Eight Reasons Why I Kissed Hayden Beaufort - Part 4/8

#4: A TRIFECTA OF TWO

“Why?” I asked. Looking around, it was clear I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been expecting the music to stop so suddenly. It was far too early in the night for the party to be over, and a few people started muttering in annoyance.

“Follow me.” Freddie led me into what appeared to be a rumpus room – it was a wide open space with couches crammed into one corner and beanbags littering the floor, as well as walls covered with shelves and photo frames. On the wall farthest from the doorway there was a massive widescreen TV, with a pretty impressive looking sound system, which was, I assumed, the point of origin for the ridiculously loud music which had, up until a minute ago, been giving me a thumping headache.

But my gaze quickly skipped over these, instantly drawn to the drum kit and microphone stand which had been set up in front of the big screen. A shaggy-haired boy of about my own age played a few notes on his sunset-orange guitar, and glanced at his phone, which looked like it was open to the same tuning app that Eugene used. Meanwhile, the other, this time with red hair, tapped out an absent-minded beat against the side of his drum kit. All their equipment looked battered and second-hand, much like the rental amps Theo and Eugene used to practise with, until they’d forked out for something flashier.

“Who are they?” I asked Freddie quietly. A crowd had begun to gather in the rumpus room, watching with varying expressions as the band finished setting up. I could see that a few people, like Freddie, were watching as if they were unsurprised, but most looked confused and just a little pissed off.

“They’re called Trifecta.” Freddie watched them almost reverently, as they finished setting up.

“There’s two of them. Doesn’t trifecta mean three?”

“You don’t have to be so literal, Liv.” Freddie tore his eyes aware from the drum kit, which he had been ogling at to give me a withering glare. “Anyway, there used to be three of them. Old drummer quit and their bassist filled his shoes.”

I paused. It took me a moment to grab onto the significance of what Freddie was saying. At least, I was pretty sure what he was alluding to.

“Well, in that case, if you were thinking of dumping us for them, he looks pretty comfortable up there. Theo’d stand a better chance of joining them.” Now it was my turn to glare at him – it felt like an even bigger betrayal if that he’d been so ready to diss and ditch Pugnacious Dogma, all for the remote chance of joining up with some other band.

“That’s not why I left,” Freddie said with a hard edge to his voice, but he didn’t elaborate. I briefly considered demanding an explanation, but with Freddie, that would involve making a scene, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

As much as I really wanted to storm out in a fit of righteous anger, and leave Freddie to find his own way home, the presence of a band with music that didn’t involve dropping the bass was more than slightly irresistible. I was curious to see if they were any good, if they could compensate for only having two members, if they were worth Freddie’s awed stare. So I swallowed my anger, and said, “Tell me about them.”

Freddie looked taken aback for a moment, then replied, trying to sound indifferent, “They’re one of those real ‘lo-fi’, garage rock bands. The kind that has music that sounds like it was recorded with equipment that’s crazy levels of shitty. Guitarist’s a prodigy, but the old drummer used to be a bit of an oddball. Talented, but man he had a weird sense of rhythm.”

“Why’d he leave?” I asked.

Freddie shrugged. Behind us, someone dimmed the lights, so that the room was illuminated by just a couple of lamps. The hubbub of chatter quietened in response, and a thrill ran through me. It always felt like this for me, the moment before a live band began a set. It was anticipation and a beating heart, because in that moment they could be startlingly brilliant or worthy of being pelted with rotten tomatoes. The guitarist began with a smile at the audience, then they began to play.

Admittedly, I’d been a little sceptical as to whether they’d be any good. With only two of them, I doubted that they’d sound like a proper band, with a full sound. But as their first song built up to the chorus, I had to admit that they were good. They had a sort of patchy sound, rough around the edges, but they somehow pulled this off. The beat of the drum settled in time to my heartbeat, and each distorted guitar chord was intoxicating. The rest of the crowd melted away and it was just me and the melody – angsty lyrics and a riff that I sensed would play on repeat in my head for days. No thoughts of Eugene or Freddie; the music was all that I felt.

I drew a breath and closed my eyes. I let my fingers tap out the power chords on my leg, wishing it was me up there, playing them. I swayed, not caring how it looked to anyone else, not caring if the rest of the room was dancing or stationary. All that mattered was this song, loud and all-encompassing. I was in the music and it was in me, and the hum of the amplifier underneath everything was like a final reassuring whisper. A stab of longing ran through me, the violent sense of wanting that I always felt listening to good music. I was a cocktail of exhilaration and desperation – nothing else in the world ever made me feel this way.

