Coda by Emma Trevayne Page B

Yellow Guy nods and moves to lean against a pillar, his hands behind his back. I have to give him credit for not asking a million questions while we set up. He just watches, eyes bright in the dimness.
    I have to give Scope some credit, too. Johnny hasn’t even picked up his guitar yet and this feels different, even just with an audience of one guy whose taste in music is hopefully better than it is in favorite colors. Sure, we’ve all played solo for each other before to make sure we’re getting something right, but this isn’t the same. My voice quavers a little during a quick warm-up and I realize I want Yellow Guy to like us. To think we’re good.
    Doesn’t stop me from wanting to punch Scope, though.
    “Ready?” Mage asks.
    “Five minutes ago.” Phoenix flips one of her sticks over in her hand.
    “Yeah.”
    “Let’s do it.”
    It’s easy, so easy to fall into this music. Behind me, instruments come in one by one and I inhale, my pulse setting itself to Mage’s beat. Gathering energy crawls over my skin. I close my eyes and open my throat, ready for the words we always start with.
    It never gets old.
    We sound better than we have in a long time, since before the stumbles experienced when we added Phoenix to the mix. Johnny sings about the girl he loves, a theme that’ll never die no matter what the Corp thinks up to mess with music next. Even the stuff played in the clubs—what’s not all about glorifying the Corp, anyway—is boy-meets-girl.
    The urge to write about that is something I understand. My own songs stay in my head because it’s Johnny’s band. He’s the one whofound us and, after deciding we could be trusted, let us in on the secret of this room.
    Mage hammers on his drums with fists like an angry god and Scope hits one of the bottles so hard it skitters away to smash against the wall, the sound a new layer to the rising crescendo. The next time he does that, it won’t be an accident. Phoenix throws her sticks in the air, catching them before her next note. Johnny’s guitar wails and screams, his fingers a blur.
    Over it all, I weave new flourishes into Johnny’s lyrics and he laughs midbeat.
    A flash of red catches my eye, but it’s just Scope’s hair.
    One song fades into the next, and the next. We play through Johnny’s view of the world—his wish for freedom, his hatred of the Corp that employs him. By turns our instruments are thunderous and frenzied, whispery and simmering.
    Maybe anger only needs the right melody, the right rhythm to be beautiful.
    Practice is too short since we lost precious minutes at the beginning, but when the alarm sounds we’re breathing hard and bathed in sweat. Johnny is serene and Mage is smiling. Phoenix looks truly happy, which deserves to be on the news. I high-five Johnny and turn away from Scope’s upheld hand.
    “And here I thought you were just trying to impress me,” Yellow Guy says to Scope, pushing away from the pillar. Their fingers tangle; we all look away. “You guys can really play,” he adds, the kiss over. “You should go legit. It could be you people dance to at the clubs.”
    “Never gonna happen,” says Johnny. “I’d rather play down here for the rest of my life, with my stuff, than let the Corp get their hands on my tunes and turn them into tracks. What they do is evil .”
    Yellow Guy raises his eyebrows. “So, what? You’re not hooked?How do you make that work?”
    “I wish. I’m as addicted as the next guy, man, but I don’t want to be. I tracked hard my first few years, OD’d, like you. A bunch of times. Then, the last time, I’m recovering and just keep thinking what would it be like to really play? Took a while to put this together, but here we are. Now I just track to get by, same as everyone else here.”
    “Unreal. So is it just the five of you?”
    “There’s other bands around. Don’t know where, don’t care. Not like we can all get together for some big-ass party. Better to stay hidden,” he