Messy by Cocks Heather & Morgan Jessica

Author:Cocks, Heather & Morgan, Jessica [Cocks, Heather]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Published: 2012-06-05T00:00:00+00:00

Max pulled into her gravel driveway—the best and loudest incentive against breaking curfew—and killed the car engine. The house was dark, except for two glowing porch lanterns, which illuminated her brother slumped in the swing and nursing a Dr Pepper.

“You look miserable,” she said. “Did Molly finally notice your freakishly long second toe and dump your mutant ass?”

“We made it.” His voice was quiet.

“You… ew, Teddy, first of all, nobody says that outside a Judy Blume book, and second—”

“No, no, no, the band,” Teddy said, exasperated. “We made the finals of the contest. We’re playing the House of Blues.”

“That’s…” Max looked at her brother’s long face. “Great?” she queried.

“It should be,” he said. “But you know how I feel about Mental Hygienist. We’re having fun, but I am not sure we should ever play those songs outside of Colby-Randall parties.”

“Are you telling me you don’t want to be the face of ‘You (Rock)’?” Max quipped.

Teddy shook his head. “I tried to tell Bone that righteous doesn’t rhyme with ficus, but he ignored me.” He shifted in the swing so Max could sit down next to him. “Does this make me a dick?”

“Not when there are so many other things that make you a dick.”

Teddy punched her shoulder. “Come on, I’m serious. The band was always just sort of a goof to me, like something to do before I went off to college. Now it’s going to be on my permanent record.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Max asked. “I mean, Mark Wahlberg rose above it. Bone isn’t nearly as embarrassing as the Funky Bunch.”

Teddy laughed grudgingly. “Point taken. It’s not really my kind of music, though,” he explained. “It’s not me. I always figured I’d do something a little more unplugged. More Bon Iver than Bon Jovi.”

“So what?” Max said. “Record execs know that people have more than one artist inside them. Remember when Molly showed us that Japanese Vogue where Lady Gaga pretended to be an Italian man named Jo? Just put on, like, a dirty tank top and grow a soul patch.”

“You are so the wrong person to talk to about this.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can be serious,” Max promised. “And I seriously believe you are overthinking this.”

“Really?” Teddy stared out at the dark front lawn, on which a half-deconstructed wheelbarrow had been disintegrating for weeks. “I mean, did we even earn this? Our Facebook page got like twenty thousand more fans after you mentioned us on Brooke’s blog. The Berlin stamp of approval might be swaying things a little.”

“Probably,” Max said, “but who cares? Take the opportunity while it’s in front of you. Because who’s to say you’ll get another one? Maybe just do what it takes to get your foot in the door and then find a way to do your own thing. Maybe this is just the beginning.”

Teddy pondered this for a moment. “My stomach hurts. Is this what riding on a Berlin girl’s coattails feels like?”

“Hilarious,” Max said. “And maybe that is what I’m doing, a little bit.

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