Chasing Thunderclap

By Kaylie Caswell

Bryan Weber spent his high school days as a lonely loser. The only friends he had to speak of were his parents and his eight-string guitar. But that's all about to change this summer, now that Bryan's band is scheduled to embark on its first national tour. Now Bryan finally has the chance to become the guitar god he's always dreamed of being and, hopefully, make some real friends in the process.

But when Bryan receives acceptance into the Ivy League college his parents have pressured him to attend since infancy, he knows he'll have to make a choice. It's his dream or his parents'--the full-time student lifestyle and the full-time rockstar lifestyle don't exactly play in perfect harmony.

Chasing Thunderclap is a heavy metal band plagued by personal baggage but united by one common dream: to get signed to a record label. But the band is still reeling from the death of a former bandmate, and losing their lead guitar player to college is another hit they can't afford to take. The remaining members, AJ, Will, Eliot, and Shane, will do anything to prevent Bryan from leaving for college in the fall. And their plan almost works, too.

But secrets don't remain secret for long in the confines of a tour van, and once the bonds of brotherhood are broken, Bryan isn't the only member of Chasing Thunderclap questioning whether the dreams they've been chasing were mere illusions all along.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kaylie Caswell
• Release date: Dec 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311456090

Kaylie Caswell

I'm Kaylie Caswell, a YA author from St. Paul, MN, where I live with my husband in a home entirely overrun and dedicated to our hobbies and ambitions. We are both from the same small town of Maple Lake, MN, and we like to go back there and visit our families on weekends and holidays as much as possible.When I'm not writing, I enjoy making resin jewelry, listening to stand-up comedy on long road trips, watching horror movies, running, and, of course, listening to my husband, the fantastic and inspiring musician Charles Caswell play guitar and helping him create and film his music videos. We also run a small business together called Muffle Cuff, where we produce a product we invented and produce ourselves. Our product, the original Muffle Cuff, is a stylish guitar accessory meant to assist guitarists in sound control by muffling excess string noise at the guitar's headstock, so a musician doesn't have to sacrifice the instrument's appearance for sound clarity.I have an MFA in Creative Writing from Hamline University, and I write both sci-fi and contemporary YA, and my contemporary work is primarily inspired by my time at metal shows throughout the years.

Book preview

Chapter 1 — Bryan

Bryan watches from Eliot’s unmade bed with a combination of bewilderment and disgust as AJ, a grown-ass adult—or almost a grown-ass adult, anyway—takes yet another selfie in front of the old, cloudy mirror hanging over the dresser and posts it to Chasing Thunderclap’s feed. AJ refers to his constant stream of selfies and observational posts as marketing and says it’s the single most important thing a band can do these days in the way of self–promotion. Bryan’s not so sure this isn’t just AJ’s desperate attempt at gaining attention and acceptance from his peers, but then, what does Bryan know? He’s a guitar player, not a therapist.

Besides, Bryan is quitting the band today.

Amend that: Bryan is quitting the band today if he can work up the nerve to actually go through with it. He’s fantasized the dreaded reveal about a trillion times since the big envelope arrived at his house almost a week ago, and it always ends with him getting smashed under a swinging guitar, impaled by a drumstick, or otherwise mangled by a musical instrument. Not only unappealing, but downright terrifying, when you’re dealing with a bunch of boys who grew up listening to Norwegian black metal.

The Fantasy:

The five members of Chasing Thunderclap—Bryan Weber, Eliot Burke, AJ Lundberg, Will Swanson, and Shane Keeton—stand in the basement of Eliot’s one hundred-year-old farmhouse, ready to begin practice. The band holds practice here because Eliot lives with his dad on a farm in the middle of nowhere, past the last suburbs of St. Paul, Minnesota. Before Eliot, they practiced at the Swanson’s house, but the neighbors complained about the noise after almost every jam session. Now they can practice in peace without disturbing anyone but the cows. Plus, Eliot’s basement has enough space for all five band members, their instruments and gear, and the PA Bryan’s parents bought him for Christmas last year.

