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chapter one
" Oh, and our good times
starts and end
without dollar one
to spend. "
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NOW PLAYING: "DAYDREAM BELIEVER" by THE MONKEES (1967)

________

[Rory sits down, shifts in her chair, makes herself comfortable, and clears her throat. It's silent for a few moments before she speaks.]

AURORA "RORY" MARQUEZ, songwriter: It's surreal, you know? To think of how and where it all ended up. But where it began is the real kicker, because though some of us in Hazelwood, Pennsylvania had stars in our eyes, I don't think anyone expected us to become so big.

GRAHAM DUNNE, guitarist, The Six: Even before I knew we could work as a band, I knew we'd have to write our own songs... eventually. I think I assumed it would happen a lot sooner, so I wanted a head start for when we stopped playing covers. I was a little ahead of myself back then. [Smiles] And thank God I was.

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IT IS RAINING in Pennsylvania when Graham Dunne first approaches Aurora Marquez.

The weather has been persistent all week, sending precipitation down from hazy skies at various speeds ranging from light sprinkles to furious raindrops pounding like drum beats on every rooftop. Friday appears to be no better than the days before. Even though school has finally finished for the day and she has an entire weekend to look forward to, Rory can't find any joy in her current situation.

The situation: walking home from school in an early October downpour. She has no idea how she'd forgotten her umbrella at home this morning. It wouldn't have prevented her Mary Janes from getting waterlogged even though she tries to carefully avoid the larger puddles, causing her socks to squish inside her shoes with every step, but at least her head and shoulders might have been dry. Now her dark hair is plastered to her face and she keeps having to move it out of her eyes.

Rory hugs her arms closer to her chest in an attempt to ward off the unseasonable chilly temperature made worse by her drenched state of being. Her sweater does nothing to keep her warm and her skirt keeps sticking to her legs, occasionally blowing around in the wind, forcing her to stop and fix it, extending her miserable commute even more.

The sound of God sending His wrath upon the earth is deafening. That's why it takes a few seconds for her to hear the voice.

"Hey!"

Rory stops, her teeth chattering, and looks behind her to see a boy running down the sidewalk toward her. His shoes send puddles splashing up onto his drenched jeans. However, even if his trousers are wet, his curly hair is dry due to the umbrella held over his head.

"Here." The boy shoves the umbrella toward her, immediately causing the raindrops to flatten his curls.

Rory stares at him, shaking her head. "No, I can't — it is yours—"

"I insist."

Her mamá would probably have her head if she learned that she didn't accept help from a kind person, so Rory accepts the umbrella and holds the canopy over her head. The boy is so tall and gangly that the edge of the fabric cuts him off at the shoulders— he has the physique of a teenage boy going through a growth spurt so the rest of his body can't keep up. She changes the angle of the umbrella so she isn't walking alongside a headless person.

"You're Aurora, right?" he asks above the rain. "I'm Graham Dunne. I have a few classes with you— you sit in front of me in History."

Now she knows why he had looked vaguely familiar, though she's used to seeing him when he's not allowing himself to get soaked to the bone.

Rory is surprised that he'd known her name. She's not the most vocal person in her classes and prefers to keep to herself. She hasn't even made a real friend in the month and a half since her first year of high school had begun... or any in junior high, or elementary grades. Truthfully, her closest friend is the notebook tucked away in the bag she has slung over her shoulder.

"Thank you for the umbrella, Graham," she says, giving him a closed-lipped grin that's more of her mashing her lips together because her teeth are chattering so badly she's lost control of her face. If he detects her obvious accent, he doesn't mention it. Most people do — it's relatively rare to meet other Latin immigrants around here — so not being interrogated about where she's from is like a breath of fresh air.

"No problem. Figured you could use it more than me."

As the pair walks down the sidewalk, a comfortable silence washes over them. Rory can finally absorb the scenery now that water isn't raining into her eyeballs. Even though she takes the same route to and from school daily, she tries to make a point to find something new each time, whether it's the mailbox on Culmer Street with the dog painted on it or a house with yellow curtains. This time she notices someone's planter in their front yard is flooding, drowning the plants within. Could that be a set of lyrics? Too much of something good — flowers being drowned from the rain —

She itches to retrieve her songbook and pencil from her bag, but she can't without ruining them both. She'll be lucky if the water hasn't already soaked through her bag and dampened the contents inside. So for now, she clings to the idea, repeating it over and over in her mind so she doesn't forget it before she makes it home.

