The Making Of A Primary Color
Chapter One: "Doll's Minor"
In many ways, John's life mirrored that of those miraculous meant-to-be stories you hear about and are amazed by. One with so many 'what if's' that you could be kept up all night wondering what would have happened if this person had never done this, of if this person had done this. Then how would it have ended? Happy, maybe, but not happy enough that random people miles and seas away would be talking about it with their friends, that's for sure.
John's story, for all intents and purposes, starts when he's eight and is given a bass for Christmas that he doesn't intend to play at first. But Hunter Burgan on MTV looked pretty cool doing it, and maybe people would see him the way he saw him if he just had one. For four years, the bass sits in the corner of his room collecting dust apart from the times John picked it up to show one of his friends who came over without ever touching a single string.
But it isn't until John turns twelve that he realizes it's not just Hunter Burgan who looks cool with a bass. There's Mark Hoppus and Cone McCaslin and Johnny Christ and Peter Hook. In fact, with every song John listened to, he found himself focusing on the bass, even if it was sometimes harder to hear depending on the song. Meanwhile, his best friend, Greg, had been taking guitar lessons since he was big enough to hold one, and at twelve, his prodigy-like playing was a big deal at school. So, one day, John shows him the bass, wildly out of tune and so dusty that both Greg and John cough when John blows some of it off, and he asks about playing it.
Greg explains that the guitar and bass are totally different instruments and that he wouldn't be of much help because he's never even touched a bass in his life, but if John was really serious about it, he could be playing like his heroes in no time. Greg's guitar instructor could also play bass, John found out, and with Greg's help, they were able to talk John's parents into letting him start attending the lessons with Greg.
Within the first two weeks, both the instructor and Greg were both utterly baffled at John's progress. But he didn't see what was so shocking about it. He had nothing to go off of to know how he was supposed to be progressing. All he was doing was listening and practicing at home, putting in his share and trying to do his best. Also, John still played pretty badly, in his opinion. With Greg, the notes just came blended perfectly. But with John, he had to stop and check his fingers, and sometimes he couldn't get the chords right, or everything was discordant and didn't sound like the song he was learning at all.
But then the instructor told him that most people didn't play the way he did until they'd been playing for a month. With this in mind, John's confidence boosted, and he tried that much harder, and even his parents, who were skeptical and expected him to be bored with it in a month because, admittedly, John did do that a lot, were starting to take notice, and they were very impressed.
By thirteen, John was nearly on Greg's level, who just kept getting better and better, ripening with age, and he knew and could play the entire From Under The Cork Tree album by heart.
By fourteen, John could learn virtually any song by ear and was actually starting to look cool doing so.
But by fifteen, the story really began.
He and Greg had been fifteen for far too long and were longing to be sixteen. They always played duets together in either John's room or Greg's garage or backyard because his house was smaller, and his parents got annoyed if they were too loud. One day in John's room, in the middle of MakeDamnSure, Greg pointed out how neither of them could sing, even if you could get away with shouting the lyrics to a Taking Back Sunday song, and drums really add to it. John picked up on what he was saying and didn't have any reason to object. They were both good, so why shouldn't they have a good singer and drummer to accompany them?
So they held auditions in Greg's small garage one afternoon when his parents were out of town, therefore meaning the car was out the way, leaving room for a fold-out table and chair set for John and Greg to sit and make notes as if this was some kind of talent show (except it kind of was, though, wasn't it?). There were definitely interesting options available. After hearing them play on a video filmed with John's cheap phone camera they posted online when they tried to get people to come audition, no one really believed they were two fifteen-year-olds whose biggest audience had been a bundle of family members around the holidays.
After two hours of writing names that had potential, both of them were tired and hungry and ready to call it a day, since the sun was starting to set, anyway. There were these two guys (a nineteen-year-old singer and a seventeen-year-old drummer) who were pretty good, except there was no connection between them or to John and Greg. They didn't really fit the bill of what kind of music they wanted to play, but they supposed that was their fault because they didn't know how to explain what they wanted to play without sounding like they wanted to copy other bands.
They were just about to get up and put everything away, they heard two voices, one feminine voice saying, "Wait, wait, wait," as if it were one quick word, and another, deeper voice yelling at the same time, "Oi, hold on a minute!"
When they walked in, John realized that there was a girl running in with drumsticks and a boy helping her pull in her drums to the center of the room.
