© John Robinson
UCLA’s campus lay deserted, shaded dorm windows honeycombing out like cells in a beehive. A quiet break from the push and pull of students searching out tiny grains of knowledge, buzzing here and there, carrying each nugget carefully back to their cell at night.
His sneakers made little noise on the pavement, hands stuffed in jean’s pockets. He’d be gone soon, a semester at Julliard, a dream since forever. The band thought they’d lost him, or would lose him, once he arrived to the esteemed halls.
Who cared if the band he’d inherited here was called The Pink Marshmallow? Names changed all the time (and this one would). What if they only played tiny clubs and dark basements? Venues changed.
They would be famous one day. He wouldn’t allow otherwise.
The band met him at the curb.
“We wanted to wish you a good trip,” Jay said.
Chris hugged each one. “See you after Christmas.”
He’d given up convincing weeks ago. It was enough he knew he’d be back.
A taxi pulled to the curb. Giving them a thumbs up, he slid inside. Julliard might be a dream, but those four, they were his future.
Leaning back in the seat, he began to hum.