone in the time he’d been running his studio, most of them too insignificant to be mourned by anyone except the members themselves. And yet I already felt nostalgic as I peered through the glass and my eyes glazed over with tears. I wondered what might have been if they could only have put their egos aside and concentrated on the one thing that mattered most: playing music.
    And that’s when the activity inside the studio stopped, and five pairs of eyes stared right back at me.
    I walked through the door and stood before them, sighed deeply as I recalled the opportunity