The Bad Boys of Summer Anthology(184)

I try to sound casual as I answer. “Hey, Tammy.”

“Mel! You’re never going to believe this!” I hold the phone away from my ear so her cheerleader voice doesn’t permanently damage my hearing.

“Geez. Whatever it is, can you say it quietly? All the damn rock music must be messing with your hearing.”

“Mel, save the cynical for later. Guess what your big sister has done for you?”

“Um—” I pause a long time for effect. I can hear Tammy sighing on the other end. “Yeah, I got nothing,” I say finally.

“I got you your first job as a photojournalist!”

“What?” I scratch my cat Mesopotamia’s head lightly, figuring Tammy’s going to have me photograph her wedding and call it photojournalism because her fiancé, Walsh, is a public figure.

“I got you a job. You are going to spend the summer on tour with me and the boys and an exclusive all-access contract to shoot photos of the tour. You’re going to produce a DVD and a coffee table book of the hottest rising stars of rock and roll, Mel. You’re going to be the ‘It’ girl of photojournalism.” She finishes with a flourish—verbal one anyway.

In my mad scramble to stand up, I squeeze Mesopotamia’s head too tightly and he smacks me with an open paw and runs off. “Oh, Messy, I’m sorry!” I call after him.

“Mel. Focus here,” Tammy says in exasperation. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Uh yeah. I heard it, but it sounded way too good to be true.”

“Well, it gets better. You’ll also get a salary for the summer, all your travel expenses paid, and twenty percent of the profits from the DVDs and the books.”

I feel my heart stutter for a minute. I don’t know much about the entertainment business, but I do know it involves huge sums of money. Even before they hit it big with this new album, Lush was doing well financially. They had two albums out, and they’ve toured with some of the biggest names in alt rock. Tammy is earning more as their glorified gopher than my dad earns in five years as an asphalt layer. She and Walsh live in this giant house and she drives a Mercedes SUV. She hinted to me that the sales of the new album have already quadrupled anything they’d seen before, so that’s got to be a hell of a lot of cash.

My mind is spinning, trying to work out what a photo essay of the hottest new band on the planet might earn. Twenty million? Thirty? Twenty percent of twenty million dollars would be—Okay, I’m not very good at math. It would be a shitload of money though, an absolute shitload.

“Holy crap, Tammy. What have you done?”

“Little sister, I’ve set you up for life. I told you you’re talented, and now the whole world is going to see it too. So grab that diploma and get your ass down here, because we’re leaving on tour in ten days.”

I sit back down on the sofa, feeling my limbs get all tingly from shock. Grab that diploma. Oh fuck. This is a nightmare of epic proportions. A dream gig, something any student in my program would give a left arm for, and I might not be able to do it because I slept with my professor and screwed up my whole degree.

“So,”—I go into recovery mode—“what do I need to do to get this job? Do I need to give Dave my resume or transcripts or what?” Please say no. Please say no.

“Nah,” —I’m so relieved I practically leap on the coffee table— “I’ve told Dave all about your program and I showed him your website. He’s totally impressed. You don’t need to prove yourself. But there is one thing—”

Oh shit. Here it comes. My stomach twitches in anticipation.

“We know that it’s standard for open access to be granted, and Dave wants the guys to know they’re on display 24/7, so hopefully they’ll clean up their act some.”

“But.”

“But he wants you to agree to a clause that says you won’t leak anything really damaging. Not that you’ll whitewash it all, but if there’s something serious, something that could ruin them, you won’t include it.” She stops, and there’s silence for a moment.

“And are you expecting there to be something like that?” I ask as I look out the window at the rain coming down in sheets. I wonder if the good things in life always come with a catch, some little deal you have to make with the devil in order to have your dreams come true.

“No, no, of course not!” Tammy recovers at the speed of light. Her PR skills have always been impressive. “But they’re a rock band, Mel. You know, there are parties and women and sometimes a little too much of both, and things can occasionally get, I guess you’d say ‘messy.’ We don’t need to have the messes displayed to the public, you know?”