"Hey," Greg said, easing back into his chair, John following suit. There was a glint in Greg's eyes that John had yet to see, and he trusted it. Greg saw something, and John would be lying if he didn't see what he meant.
The girl was the one auditioning, but the boy stayed and watched, leaning against the side of the garage. When he tried to attempt it at first, he didn't look to see that he wasn't quite aligned with the side of the garage and nearly fell into one of Greg's mother's prized rose bushes, and he blushed bright red from his cheeks to his ears and leaned correctly, hoping no one noticed, even though everyone did. Greg and John smiled at him and bit their lips, and the girl glared at him for already embarrassing them.
"What's your name?" John asked the girl.
"Sally Donovan," she answered confidently. Sally had a mess of long, tight brown curls and pretty dark skin and eyes, dressed in dark jeans and a baggy flannel layered over a tight black tank-top.
"And what's your name, mate?" Greg yelled across to the boy, who blinked and pointed at himself to ask if he meant him, and Greg smiled again and nodded.
"Oh, I'm not auditioning. I just helped bring the drums," he answered instead of giving his name, his voice trailing off at the end.
"But what's your name?" Greg asked anyway.
"He's Dimmock. Micheal Dimmock," Sally said for him before he could stutter out anything else.
"What are you going to play, Sally?'
"'My Own Worst Enemy' by Lit," she said.
John gasped, suddenly looking at Greg and pointing at him. "That was one of our first duets, do you remember?"
Greg looked like he was in music heaven, and he hadn't even heard her play yet. "Yeah, I remember. Hey, Sally, how about you play the drums and we'll play with you? Dimmock, do you know the song?" he abruptly asked. John figured this was just Greg keeping him included so he didn't have to just stand silently and awkwardly the whole time. But then he made a strange decision that even had John surprised.
"Yes . . . ?" DImmock answered.
"Great. Do the vocals for us?"
"What?" Dimmock and Sally said simultaneously, John nearly saying it, too, but he didn't want to discourage the poor lad.
"I don't sing. I've never sung before. I can't."
"See, you just contradicted yourself. How do you know you're bad if you've never sung before? Just do it to keep us in line, so that we're all together."
Greg nudged John in the side, who played along just because Greg told him to. He trusted that he saw something in both of them. "Uh, yeah," John said. "Song works best with singing, and we'll all be busy playing instruments. We won't make fun of you, promise."
Dimmock dubiously accepted the request after some silence, only with Greg and John's smiles encouraging him.
Then they performed the song, and Dimmock and Sally were amazing. They were the ones, John and Greg knew by the middle of the song after an exchanged knowing look. Dimmock didn't seem very confident in himself, but after the first few lines of the song, it was like a voice in his head that had never spoken before told him he was good, and there was honestly nothing like seeing the smile on his face for the first time as he realized there was something he was good at.
So he and Sally were accepted into the band, of course.
And that's how they became Doll's Minor.
It wasn't immediate success, what with them all being fifteen, but they wrote a few songs and got a few local gigs until at one gig, they had no idea they were being listened to by the woman who would change their lives. Her name was Judith Chester, and she owned a record label. A big one. She stumbled upon them by accident, not knowing they would be playing at this particular bar. It took a battle within her mind to decide if she would risk it, until she finally made up her mind, and all of this was unbeknownst to the band.
"Who else knows what teenagers like better than four attractive, talented teenagers?" she asked them rhetorically after she called them to her office.
"A-are we the four teenagers?" Greg asked, his mouth slightly agape. She laughed, but it didn't quite register with John. Nothing was. He couldn't believe this.
"Yes, you're the four teenagers."
And that was how they got signed to a record label, and things took off, only a year after the band had formed.
It all happened so quickly after this. They got a music video, they got bigger shows, they actually got a record. A real CD that people could actually buy. They were all wondering when they were going to wake up.
Their first really big show was another year later on their first tour in Manchester. John remembered the euphoria after he got off the stage, as the crowd's cheering faded as he got further backstage, but he could still hear them in his mind, and he couldn't stop smiling. He sat in the bus with Sally and Greg and joked around for a while until Dimmock came back a few hours later, sat down with a blank face and said the words like he couldn't believe it, "I just lost my virginity."
The four were silent for a few seconds until they all started laughing riotously.
"Aren't guitarists supposed to get the girls?" Sally teased in Greg's direction.
"I do get the girls. Now if I could just get the guys . . ."