Eliot, Bryan and Shane already have their guitars strapped on and plugged in and Will has his kit set up, hammering out a blast beat when Bryan decides he can’t keep the news bottled inside any longer. Hey guys, I’m going to college in the fall! I guess you’re out a lead guitarist and primary songwriter. No hard feelings, m-kay?

Within milliseconds, AJ charges Bryan and starts pummeling him in the face, microphone in hand, its cord still plugged in and swinging behind him.

Eliot, Will and Shane stand idly near the washing machine, doing nothing in the way of rescuing Bryan from his miserable ass-kicking. It’s kind of like listening to someone get beat up in a movie, Eliot says. With the PA, you know?

Shane laughs. I know, right? Where’s the popcorn when you need it?

HD surround-sound, Will adds.

To Bryan, their voices sound far away, as though he’s listening to them through a thick sheet of ice as he fights futilely to push AJ off him. AJ is a skinny guy, but Bryan knows he fancies himself a street-raised hood rat (AJ’s words, not Bryan’s), and he never passes up a chance to prove his street cred or whatever, and so his microphone keeps getting redder and slipperier as he continues to pound it into Bryan’s nose, his temples, his busted cheek bones…

The Fantasy is cut blessedly short when Real AJ turns to Bryan and starts speaking. Bryan’s first instinct is to protect his face, but then he remembers he hasn’t actually told AJ the horrible, dream-shattering news yet. This is just going to be more of his mindless blather. Did you see how many likes my relationship status update got last night?

Bryan’s gaze shifts past AJ to where Eliot sits on a folding chair in the corner of his tiny bedroom, practicing the one solo he has in their set, completely unaware of his surroundings. Clearly, he isn’t available to provide Bryan respite in this conversation. Eliot is usually good for at least adding comic relief to a situation, but he seems to have already grown tired of AJ’s self-centered babbling today. And practice hasn’t even officially started yet.

Bryan uncrosses and re-crosses his feet on top of Eliot’s bed. No, he says warily. As much as he wants his bandmates to like him, feigning interest in AJ’s ceaseless stories can be brutal. Listening to him talk is sometimes like being forced to read a thirteen-year-old girl’s Facebook wall from start to finish. Bryan gets the idea that AJ is smarter than he lets on—he does write impressive lyrics, after all, and seems to have quite an extensive vocabulary—but he’s certainly a champion at hiding it.

Dude, that got like eighty-seven likes or some shit, AJ says, turning back to the mirror to adjust his beanie. I should’ve broken up with Bre, like, months ago.

Yeah, she’s crazy, Bryan says. He once showed up at AJ’s for a writing session in time to witness AJ’s ex-girlfriend (ex for now at least; AJ and Bre have a strobe-light sort of relationship) drink an entire jar of pickle juice when she woke up hungover in the morning, explain that it would help her body mask the alcohol in her system when she met with her probation officer, and then promptly vomit all over the floor.

She said she would cut herself if I left her, AJ says. But that’s just for attention. Chicks say that shit.

Bryan looks at Eliot again for help, but Eliot’s eyes are closed in concentration as he practices a tapping sequence on the eight-string Dean his dad gave him for his nineteenth birthday a few months ago. His head bobs along with the beat of the metronome ticks emanating from his phone, and he watches his fingers closely in concentration.

Bryan picks up his own guitar, a glossy-black Ibanez RGA8, from its opened case beside the bed. If pretending to practice works to help Eliot avoid conversation with AJ, it can work for Bryan, too. Eliot hasn’t even had it half as bad; Bryan was the one who had to pick up AJ and bring him to practice today. He hopes Shane will be able to bring him home, not that AJ will even want to ride with Bryan anymore once he’s delivered his news.

She probably knew I was going to see Cassie afterward, AJ continues, seemingly unaware of Bryan’s desire to cease discussion until practice officially begins. I think she read my texts when I wasn’t looking. He pushes his black beanie down farther over his long, greasy blondish hair and continues to study his reflection.

Bryan is fairly certain that even his sisters don’t spend as much time in front of the mirror as AJ does, and yet he still manages to look like a hobo. He always wears that black beanie, even in the summertime, which is now fast approaching. Over Chasing Thunderclap’s two years as a band, the hat has gradually taken on the smell of an old vat of french fry oil, and yet AJ refuses to be seen in public without it. He says the beanie is his signature look, and that everyone in the band should have one. A signature look, that is.