“Yeah, I think I know. And so, this is the cost of the job?”

“It is, and I know it’s not a cost you’d choose, but I also know you’ll see this opportunity and what it can do for your career and you won’t turn it down.”

I can almost hear Tammy holding her breath, waiting for my answer. My heart is beating fast, and in my head I hear my journalism professors explaining the ethics of the profession: seek truth, report it, act independently, be accountable, and I’m sure somewhere in there was “no looking away while the band of the moment debauches some poor underage girl or shoots up heroin before every show.”

But in spite of all that, I know what my answer is. I need this job, and I may need it more if things don’t go my way with the disciplinary committee. “Okay,” I answer. “I’ll protect the band’s precious reputation. But, Tammy?”

“Yeah, baby sister?”

“If any of them so much as pinches my ass, I’ll blast it to the rags in London and back.”

When I hang up the phone, she’s still laughing. Apparently she doesn’t think I’m the rock-and-roll type.



I’m four years younger than Tammy, so we weren’t even in high school together. By the time I started ninth grade, my wild, sexy, queen-of-the-rock-and-roll-scene sister and her drummer boyfriend had graduated. Well, she graduated. Who the hell knows about Walsh. I was always the lesser, younger sister. Not nearly as wild, not nearly as sexy, and never queen of any scene. Tammy and Walsh would come over to my parents’ house once a month for Sunday dinner and sometimes Tammy would drag me along to a concert, but for the most part I ignored Lush and they never paid a damn bit of attention to me.

The one thing about the band tough to ignore, however, was Joss Jamison. He was always the brooding rock god, even before he hit it big, and there wasn’t a girl between fifteen and twenty-five who wouldn’t have let him in her panties if he’d asked. He was hot, dark, and quiet. Pouring his soul out onstage and remaining silent and mysterious offstage. As much as I love my future brother-in-law’s cheerful, fun ways, Joss was always the band member who made my blood rush.

I’m trying to remember everything I can about him and the band as I walk off an airplane into PDX, scanning the crowds for Tammy. It’s been four years since I’ve seen anyone from Lush except for Walsh, and I haven’t even seen him but once in the last couple of years. I realize now that he was in bad shape and Tammy was shielding me from it. I may legally be an adult, but my sister still thinks of me as needing her protection.

“Mel, Mel, over here!” Tammy waves and jumps up and down, a huge sign reading “You Rock the Picture, Mel” in her hands. Next to her is Walsh, dressed in some bizarre Goodwill ensemble with pants that are too short and an old bowler hat covering his floppy brown hair. He’s also got on cowboy boots and horn-rimmed eyeglasses. It’s got a real Johnny Depp appeal to it.

“Hey, Tammy,” I say as I give her a big hug. “Nice sign.” Then I turn immediately to Walsh. “What, did you pick up some homeless guy on your way over?”

Walsh grins at me and grabs me around the neck, pulling me in for a big kiss on the forehead. “It’s so damn good to see you, Mel,” he whispers in my ear.

I look up at him and I can see that he means it. I can also see how clear his eyes are, how true his smile is. “It’s damn good to see you too, big brother,” I whisper back. “You look really good. Really healthy.”

“I am,” Walsh replies as he releases me. “I’m at peace, and it feels fine.”

Tammy is wrestling my carry-on bag from me as she grabs Walsh’s hand and starts leading us down the concourse. I follow, dodging old ladies with wheeled luggage and small children going apeshit over the moving walkway.

“Are we in a hurry?” I ask Tammy as I jog to keep up.

“I want to get out of here before someone recognizes Walsh. You have no idea what a nightmare that can become.”

“Seriously? Things that intense now, Walsh?”

“Yeah,” he answers blushing. “They can be.”

“Well, let’s get this show on the road then. Can’t have a mob scene here at the airport.”



Ninety minutes later, we pull up to the front doors of Portland Rose Recording Studios, home of the now famous Studio B. Tammy hustles me out of the car and into the building, where we walk through a small entry area with a receptionist who waves to us and gives an extra big smile to Walsh as we pass.