Like A Rolling Stone

The band's morale was in the dumps, and, for once, James had no idea how to make them feel better.

It was no secret to anyone that their gig the night prior had been nothing short of a disaster. They had sounded alright, sure, and Remus and Peter had only just managed to time the beat drop exactly with Sirius's cue, but music was subjective — James had been trying to tell them that all along. There would be people who loved their music and people who despised it. He had tried to tell them ever since the beginning that they could not please everyone, but it became clear to him last night that Sirius never listened when he said so: Some immature heckler in the audience — probably a drunk frat guy, if James had to guess, wanting to impress his buddies — had yelled up some... not-exactly- helpful criticism about the band's sound. To Sirius, this had been the height of insults; he simply could not let it go unchecked.

It was the first time James Potter and the Mischief Makers had made the news: Their lead guitarist was thrown out of the club in the middle of a gig for punching an audience member.

"It really wasn't that bad," James tried again, and for the umpteenth time, he went for a smile and instead felt a grimace of embarrassment instead. "At least the media's talking about us, right, gang?"

Remus lifted his head from his hungover stupor to give James the hardest glare he had ever seen.

"It's a call for Sirius's arrest," he said dryly. "Not exactly an invite to the Grammys, is it, James?"

"Ah, chin up, Moony," said James, grinning now, however warily; he clapped Remus on the shoulder and ignored the grunt of pain that ensued. "Look around, you three, and see what I see."

"I see our shoes," said Peter groggily: His forehead rested on the table between the four of them and his voice echoed from beneath it. "Oh, look, there's a piece of gum stuck to Sirius's..."

"I mean really look," insisted James. He smiled around the coffee shop. It was nearly noon on a Sunday, and in Los Angeles, this meant the rest of the city was out and about taking part in their "reset" days — running errands, getting groceries, ordering their way-too-expensive green smoothies. For the band, however, noon on a Sunday meant James's patented hangover cure: Taking them out to coffee (though not on his card, of course; he wasn't made of money), boosting morale with encouraging speeches, and acting like their band was not destined for failure.

This particular morning, though, James could not think of a way to raise his bandmates’ morale without lying straight through his teeth. It was clear to them, as of last night, that their time as a band was likely coming to a close. Seven years was a long, long time, and they were no further into the industry now than they had been back when they’d started up and were nothing more than a gang of teenagers in James’s garage. It was becoming increasingly obvious with every gig they performed that their band was headed nowhere, and last night had just been the straw to break the camel’s back. 

“I don’t really know what we’re supposed to be seeing,” said Sirius flatly, glancing around the coffee shop, his precious eyes protected from the harsh sun rays by his sunglasses. “James?”

James blinked. He, too, had been unsure of what they were supposed to be seeing; he had not come up with anything encouraging yet and was hoping that their momentary distraction of looking around the cafe would give him time to think up something. 

“Oh,” he said, fumbling around, trying to cover his tracks, “well, that’s because it isn’t… it isn’t something you can actually see . It’s all in your mind, my friends.”

There was a pause. Peter’s head stayed on the table. 

“Bullshit,” said Remus, eyeing James. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“And?” argued James at once, flaring up. “That doesn’t mean you all get to mope around like this — I’m just trying to keep your spirits up, because all three of you seem to think the world’s ending tomorrow.”

“Is there any point, James?” said Sirius, tipping his head to the side; he was so hungover that he had not taken his hair out of its bun from last night, and now some of it hung around his face messily. “We all know what’s on the horizon for us.”

“That’s not true,” breathed James, affronted that Sirius would even think about speaking something so dire aloud. “Sirius, don’t be ridiculous —”

“He isn’t,” sighed Peter, finally picking his head up to stare at James pathetically. “Look, we all know that this band wasn’t exactly destined for greatness. We haven’t sold a record in months, our manager is about to walk out on us, and we’re running out of money. Last night was just the cherry on top.”

“That isn’t true ,” James repeated firmly, looking each one of them in the eye to show his determination. “If you three would just — just pick up your heads and really look around —”

“And what are we supposed to be seeing this time, James?” said Sirius boredly, half-heartedly hiding a yawn with the back of his hand. “Are there fairies in the rafters? Is the sun shining a little brighter today?”

“No,” said James, growing impatient with his friends’ lack of enthusiasm this morning, “I want you all to —”

“— to look around,” they all finished together, none of them sounding particularly pleased with the assignment. 

“We get it, James,” said Remus, leaning back in his seat and cradling his coffee cup like it was a whiskey. “We don’t see what you see.”