"I'll take either," John inputted. "But not right now."
And it was the truth. His life was fantastic right now, and he wasn't concerned with a boyfriend or girlfriend like he'd imagined he would be at eighteen. He was fine alone for now.
But that changed four years later when John was still alone. Sally had been with her boyfriend, Philip, since she was fifteen (they got together two weeks before she auditioned), and they were bound to be engaged at this point. Dimmock had been dating this sweet, pretty blonde, Abigail, for a month or so now, and they suited each other well and were very happy together. Greg was technically single, but he had a different guy climbing off the bus looking satisfied every day. John would stare as the stranger left, but they didn't look at him, and then John would get in to find Greg dressed in only a black dressing gown.
So maybe he didn't want to be alone anymore. But who would be able to take his lifestyle? Who would take him?
xxx
Sherlock looked out the window, checking obsessively back and forth for any sign of the mail.
"Sherlock, it'll only seem longer if you sit there like that," his mother chastised, her hands on her hips as she watched her son sit on his knees in the window seat with his hands placed on the glass like a child.
"What am I supposed to do, then? I won't be able to do anything until I get that letter," he nearly snapped. His nerves were on edge and had been since he auditioned. His violin had never been played like that before and was still in shock that its owner was capable of such a piece.
"I know, but at least sit decently. You're making me nervous."
He let out a long-suffering sigh, but sat down on the couch, still with a clear view out the window and to the mailbox. His mother was chattering on about something that he couldn't focus on because all he was currently was a bundle of nerves. He couldn't even drink the tea his mother made for him and set in front of him. When had she gone to make that? When had she left? How much time had passed? Was the mail here yet?
His father walked in casually with a stack of letters in his hand, as if he wasn't holding Sherlock's future in his hand.
"I got the mail," he announced, like this was an everyday thing. Well, it was an everyday thing, but not today.
Sherlock sprung up from the couch, jumped over the ottoman with the help of his long, graceful legs and ran over to his father. His mother rushed in, too, saying, "Let's see it, then."
"Is there anything for me?" Sherlock asked at the same time.
"Hold on. Good God, Sherlock, calm down. Is the letter for your violin thing supposed to be here?"
Just as Sherlock began to explain that his "violin thing" was his audition to his first choice university, where he would learn to play his violin for money, the phone rang, and his mother ran to answer it.
His father sorted through the letters several times. "There's nothing for you, Sherlock."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. I've looked five times already," he said, showing Sherlock the letters for proof.
"Sherlock," came his mother's voice. He whipped around, and she held up the phone for him, mouthing that it was the university. He walked over and took it, wondering what this could mean.
He held the phone up to his ear. "Hello?"
"Mr. Holmes?" a young female voice said.
"Yes," he said.
There was nothing to worry about, he reminded himself. His grades were perfect, his playing was perfect. They were only calling to tell him he got in. Right?
"You should know that you're the only one we're calling. You were far too special for a default letter with your name filled in at the top." She laughed nervously. "We're very sorry."
Sherlock's heart sank, and he suddenly felt like he needed to sit down. "Why?" he asked, trying to sound as professional as possible. His 'oh, no, it's all perfectly fine' voice.
"We accept a certain number of students who meet certain criteria. You were extraordinary in all aspects, Mr. Holmes, but we don't think you're ready. You were one of the last decisions we made, we just didn't know what to do with you. I don't want to tell you that there were other auditions that were better, but . . ."
In other words, that was exactly what she meant.
"I'm sorry," she repeated. Obviously because of her age, they'd saddled her with giving the bad news to him.
"It's fine," Sherlock mumbled. Now is when he should have said something like, "Thank you for considering me," or something equally as gross, but he just hung up. Before either of his parents could ask what that was about, he ran upstairs, slammed the door, and locked it. He wasn't mad at his parents, of course, but he wanted to let them know how it went without being forced to say it out loud.
He slid down the door of his room, and began to cry into his knees. Sherlock rarely cried. He couldn't remember the last time he cried. But these tears came without warning and with no intention to stop anytime soon. He was supposed to celebrate tonight. He knew that his parents had already planned something, and Mycroft was going to visit, and tonight Molly had gotten tickets to a concert to some famous band that Sherlock didn't listen to.
So he decided not to tell Molly yet. He'd go to this stupid concert with stupid musicians who didn't have to lift a finger to be successful, and he would endure it and try to forget about today. Stupid, stupid music.