Bryan doesn’t care about any of that crap, although he gave in to AJ’s black shirts and skinny jeans onstage only rule without a fight. Today when Bryan picked AJ up for practice, AJ informed him he was dressed like a dweeby hipster bitch, between his boat shoes and his colorful V-neck T-shirt, but Bryan tried not to let his words sting too badly. Now that he’s quitting the band, it doesn’t matter anyway. Once he leaves for college, his ‘signature look’ can be dweeby hipster bitch, for all it matters.

That blows, Bryan says mildly as he starts tuning his guitar. Shane and Will shouldn’t be much longer, and then practice can start for real. A least they’d better be here soon. They’re already a half hour late. Bryan has been sitting here on the unmade bed in Eliot’s blue-painted bedroom with its low, slanted ceiling and creaky floor for almost forty-five minutes. It’s two-thirty. Shouldn’t the guys be here by now?

I guess so, AJ says. He picks up his Red Bull from the top of Eliot’s small practice amp, finishes it off, and sets the empty can down on Eliot’s dresser. There is a ring of water left in its place on the black surface of the amp. It’s whatever, he continues. I don’t have shit going on today. Hey, Eliot, can you pick up some beer for me after this?

Eliot is the only member of Chasing Thunderclap with a realistic fake ID. He’s had the thing as long as he’s been in the band—over a year now—and AJ likes to use this to his advantage whenever possible. Nobody in Chasing Thunderclap has had their twenty-first birthday yet. AJ, Shane, and Eliot are nineteen, and Will and Bryan are both eighteen (as far as any of Bryan’s bandmates know). Bryan had taken an accelerated online high school program so he could graduate a year early, which means that he’ll be graduating in a few weeks, despite the fact that he’s really only seventeen.

Back when Bryan first auditioned for the band, there was never any question that he’d get in—he could play the music forward, backward, in his sleep, and probably with his tongue, if that had been one of the requirements. But he noticed the way the guys treated Will—calling him condescending pet names, never inviting him to hang out after practice, and systematically ignoring all his ideas—and so when they asked Bryan how old he was, he had simply told them he was a high school sophomore (which was technically true) and they had assumed that meant he was sixteen, when he was actually only fifteen. Bryan had desperately wanted to make friends with his new bandmates, and he knew that would never happen if they knew he was the baby of the band. Unfortunately, the whole friendship thing hasn’t exactly panned out yet—at least not the way he’d hoped it would—but now that two years have passed, it’s too late to tell them the truth.

Eliot continues bobbing his head along with the metronome. Bryan is fairly certain Eliot didn’t even register AJ’s question and has no intention of driving all the way to town and buying him beer after band practice today, but AJ seems to take the head-bobbing as an affirmative. Thanks, man. You’re the best, he says.

Eliot keeps playing and nodding.

A car door slams outside. That must be them, Bryan says. He swings his legs off the bed and latches his guitar back into its case. He’s dreading going downstairs and potentially getting his brains pummeled out by AJ’s SM58, but he is more than ready to get out of AJ Selfie Land. It’s been a long hour and a half.

Eliot sets his Dean on its stand and follows Bryan out into the hallway to help load in Will’s drum kit. Before they reach the stairs, Eliot turns around. You coming? he asks AJ.

Yeah, AJ says. I need a cigarette before practice. It improves my screaming.

There’s something I need to tell you guys, Bryan says once they are all gathered in the dim, unfinished basement, where an ancient washer and dryer sit at one end next to a mountain of dirty farm clothes, the band’s PA and equipment set up at the other end.

At first, nobody hears him. Will is crashing cymbals while his feet blast through some crazed mathematical pattern, his moppy chestnut hair bouncing wildly on his head; Eliot is running through his solo again, only now he is plugged in, distorted, and scull-crushingly loud; and Shane is playing a funky, borderline-pornographic bass line, while AJ stands in the center facing everybody, two-stepping with his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his sagging skinny jeans.

Bryan waves his arms over his head. I need to say something, he says again, shouting to be heard over the free-for-all in Eliot’s basement.