"So, this might be weird." Graham's voice interrupts her thoughts. "But, um, I was thinking of starting a band with a few of my friends. And you... you write songs, right?"

Rory glances up at him with widened eyes, unsure of how he knows that. It's not something she typically broadcasts to other people.

Noticing the question on her face, he quickly explains. "I've seen some of your songs in your notebook. N—Not on purpose! I swear I wasn't trying to snoop. I just... it was on your desk and you were writing as I walked past and... I liked what you wrote. About feeling lost in a crowded room?"

Rory averts her gaze, her cheeks growing warm with embarrassment. She didn't mean for anyone to see those lyrics.

"Like I said — it wasn't on purpose, I swear. I'm not a creep. My eyes just... caught the page... and..." Graham seems to regret speaking, dragging his hand along his face and shaking the water out of his eyes before sighing. "I'm assuming we're going to be writing our own songs eventually, if my friends even agree to this, and I was wondering if you'd be willing to help out? Let us know if we're any good? And I could start learning how to write."

"You haven't asked them yet?" she questions. "Your friends?"

"I was going to do it on Monday," he replies. "Just... think about it over the weekend, maybe? And let me know if you're interested."

They turn onto Rory's street and she almost groans upon seeing that her brother's car is in her driveway, the headlights still on, illuminating the grey afternoon like two beacons cutting through the mist. Mateo notices her figure coming closer and exits his vehicle, killing the lights. She can tell that his expression is inquisitive even from six houses down.

Rory stops, turning to Graham. She doesn't want him to have to deal with her annoying sibling.

"I'll talk to you back at school," she says. "But so far it sounds... interesting."

Graham grins, showing off his dimples. "Awesome."

She returns his umbrella, thanks him again, and begins to run toward her house, dodging raindrops like they're bullets. She splashes in a puddle in the driveway that sprays onto Mateo's chinos, which he frowns about.

"¿Quién es ese?" her brother questions.

"Un chico de escuela," Rory mumbles, wanting to push past him as quickly as possible before he can interrogate her more.

Unfortunately, when Mateo follows her toward the front door, so do his questions. "¿Cómo se llama?"

"Graham. ¿Alguna pregunta más? Or are you going to continue with this interrogation all night?"

"I was just wondering. I've never seen you walk home with anyone before."

Rory fights the urge to roll her eyes, knowing that Mateo has a sixth sense for that just like Mamá does. He never just wonders about anything. He doesn't sit in their driveway every day and wait for her to come home from school out of concern. It's so if she's doing anything suspicious, he can be the first to alert their parents.

No sneaking out for her. Not that she has anywhere to sneak out to, anyway.

She walks inside and is immediately chastised for how she's trailing water all over the place. Mamá wraps her in a towel and shoves her toward the stairs, ordering that she take a hot shower before she catches a cold. Mateo, though he's wet too, gets a kiss on the forehead and a question about how his classes were.

Rory stands under the hot spray from their leaky shower head and contemplates Graham's offer. She didn't think anyone knew about her hobby outside of her family. So far, she's only kept her songs to herself, occasionally playing them on the piano or some of the instruments her abuelo had left her, but actually doing something with them has only been a dream in the back of her mind. Sometimes she'd let herself indulge in her fantasy, wondering how it would feel to have some huge artist singing her songs. She'd even go as far as dreaming about winning a Grammy and what her acceptance speech would be.

But that's all it's been — a dream. Something she's kept close to her chest, not daring to speak about in front of her family because they'll think it's silly. None of them care about the arts as much as she does.

This could be a real opportunity for her. She hasn't shared her passion for music with anyone since Abuelo died, and a piece of her has missed talking about it with another person. Even if the band goes nowhere — even if they fizzle out after a few practices — even if they suck — at least Rory can say that she tried.

She has no friends. Maybe this is how she can meet people.

After she dries off and changes into warm clothes, Rory grabs her songbook and starts thumbing through its worn pages, looking for something she can show Graham.