“Actually, I see something,” said Peter suddenly, his eyes fixed and squinted on the entirely-glass front wall of the coffee shop. “Yeah, James, I think I see what you want us to see…”

“What is it?” demanded Sirius, sitting up at once and following Peter’s gaze out the window. 

“It’s Lily!” said James, just as shocked as the rest of them that his antidote had actually amassed to seeing something out of the ordinary. He swelled his chest and tried not to beam too hard that he had been proven right about something. 

It was Lily Evans, that was inarguable — but what she was doing, well, James thought that was rather up for grabs. She was in the passenger’s seat of a car, looking quite frantic to be there, in James’s opinion. Her window was down, and she was screaming something at them, but it was impossible for them to make it out over the sound of the passing traffic and the wall between them.

Sirius sunk down in his seat, grumbling, “Oh, I knew she’d track us down… Bet she’s going to rip me a new one now…”

“She does look pretty worked up,” agreed James curiously, narrowing his eyes at the flaming redhead: She seemed to have realized that her band could not hear what she was trying to communicate so furiously to them, and now was taking matters into her own hands, unlocking her door in the middle of L.A. traffic to rip it open and tear out into the street.

“Oh my god,” said Remus, “she’s going to get herself killed.”

“Not before she kills me for besmirching our band’s name,” hissed Sirius, hastily trying to duck beneath their table and swipe off the news clipping of his claim to fame from the night before. “Just don’t tell her I was here —”

“THERE YOU ARE!”

“Too late, I think, Sirius,” murmured Peter, avoiding eye contact with Lily as she barreled into the coffee shop with such vigor that she nearly plowed down a passing waitress. 

James regarded Lily with wide, uncertain eyes. Now that she was closer, he could recognize a glint in her eyes that he could not see from the car; he could see the exhilarated upturn to her lips that would not be there under normal circumstances. Typically Lily Evans’s damage control for mornings after nights like the ones they had last night consisted of much more glaring, much less laughing, and overall, no grasping James by the shoulder and grinning into his face. 

“Say, Lily,” he said uncertainly, letting out an uneven laugh, lightly pushing Lily’s arms so that she would back away from him, “what’s got you so… cheerful this morning?”

“You haven’t heard?” She all but choked the words out, glancing between all four of them, the smile on her face not shrinking but instead growing larger by the second. James was growing seriously worried that their manager had indulged in ecstasy or cocaine before she had met up with them. “You haven’theard?”

“Jesus, Lily,” said Remus, “we would’ve by now, if you’d stop grinning like a madman and just spit it out.”

“Nimbus has an opening.”

The words hung heavily in the air for a long moment after she said them. James felt something shift at their table; something as though the air surrounding them had transformed from a collective slump of misery into a statically-charged haze of shock. James, for once, was rendered speechless, though he opened and closed his mouth over and over again, as though the words would appear of their own accord. 

As he glanced around, his bandmates seemed to be in similar stages of astonishment; Remus had sat up straight in his seat, his tired eyes open wide and pinned to Lily as though she had grown horns; Sirius’s sunglasses hung from his fingers, revealing his full face for the first time all morning, his surprise written all over it; and Peter, whose jaw hung open and seemed as though it would never close again.

Finally, Remus seemed to regain himself, and he shook his head at Lily.

“You’re joking,” he said, though his voice was rather high and it sounded as though he did not believe himself. “Lily, that’s a pretty fucked up joke —”

“I am not joking!” she insisted, and her own voice was, to James, reaching pitches that soon only dogs would hear. “It’s true, it’s true, they’ve got an opening, the Wicked Sisters just broke up —”

“They are sisters , aren’t they?” frowned Sirius.

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean they have to sing together, does it?” said Lily, so quickly James hardly understood her. “Anyway, it’s all for the better, honestly, ‘cause I heard from my mom — MOM!”

James fought a wince; he had never heard Lily speak so loudly nor so excitedly in all the time he had known her. Still he followed her ferociously waving arm and wide-eyed stare until his eyes landed on Mrs. Evans, who was only just now coming into the coffee shop. James could not help but notice that the car Lily had barreled out of was no longer stopped in the middle of the street.

“Mom, tell them, tell them what you heard,” insisted Lily breathlessly, and though she had stolen the attention of most of the customers and workers in the coffee shop, she seemed not to notice as she bounced over to lead her mother by the arm over to the table which James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter inhabited. “Go on, Mom, tell them what you told me…”

“Hi, boys,” beamed Mrs. Evans, and she even reached out to squeeze James’s cheek. 

“Hi, Mrs. Evans,” said the band in unison.