Eliot notices him and starts waving his arms too. The others stop what they’re doing immediately when they see him. It’s impossible to miss the guy; he’s six-foot-five with legs that go practically up to Bryan’s chest.

What is it? AJ asks Eliot.

Not me, Eliot says. "Bryan wanted to say something."

All eyes turn to Bryan. Suddenly, he doesn’t know if he’s ready for this. After two years in Chasing Thunderclap, a self-produced EP and a full-length album, and a couple mini-tours of the Midwest, how can this be the end of it? He swallows.

Are you pregnant? Will asks. Even though he’s a year older than Bryan, Bryan always thought Will seemed younger, with his round baby face full of freckles. The other guys call him Willycakes, a nickname that started when AJ and Shane first became friends with Will’s older brother Andy when they were little boys. Will was only a kid two years ago when Bryan first saw the YouTube clips the band posted as a sort of want-ad for a second guitar player, but he was the main reason Bryan auditioned in the first place. Will may be young, but he’s as much of a prodigy on drums as Bryan is on guitar. He can play all of Chasing Tunderclap’s songs live almost perfectly every time. Bryan knows that even if he does decide to join another band someday, he’ll likely never again play with a drummer like Will.

Yeah, he’s pregnant, Eliot tells Will. "And you’re the father."

Will does a rim shot.

Seriously though, you guys know how much I love this band, Bryan says.

We love you too, Eliot says. No homo.

Bryan forces out a quick bark of a laugh. No more stalling. The time to tell them is now. Thanks. He can feel his heartbeat pulsing in his temples. I’m going to Cornell University at the end of August.

For what? AJ asks. He folds his arms across his chest. He is wearing a black tank top that he clearly thinks makes him look tough, but all it actually does is draw awareness to his protruding collar bone.

For…college?

Where’s that?

Um. New York.

There is silence.

Are you quitting the band? AJ asks finally.

Bryan glances up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, his hands going to the unplugged guitar in his hands, plucking anxiously at the strings. This is going as poorly as he was afraid it might. Minus the microphone beating. He forces himself to look back at the guys. Yeah. I guess I am.

His words fall like anvils on the basement floor. Bryan hasn’t heard his bandmates this quiet since that first practice with Eliot instead of Andy, about fourteen months ago. They found Eliot online immediately after Andy died. Originally, he was supposed to fill in for a single show, because Chasing Thunderclap had a huge opportunity opening for Chains of Andromeda and there wasn’t enough time to rework the music for one guitarist. AJ didn’t want to replace Andy permanently, but the other guys had outvoted him. All their music was written for two guitar players and Andy would have wanted it to stay that way. Andy was a stickler for artistry.

Their first couple practices with Eliot as the official replacement guitarist were awkward, with no side conversation or laughter whatsoever, but eventually they managed to finish writing the full-length album they had already started working on, and Bryan recorded and mixed the tracks himself. They titled the album Vapors and dedicated it to Andy, and it has been more successful in online sales than any of them had dared hope it would be. Now, due to Vapors’ popularity, Chasing Thunderclap is exactly three weeks and two days from its first national US tour, and Bryan’s four bandmates are staring at him as though Andy somehow died all over again.

Congratulations, man, Eliot says finally. Bryan thinks he might actually mean it, too. Eliot’s probably the only one of his bandmates capable of thinking of anyone other than himself, as far as Bryan can tell. Shane and Will are nice guys, but much like AJ, Chasing Thunderclap is family to them, like their own infant child, and they won’t let anything stand in the way of its success.

Thanks. Bryan looks around at each of them in the dank, shadowy basement, trying to gauge their anger levels. You should all know how horrible I feel for springing this on you, but I told you as soon as I possibly could. I just got my acceptance letter yesterday. This isn’t quite true; he got the letter five days ago, but they don’t need to know that. It’s close enough to count as truth.

Why didn’t you tell us you planned to go to college and leave us? AJ asks.

Bryan feels like he’s been slapped. "It’s not that I planned to go to college exactly. I applied to make my dad happy. He went to Cornell, and it was always his dream for me to go there too. When I applied, I never thought I’d actually get in. I mean, it’s Cornell University."