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GRAHAM: And that next Monday, she sat down in front of me in History, turned around, and asked, "So what did your friends say?"

I said, "We're gonna try to make the band happen. Why, are you in?

She smiled at me and said, "I'm in."

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Rory can hear the noise before she reaches Chuck Loving's house. Even so, she still compares the address Graham had written down for her with the one above the porch twice before she dares to step onto the driveway.

Miscellaneous guitar chords greet her ears along with a few light taps on the drums. Okay, she thinks, at least they can play. It sounds like they haven't gotten very far with their first practice yet, which would make sense given she's only two minutes late (she'd had to convince Mateo that she had joined an after-school club and triple-check that he wasn't hiding in the bushes or something on her way here).

She grips the strap of her messenger bag with both hands, sucks in a deep breath, and takes the first step down the decline. Chuck's garage is open. Five boys are inside: two on guitars, one holding a bass guitar, one at a drum set, and one slightly older guy leaning against a workbench. Their eyes start to flick toward her one by one the closer she gets. Rory knows that she looks awkward with her small steps and unsure expression, but she can't seem to straighten her spine and appear more confident.

Finally, Graham notices her and his expression lights up. "Aurora!"

Rory manages a small grin. "You can call me Rory."

"Okay. Guys, this is the girl with the songs I was telling you about. Au — uh, Rory Marquez, this is Eddie Roundtree, Warren Rojas, Chuck Loving, and... my brother Billy."

The boys each give her waves as Graham introduces them. Eddie has hair curly enough to rival Graham's, but a much lighter brown. Chuck's thick-rimmed glasses seem to swallow his whole face and he can't be much taller than Rory herself. Warren, who's in the back of the garage on drums, points a drumstick at her that catches her eye; something is different about it, but she can't tell what it is from so far away. And Billy merely gives her a nod.

"Billy's not in the band," Graham quickly explains. "He's just going to give us some tips about our sound."

"Marquez," Billy repeats thoughtfully, causing Rory's attention to snap to him. "You got a brother?"

Rory nods, not trusting her voice to come out very loud when she speaks.

"Thought the name sounded familiar. He was in my grade."

Rory cannot imagine someone like Mateo hanging out with Billy Dunne. All her brother knows is numbers and how he's going to ace his next exam, not anything about a band's sound or having hair that shaggy.

She prays to Santa María that her brother hasn't already ruined things for her with his assholish ways. Mateo has a reputation for having a squeaky-clean record but something about him that is just off. He can be too nice, too charismatic, too thoughtful. And that's because, while appearing to do things out of the goodness of his heart, he's really viewing them as a means to get ahead.

"You can sit... erm..." Graham looks around the garage for a chair but comes up empty. While it's a surprisingly tidy space, it doesn't seem to hold much in it.

"Here." Warren holds up an old bucket that had been behind him. Graham quickly sets it up at the edge of the garage so she won't get her ears blown out by the speakers if she sits too close, and she crosses her legs after she sits, grateful that she wore a comfortable pair of wide-leg jeans instead of the skirt she'd been considering.

Warren does a quick countdown and then Rory's ears still almost get blown out by the sound of his drums. Graham's voice drops several octaves to mimic the original version of "House of the Rising Sun" by The Animals, though he gets much louder on the high note in the first line. Though the song's instrumentals typically consist of more audible guitar and softer percussion, they seem to be doing the exact opposite.

Rory blinks. That's all she can really do.

Billy is more outward in his distaste, scratching at his ear with a cringe on his face. He doesn't let them get halfway through the first verse before he's calling out, "Stop. Stop, stop, stop."

Rory subtly shifts the bucket closer to the edge of the garage's concrete floor before placidly folding her hands in her lap.

"It's an E major, chief," Billy tells his brother. Graham strums the chord with his brow furrowed in realization. How Billy could even hear what Graham was playing is beyond her. "And you, Thundersticks."

"Yes," Warren says.

"Where'd you get those tree trunks?"

He grins. "They're my grandfather's."

"Easy on those fills, yeah?" The smile fades at Billy's correction. "This isn't jazz. Again, from the top."

Before he takes a step back to where he'd been leaning against the shelf, Eddie speaks up. "Uh, hey, Billy. Why don't you, uh... sh-show us how it's done?"