“Is it true, Mrs. Evans?” said James, standing from his seat so she could take it from him. “Lily told us, but we didn’t think it was true… There’s just no way… Is there?”

“Well, James, I have to assume there is a way,” she said politely, nodding in thanks as she slid into his old seat. She smiled around the table. “I was just out talking with that doll Eileen — Severus’s mother, you know —” she pretended not to notice all four boys roll their eyes simultaneously “—and she mentioned that the little record store Severus works at has an opening now that other band broke up. Sad thing, isn’t it, I always liked their music…”

“No, you didn’t, Mom,” said Lily, dismissively, “they were the ones who sang Down The Pants , you and Dad always hated it —”

“Oh, that’s right,” said Mrs. Evans, whose expression at once turned sour. “Such a sexual song… I did hate them… Well, it’s a good thing, then. Anyway, yes, boys, it’s true, they’ve got an opening at that little record shop.”

“Mom, it isn’t just a little record shop,” said Lily, who seemed to be buzzing so intensely with excitement that James would not be surprised if she launched into the air soon. “It’s Nimbus Records, they’re the biggest producers in L.A. right now. Second of all,” she said, and, though James hadn’t thought it to be possible, her smile grew even wider, “this is the best part, guys — they’re sending out scouts to local gigs. They want to find undergrounds to represent.”

There followed a silence so thick that the table — which was not at all made for four grown men to squeeze around, much less four men and two women — seemed to vibrate with unspoken energy. James could not tear his eyes away from Lily, certain that if he did, that reality would fizzle out and he would wake up back in his bed, that it would all be a dream. There was simply no feasible way that Nimbus Records was scouting for underground bands. It was un-fucking-belivable, and James did not want to be the one to pop the bubble of imagination that had formed around their little table in this cafe. 

Finally, he did.

“Lily,” he said slowly, adjusting himself so that he was facing her fully, and folding his hands so that she could tell he was really being serious now, “you had better be telling the truth right now.”

“When have you ever known me to joke, James?”

Sirius pointed to her as though she had won the lottery, his gray eyes wide and bulging. 

“She’s got a point! SHE HAS A POINT!”

“This is insane!” argued Remus, looking around the rest of the table, trying to rally them. “There’s no way this is real! Snape lies all the time, we know he does, why wouldn’t he be lying this time?”

“I think I’d like a coffee,” decided Mrs. Evans, and she bustled away to the order counter to make small talk with the cashier. 

“He wouldn’t lie about this,” insisted Lily, leaning in and lowering her voice, shaking her head so quickly that her hair flew all around. “I’m sure of it. Positive. This is real , all right? Nimbus is looking for new talents! I’m sure Dumbledore will make an announcement later today about it, but for now we’ve got a head start.”

“Good thing, too,” said James, grinning now, looking all around the table and patting Lily on the back, “because we’re going to have to do some damage control now that the band isn’t breaking up. Back to the drawing board, boys!”

“Are you asking me if I’m good enough to be in this band?”

Regulus sighed, and he pinched the bridge of his nose to relieve the oncoming headache before it could erupt into a full-blown migraine. The trouble was that he was already dealing with a migraine — and its name was Evan Rosier.

“That isn’t what I said,” replied Regulus evenly, though he did not look Evan in the eyes. “I just asked if you can get from the 4/4 to the 3/4 with enough space to get the rhythm right on the first line.”

“You know I can, Black —”

“Yeah, well, you don’t seem to be able to.”

“Reg, maybe let’s just take five,” said Dorcas, her unimpressed voice catching both Regulus and Evan’s attention from across the empty warehouse. She was languidly stretched out over their amp, her guitar propped limply against her thigh, a bored expression on her harsh face. “I think Evan just needs a smoke.”

“I don’t ,” he snapped at once, flaring up at the accusation. He turned his serpentine glare back to Regulus, standing up from behind his drum set, looking, in Regulus’s opinion, very reminiscent of the snake imprinted on his bass drum. “I just need to know if my skills are appreciated here, or if I should take them elsewhere.”

“And where else would you go, Ev?” said Dorcas, spreading her hands exasperatedly as though she were giving up on mediating. “There aren’t many other bands around these parts that have our sound.”

“There’s none, we made sure of it,” interjected Regulus in a drawling tone, his eyes stuck on Evan. “And you know that, Rosier. You won’t find another band like this one.”

“That’s so not true,” said Evan bitterly, narrowing his eyes at Regulus. “And if it were, I wouldn’t even care; I’d play the goddamn opera if it meant my talents would be appreciated!”

“I don’t think the opera needs drums.”

“You don’t know that,” Evan fired back defensively; he was losing his fire the longer Regulus drew their argument out. 