Again, the blank faces. "So you don’t actually want to go," AJ says.

Well, I do. I mean, my dad loved it there. He bites his lip. He wishes he were a little kid, so he could start crying and it would be okay. Or that he was selfish like his bandmates and didn’t feel bad about hurting other people like this. But I love this band more than anything. I’m torn.

"But you are leaving?"

Bryan sucks in a breath of cold basement air. I don’t have a choice. If it were any other college….

Congrats, dude, Shane says, his hands stuffed down deep in his jeans pockets behind the Ibanez bass guitar strapped across his chest. He’s he only member that gets away with failing to adhere to AJ’s skinny-jeans-only rule without consequence; his jeans are baggy and full of holes and he has a dirty Cubs cap that he wears backward all the time. Shane gets away with dressing however he wants because he and Andy have been AJ’s best friends since before they even started elementary school.

Thanks, Bryan says. It was hard for me to tell you. You know how important this band is to me. The good news is, I can still tour this summer, and play shows right up until I have to move to New York at the end of August. If you’ll let me, that is.

Of course you can finish out the summer with us, dude, Shane says. "This summer is a celebration of Vapors and all the work we put into it. It would be pretty much shot without you."

Will and Eliot nod enthusiastically; AJ does nothing. This is the longest Bryan has ever known the guy to go without speaking. The image of AJ pummeling him with a microphone edges back into his mind, but he pushes it away. Thanks for being so understanding, he says.

Of course, man, Eliot says. I mean, Cornell’s a big-deal school, right?

Bryan nods humbly.

I’m proud of you, man, Will steps around his drum kit to give Bryan a one-armed bro hug. "You’re like the smartest guy I know. Shit, you read books for fun."

Thanks. Bryan laughs with relief. He wipes his palms on his jeans. They’ve been sweating ever since he woke up for practice this morning. His palms, not his jeans.

What about us? AJ says.

His bandmates turn and look at him. He is wrapping and unwrapping his microphone cord around his fingers.

You’re just going to ditch us like this? he continues. "You know how bad it looks when bands change members, don’t you? Wade says he’s heard label buzz about us since Vapors was released. You’re gonna throw all that away?"

I’m sorry, man. Bryan says. He feels the blood drain from his face. Wade Smalls is the band’s manager. He lives in Los Angeles, so none of the band members have met him in person, but he books shows for them and orders boxes of merchandise when they are running low, and lately he’s been feeding AJ a lot of pretty lines about label buzz, which has had AJ acting like even more of a D-bag than usual. Bryan has a feeling that Wade Smalls might be stringing AJ along a little bit, but then, what does Bryan know about the music industry? It could be true.

Have you even thought about this? AJ asks. "Like, really thought about this, I mean?"

Bryan wonders vaguely what the difference between thinking and really thinking is, but now would be a dangerous time to ask AJ. Any time would be, really. Of course I have.

Fuck this, AJ says. I need a cigarette. He takes the old wooden stairs two at a time, his footsteps echoing throughout the basement and causing Will’s high hats to chatter.

The basement is quiet again when he leaves. Finally, Eliot starts jamming to Tightrope Walker, one of the old songs off the EP they put out over a year and a half ago when Andy was still alive. It has a catchy, maniacal hook that sounds like calliope music gone haywire, which Andy wrote himself. The other three join in.

Chapter 2 — AJ

Someone comes up behind AJ as he sits on the bottom step leading up to the rickety front porch of the old white farmhouse. His cigarette has long since been extinguished, and he is staring out across the dirt road and into the open corn field, the stalks still just beginning to poke their way out of the earth in long, even rows. The nearest neighbor is over a mile away.

This sucks, Shane says, taking a seat beside AJ on the step. He scratches his fingertips through his dark ear-to-ear beard. AJ hates that fucking beard. It makes Shane look homeless, but not the weed-smoking, prog-metal-scene kind of homeless AJ strives for the band to look like. That beard makes Shane look regular, tin-can, cardboard-sign homeless.

I know. We have to fucking keep him.

Shane sighs. I don’t know, man. He sounded pretty serious about college or whatever.