I don’t know what strange alchemy they managed to concoct, but they had hypnotised me with a single song. With a final wail of guitar, they fell silent for a moment, before launching into their next song.

I turned to tell Freddie, “They’re brilliant.”

He was gone; disappeared into the crowd or spirited away by the music, and instead my words were directed by a dark-haired boy in a leather jacket, who frowned at me curiously. He examined my faded t-shirt and jeans in a detached way, and once again I was struck with the feeling of being out of my element. The rest of the girls here wore dresses, or at the very least skirts – I stood out like a sore thumb.

“Sorry,” I apologised, “My friend was just there a moment ago. I didn't realise he’d moved.”

I felt like a total goose, and turned back to face Trifecta, who were well into their second song. I tried to absorb myself back into the music, but the boy next to me said, “They used to be better.”

“Really?” I looked back at the boy who had replaced Freddie.

He nodded wryly, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Back when there were four of us.”

“Four?” I asked, “Hang on, ‘us’? You were one of them?”

“Yeah,” he said wistfully, the timbre to his voice the only clue to his emotions. His expression remained neutral – except for the slightest trace of an unreadable smile. “There was me, Johnny, Zac and Cara. Never was the same after she left.”

“Why were you called Trifecta, then? You said there were four of you.” I repeated the same question I had asked Freddie.

“We weren’t.” He bit his lip thoughtfully. “We called ourselves that after Cara. When we decided we’d start performing at parties, and putting our music online, and trying to get noticed.” He scowled as he said this. He was still looking at me intently, as though he was trying to solve some puzzle etched into my face. “Then I left, and they didn’t bother changing the name. We’d chased fame enough that we’d caught the barest hint of it, and I guess rebranding would mean letting it go.”

“Okay.” I nodded, not entirely sure why he was telling me this. Maybe it was bitterness, towards his former band mates. He had a bit of an ego, that was for sure, because for all his talk of catching fame, I’d never heard of them, neither from my own Internet searching for music nor from Eugene’s encyclopaedic knowledge of local music. Freddie’s words from earlier entered my mind: at a party like this, it’s practically an expectation that you’ll end up hooking up with a stranger. Was this why he was talking to me, just because of some unwritten rule – if Freddie hadn’t been talking crap, when he’d been talking to me about kissing someone earlier – that came part and parcel with these parties? I narrowed my eyes, and asked, “Why are you telling me all this? Not to be rude, but I have no idea who you are.”

He shrugged. “Sorry, I kind of don’t know when I’m supposed to shut up. You just had this look in your eye, when you were listening to them play. I dunno, I just thought you’d like knowing that there used to be more of us.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I just thought it was a bit weird, was all.”

He nodded slowly, and adjusted his jacket, rolling the sleeves up to reveal a trio of leather bands around his left wrist. I watched the complete lack of interest he seemed to devote to the task. But there’d been an intensity to his voice as he’d spoken about Trifecta that I couldn’t have ignored if I’d tried.

“Do you miss it?” I asked, “Being in the band with them?”

“Do you?” he shot back, evidently trying to keep his tone neutral, but letting a sliver of the intensity he’d had before slip into his tone.

“What?”

“The way you were looking at them in that first song, you miss being in a band, I can tell.” He turned to fully face me, meeting my eye. As he moved, I realised that we were almost exactly the same height, but he seemed to exude a presence that made him seem much taller, like he occupied more space.

“Never been in a band. Couldn’t play an instrument if my life depended on it.” I turned as I spoke, so we were face to face. Even in this muted light, his eyes were vividly coloured – so hazel they were almost orange. Looking at him like this, my heart started to race in syncopated beats, and I had to concentrate on keeping my expression nonchalant. The effect he was having on me was both instantaneous and unsettling, but also outright thrilling.

“Really?” His eyebrows raised in surprise. “I could’ve sworn that the expression on your face, it was like you were looking at something you loved, but it hurt. Like you were missing it.”

“Nope.” Being in a band wasn’t my thing to miss; I was a listener, a lover of something that I had long since realised I could never make myself. And I’d made my peace with this.

“Alright, then.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. “Do you miss it?”

He turned towards where Trifecta continued to perform, the guitarist hunched over his guitar and the drummer baring his teeth intently. His startling eyes remained on the makeshift stage for a pregnant moment. His shoulders lifted slowly as he took a ragged breath.

He turned back to face me. “All the time.”