This often happened, these little arguments between Evan and Regulus; Evan always complained that he was not being used to his full potential as a drummer. He had a terrible habit of thinking that he was much more talented than he truly was; he thought the rest of the band was beneath him and that he was a saint for meeting them at their level. He was self-absorbed and crude, and he often spoke brashly, without thinking, but Barty had fought for his involvement in the band — and, in the end, Evan was a good drummer, probably the best they would be able to find, but the intial question had been whether or not they would be able to put up with him behind the scenes. There were times that Regulus honestly was not sure that he could carry on in the same band as Evan, there were times that Regulus could actually get along with Evan, and there were times such as these that Regulus not only did not want Evan in his band but that he also wanted to smack him upside the head.

“Look, Evan,” said Barty, finally; Regulus had been waiting for him to step in all along, because they all knew he was the only person Evan would listen to. “He didn’t mean to insult you. Right, Reg, you didn’t?”

“Of course not,” said Regulus coolly. “I genuinely just wanted to know if you could switch time signatures that quickly and get back on rhythm.”

Evan did not drop his glare, but when he spoke, his voice was calmer now.

“I can.”

“Great,” said Regulus, perhaps a bit more enthusiastically than usual; at least he was not losing his drummer today. “That’s great, Evan, that means we can write it in.”

“Hooray,” said Evan, sitting back down on his stool, swiveling around with a scowl on his face to adjust his speakers. “Write it in, Reg. I’m going to go take a smoke.”

The rest of them sighed and strung their instruments down to the side, meeting in the middle of their makeshift rehearsal room — Pandora had scored them an empty warehouse on every other day of the week after nine P.M., which, Barty often complained, cut into his beauty sleep, but it was the only time they could get rehearsal in anyway. Regulus wasn’t exactly sure what kind of warehouse they inhabited, nor what the workers did during the daytime; in fact the place was typically dusty and dark when they got there at night and Regulus did not know for fact if it was in use whatsoever. Either way, it had great acoustics, and finding it was the best thing Pandora had done for White Noise since she had come on as their “publicist” (put in quotations, of course, because their band did not have much experience in the public eye and really didn’t have a need for a publicist at all, but Evan would have felt bad if she weren’t involved and Pandora was good at finding the rest of the band’s soft spots). In any case, she didn’t do much other work for them — just enjoyed showing up to rehearsals and swaying along to their music occasionally.

She did so today, and as the warehouse’s back door swung shut behind Evan, the front door whirled open to reveal his twin sister, as though they were a part of some twisted magic trick. If Pandora caught sight of Evan slipping out of the back door, she didn’t say so — instead she drifted over to join the band beneath the only ceiling light that worked in the entire warehouse. 

“Hi, guys,” she sang, unshouldering her knit bag and setting it down on a stool to rifle through it. “How’s rehearsal going?”

“Just peachy,” said Barty dryly, sharing a glance with Regulus.

“That’s great,” smiled Pandora, missing the sarcasm; she was still pawing through her tote bag, clearly in search of something. “I got some news today, if any of you mind to hear it.”

“I mind,” said Dorcas. “We’re kind of in the middle of rehearsal, Pandora.”

Regulus glanced over to her, and though he did not say so aloud, he internally agreed with her; it was often enough that Pandora would interrupt their rehearsals, declaring she had the pinnacle of breaking news, and that she had to tell them right that second, no matter whether they were in the middle of a song or on a water break. Oftentimes this “breaking news” had to do with the pets from the animal clinic she volunteers at: Her favorite cat had been adopted, they had saved a puppy’s life that day, a parrot came into the clinic and she taught it how to say her name. If it had been under any other circumstances, Regulus would have appreciated Pandora’s anecdotes, but not while his band was in the middle of rehearsing.

“No, come on,” insisted Pandora, and finally she seemed to come across what she had been searching for in her bag — she pulled out a crumbled flyer and began to flatten it out on the face of her stool. “It has to do with music, I really think you guys ought to know — oh, where’s Evan…”

“Here,” came his voice, and he shrugged the back door open, tossing his cigarette to the ground and stomping it out as he rejoined the rest of the band. “Hey, Pandora, what’s the news today? Did a butterfly land on your finger and sing the alphabet?”

The others laughed, but Pandora shot him a glare, and Regulus was too focused on her to listen to Evan’s joke — she had music news, which was an entirely unheard of thing. Typically she did not engage in any talk of the industry, though it was technically her job to do so. She never came carrying news that had to do with their band. If she had something to tell them, Regulus knew it was likely pretty big.