Rory's gaze flickers between each of the boys' faces and something clicks into place. The expression Eddie wears is something akin to awe, and Chuck and Warren seem excited to hear Billy contribute as well. Graham, however, frowns when Billy takes his place at the mic stand.

To the other guys, Billy is an idol, a star, someone to be gawked at and revered. But to Graham, it's just his brother.

Rory catches Graham's eye and gives him a supportive grin, pleased when the creases on his face relax. She knows exactly how it feels to constantly be in the shadow of your sibling.

And she will admit, with the advice Billy had given them, plus him on vocals, they do sound better. She can actually hear Eddie and Graham's instruments. She listens intently, nodding along to the beat, searching for Chuck's bassline. Once they build up their confidence and grow used to playing with each other, she can tell they'll only improve.

Rory applauds once the song fades out. Warren holds up his sticks and gives a dramatic bow, allowing her a better glimpse of them. They're not regular drumsticks after all, but timbale sticks meant for Latin music.

"So, there you go," Billy says, stepping away from the mic.

"How'd we do?" Graham asks Rory.

"I think that second time was a lot better," she says. "Though maybe you could pick a different type of song? I mean — 'House of the Rising Sun' is pretty slow, and it sounds like you are kind of ... rushing through it? I think if you focused more on the music itself, really tried to feel it instead of just playing what you have memorized—"

Rory realizes she's been rambling. She falters and ducks her head, allowing a section of it to fall into her face. "Sorry."

"No, she's right," Billy says, turning to the younger boys. "You guys love music, right?" They all nod. "Let it show in how you play. Try again with just the instrumentals and slow down. Feel the music."

They play a few more times, sounding better and better with each round, occasionally aided by a few tips from Billy. Rory is extremely pleased that they don't suck. She could use some time away from her house and she would've been disappointed if they hadn't made it through one practice.

Toward the end, while the others are practicing chords and beats on their own, Graham finds another bucket to place next to Rory's, his awkwardly long legs struggling to find a comfortable position to be in when he's this close to the ground. Rory chuckles while he finally settles on bending them so his arms rest on his knees.

"So, what are your tips for me?" he asks.

Rory digs through her bag for her songbook. It's an old journal she's had for a few months now, with most of the pages sun-bleached because she'd started it in the summer and spent a lot of time writing in the backyard. Some are dog-eared at the corners. There are scribbles and crossed-out words from when Rory didn't have an eraser, and Graham's eyes go slightly wide when she opens it to reveal the chaotic inner workings of her mind. It feels a bit like cracking her soul open to him.

"I guess the first thing I would say is that songwriting is very personal," she replies. "You can write about your experiences or from another person's perspective, but it will always have traces of you in it."

Graham had been nodding along like he'd understood as she talked, but once she stops, he asks, "What?"

"It's like... here." Rory flips to a marked page. "This is one I wrote about someone walking on the beach. It's not supposed to be about me, but I like a lot of metaphorical imagery in my songs. You can tell I wrote it because of all the little hints of my style."

Graham's eyes trail over the words. "'I swear I watched her walk into the sea / And nobody has ever seen her again.' Holy shit, did she die at the end?"

Rory's face burns upon him reading them out loud. She shrugs. "Maybe. Or maybe she was a figment of the narrator's imagination."

"I don't understand this one," he says, pointing to the song on the next page.

"That's because it's in Spanish." Rory closes the book. "Maybe you could try figuring out your style or what you like to write about. Are you straightforward or metaphorical? Pick something that's happened to you and write about it in a few different ways. That's how you can start."

A pair of sneakers stop in front of them. They both look up to see Warren, who, apparently having gotten tired of repetitive drumming, had gone over to talk to them.

"So, you write your own stuff, huh?" he asks Rory. When she nods, he grins. "That's boss."

She points at the sticks in his hand. "Timbale sticks?"

He looks at them and does a double-take back at her, surprised that she'd recognized them. "Yeah. You know 'em?"

"My abuelo had some, too." She wishes she had them, but he'd left them behind in Colombia before their move. The mention of him makes her throat close a little. She motions with her hands, struggling to regain her sense of the English language, which tends to slip her mind when she gets emotional. "Where... em..."