AJ shakes his head. I’ll think of something.

It sucks. Things are finally happening for us. Shane continues scratching that nasty beard. AJ can’t even watch, it’s so grotesque. At least it shouldn’t be too hard to find a new guitarist.

"Of course we’d find another fucking guitarist. We have almost eighteen thousand Facebook followers. Tons of kids would show up if we had auditions. I’m not worried about that shit."

True. It’s not like our entire chance of getting signed is shot now.

I don’t fucking know, man. I can’t believe how selfish Bryan is being, AJ says. "Doesn’t he know how bad it looks to labels if we change members right when they’re thinking about signing us? I mean, we already changed our band name once, and now we’re trying to change the lineup too? It could put this off for months, or even years, maybe. Wade is not going to like this. A few weeks ago, Wade was making fun of this Canadian band, Canyonscream, for going through their third member change in so many years. His exact words had been something along the lines of: Canyonscream is looking at zero relevance in the next year or so. They’re all but unrecognizable at this point." AJ lets out a long, deep breath.

We’ll still get signed, Shane says, almost like he’s trying to convince himself more than AJ. Like you said, tons of kids will try out. We’ll find a legit replacement.

AJ doesn’t answer right away. He pulls out his phone from the pocket of his black skinny jeans and posts a new status: I can’t believe how selfish people can be, complete with a teary-eyed emoji. Before he even has the phone back inside his pocket there are two likes on the status, both from girls he’s fooled around with. We better still get signed, he says finally, flicking his lighter at the tip of another cigarette. If not, I’m gonna kill myself. This shit’s all I have.

You’re just saying that.

Shane is the only person left in the world that AJ allows to argue with him like that, now that Andy’s gone. The three of them used to be tight as brothers, ever since AJ moved to their neighborhood with his grandma when AJ, Shane, and Andy were six years old. Every afternoon and weekend, every birthday and holiday, and all summer long, the three of them spent together, raising hell around town on their bikes and swimming in Swallow Lake, the tiny, algae-choked lake near their old neighborhood. Willycakes tagged along occasionally, whenever they’d let him. After they formed the band, originally named Swallow Lake after their favorite hangout, they spent even more time together than before. Until last March, that is. Nothing’s been quite the same since The Party.

The Party (And the Aftermath)

AJ sat on the carpet in the corner, letting Bethany stick her entire tongue, lips, and even some of her teeth into his mouth. He’d had a shitload to drink, but if the girl wanted to bang, AJ could wait to crash until it was over. The party had gotten lame once Shane passed out and was carried away to Hunter’s bed to sleep the alcohol off. Hunter was the kid who threw the party, because his parents were out of town. He was a dude in their senior class at school, a sort-of friend of theirs. Hunter was an appreciator of music, but not a musician himself, which was chill because he brought all his buddies to their shows, but he never tried to steal their song ideas or guitar tones, like musician friends tend to do.

When Shane passed out on the plaid living room couch in the low-ceilinged basement rec room, Andy drew a very lifelike dick on Shane’s calf in blue permanent marker, complete with thick, ropey veins running all down its shaft and engorged, brainy balls beside it. Then he’d hoisted Shane up on his shoulder and carried him to Hunter’s bedroom down the hall. Andy had been working out a shit-ton in the months before The Party. He’d recently gotten an after-school job as a greeter at a gym, and he was getting fucking ripped.

It was while Andy was tucking Shane into bed that Bethany came up to AJ. She was two years younger than him, which meant she was currently a sophomore, but she went to the North Campus and AJ and the guys attended South. He was pretty sure he remembered her from middle school, but the Bethany Roark he remembered was a clean-cut blond girl with braces who belonged to the school dance team, but she’d gone semi-Goth since then. Definitely an improvement, as far as he was concerned. She wore black shorts over fishnets and long, pointy fake fingernails, and she looked like she hadn’t eaten in about a month. When she told AJ that Swallow Lake was her favorite local band and started kissing him, he wasn’t going to refuse. He’d broke up with Bre again almost a week before because she went out drinking with a bunch of dudes like the shady tramp she was, and AJ hadn’t managed to wrangle up any strange since the breakup. He was definitely overdue.