“Go on, Pandora,” he said, nodding to her, watching as she continued flattening out the crumbled flyer in her hands. “What’s the news?”

“Here we go,” she muttered to herself, making the finishing touches on the flyer, then holding it up before herself to appraise it. When she decided it was up to standards, she smiled at the rest of the band, holding it close to her chest; with a little squeal she turned the flyer around and presented it to them.

“ Open call ?” read Barty, his brow knitting as his eyes scanned the page. “Is this real, Pandora?”

“Real as the hair on my head,” she confirmed with a nod, and before Regulus even could finish reading the first line she had spun the flyer back around to face herself. “ Nimbus Records ,” she read aloud, putting on a deep voice that Regulus thought she attributed to a record producer, “ is opening its doors for one band . Blah, blah, fine print, contracts, blah… Here, look, this part: Agents will be scouting the indie scene for fresh talent to sign on with Nimbus Records for the next month. If you think your band has got what it takes, host a gig at a local venue, and we’ll see you there. ”

For a moment, the band was silent. Regulus shook his head in disbelief. Nimbus was hosting an open call to sign on a new, “fresh talent”? They only represented the best indie artists and bands, they were infamous… If his band, if Regulus’s band , could be represented by Nimbus, they would become a household name by the end of the year. It was un-fucking-believable. 

“Pandora,” said Regulus slowly, and he reached out to take the flyer from her and read it with his own eyes, “where… where did you even find this?”

“Petunia gave it to me!”

“Who?” asked Dorcas, peering over Regulus’s shoulder to read it, too.

“She works with me at the clinic,” explained Pandora, “and her sister, I think, is in the industry, or something… Either way, she had this flyer, and — look, see, it’s legit, I checked, that’s their logo down at the bottom —”

Regulus, Barty, Evan, and Dorcas raked their eyes down the page until their gazes landed on the emblem in the corner. Sure enough, the Nimbus Records logo, a vinyl-shaped storm cloud, lighting shooting out the bottom, was blaring out at them. 

“Holy shit,” said Barty, as though the realization had just hit him; he took Regulus by the shoulders and pushed him around, a grin spreading across his face, all the while he repeated, “Holy shit, guys, holy shit, holy shit —!”

“No fucking way!” agreed Evan, taking the flyer in his own hands, now that Regulus was being thrown around by Barty and Dorcas which made it rather difficult for him to hold it still. 

“Guys,” said Regulus, who, despite trying to keep a calm demeanor, could not hide his grin, “guys, hang on, HANG ON!”

They all paused — even Pandora, who had joined in the celebrations by bouncing around and letting out little squeals of excitement. 

“We’ve got to get a gig,” said Regulus breathlessly. “Barty, what’s open this week? Anywhere?”

“It’s a Sunday, Reg, we can’t play on a Monday and except Nimbus to show up —”

“We can,” said Regulus firmly, nodding, his face set. “We one hundred percent can count on them to show up. We’ve just got to get back in Largo again.”

“Largo?” repeated Dorcas, her eyebrows high on her forehead; Regulus could not blame her, for Club Largo was the most mainstream venue that White Noise had ever played in throughout all their career, and Nimbus was looking for underground bands to represent, not mainstream. “Why not that outdoor place we played last month? Don’t they want a small band? Largo isn’t small!”

“On a Monday night, it is,” argued Regulus. He turned to Barty quickly, his mind working faster than he could get it out. “Barty, you gotta get your dad to let us play there tomorrow. This might be our only shot. And Evan — get that time signature change down right now.”

“On it,” said Evan, who, were this any other circumstances, would have argued plainly that he already did have it down — but there was no time for lying when a contract with Nimbus was on the line.

“I’ll call my dad,” said Barty; he was so excited that he had a little bounce to his step as he left to do so.

“Oh, isn’t this just wonderful?” Pandora beamed around at all of them, and for the first time, Regulus understood the appeal to this old, dusty warehouse: It was filled with good spirits rather than shouting matches and it seemed to take better to this shift in emotions. A second ceiling light flickered on overhead, illuminating the drums so Evan did not have to squint to play anymore.

“Look,” laughed Pandora, “the ceiling agrees!”

Regulus could not stop himself from smiling. The ceiling of their rickety warehouse agreed that they were finally on the track to fame, and though Regulus would have thought Pandora crazy on any other day, he smiled up at the roof. All he could think was White Noise, produced by Nimbus Records.

They were made for this. They had been fighting for a chance to be produced — legit produced, rather than renting out a recording studio one Sunday afternoon for seven hours and recording all of their songs in one take because that was all the time they had. Finally they would get a chance. 

Regulus was not intending to let it slip from his fingers.