Luckily, he seems to understand her question without her having to finish it. "Mom's from Ecuador, dad's Colombian."

"I'm from Colombia!" Rory's entire face lights up, a full-blown smile threatening to it in half. "¿Hablas Español?"

"Sí."

"Ah, bueno. I have not met a lot of other Spanish speakers here."

"She writes songs in Spanish, man," Graham tells Warren, pointing to the songbook still clutched in Rory's hand. "You could understand them."

"Oh." Rory's eyes flicker to the ground. "Um."

"Maybe another time," Warren says, detecting the embarrassment on Rory's face that Graham seems to be oblivious to. Or maybe he thinks she's just being humble.

She gives him a small, grateful smile. He twirls his timbale sticks around before walking away to start putting away some of his equipment— while they'd been talking, the practice had ended.

"Is that a camera?" Graham asks, looking down at the inside of her bag.

Rory almost laughs at his inability to keep his eyes on his own business. First her songbook, then her bag. What's next, is she going to find him peering through the curtains of her house?

"Yeah," she says, removing the clunky thing and fiddling with it. "I like to take pictures sometimes, and I never know when inspiration is going to strike, so I carry it around."

"Well, inspiration has struck me, and I think you should take a picture of us to document this first practice down in history." Graham stands, announcing to the rest of the group, "Everyone gather around— Rory's gonna take our photo."

"Aw man, I just put my guitar away," Eddie complains.

"We don't need our instruments," Warren assures him.

"I'm keeping mine." Chuck still has the strap around his shoulder. His bass guitar almost swallows him whole as he joins the group.

Billy hangs around to the side for a second while Rory gets the camera set up. When she notices this, she tells him, "You can get in there too, Billy."

"Hercules on three!" Graham exclaims as the guys put their arms around each other and Rory raises the camera to her face.

"That is not our name."

"It's a work in progress."

Rory gives them a second to stop arguing and smile before she takes the photo.

"It really means a lot that you came," Graham tells her on the sidewalk in front of Chuck's house. "I don't think my brother had faith in us."

"I can hear you," Billy speaks up from his car, which is idling on the curb, waiting for Graham to climb inside.

"You didn't!" Graham exclaims defensively. Turning back to Rory, he says, "We're probably gonna practice a couple times a week. You're welcome to come to as many or as few as you'd like."

"I have to document everything down in history, right?" Rory asks with a smile. "I am sentimental like that. Plus, I love music."

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[Rory holds up a printed Polaroid photo of Graham, Eddie, Chuck, Warren, and Billy at their first band practice.]

RORY: I have all my photos. I am still sentimental like that.

_____

a/n:

okay this is being published way sooner than i expected BUT. listen to me. i have written over 30k words for this fic in 2 1/2 weeks. i am on chapter 9. am i unwell? probably. especially considering i am still on episode TWO. episode 1 in and of itself takes up 5 chapters. it's crazy how quickly the beginning moves before everything goes BRRRR

my other fics waiting to be updated as they watch me hyperfixate on this one:

also !! as always, please correct me if i get anything wrong in terms of the spanish language. i am not a native speaker and have a limited knowledge of grammar rules/vocabulary so i will probably have some mistakes.

keep in mind that rory's first language is spanish and she didn't know any english when she came to the US, plus she speaks it often at home, so she has specific speech patterns and an accent. those patterns may change over the years as she speaks english much more often, but also remember that non-native speakers obviously didn't have access to the internet back then to easily pick up on slang/engage with native speakers of other languages. (this also applies to mateo)

thank you for reading and i hope you enjoyed this first chapter! i'm really excited for you guys to watch rory evolve and for her dynamic with the band to strengthen. i absolutely LOVED writing the dunne brothers era because everyone is so little and relatively untraumatized <3 they don't know what's going to hit them :(

— kristyn

TRANSLATIONS:

¿Quién es ese?: Who is that?

Un chico de escuela: A boy from school

¿Cómo se llama?: What's his name?

¿Alguna pregunta más?: Any more questions?

¿Hablas Español?: Do you speak Spanish?

Sí: Yes

Bueno: Good

ps i made this banner and i kind of really hate it so if literally anyone is willing to create one i will love u forever n ever and also cry

( word count: 4.4k )