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As David clambers into the van's passenger seat, backpack in tow, Jason hands him a copy of that day's San Miguel Herald. "Hey, did you see? We made the paper, man!"
"Really?" David exclaims, grabbing at it while Jason waves goodbye to David's sisters, who he can see through the Archuleta house's living-room window, and steers the van into the early-morning traffic. "Oh!"
Jason says, "Jackie's beside herself in glee. She told me that when we get our big break, we should shower her with royalties because she booked the Annual San Miguel Historical Reenactment Society Roller Derby Championship."
David, who's still reading the three-line blurb in the Herald's "Odds & Ends" column, points out, obscurely disappointed, "They got our names wrong again." But his voice is bright when he adds, "But it's still pretty neat!"
"You can have that copy," Jason tells him, and David squeezes his hand before folding the paper up and tucking it between the pages of his notebook.
"Here, my sisters did these jackets up for today," David says, pulling out a pair of plastic-wrapped bundles from his bag and holding out one of them so that Jason could see.
"That's great of them," Jason says.
"It's way better," David corrects, and unwraps the bundle to reveal a gray cotton hoodie. David's sisters had stitched white felt triangles around the edges of the hood, and black button eyes near the peak.
Jason laughs. "Way cool," he agrees, and laughs even harder when David tugs the hoodie on, zips it up over the KEYTAR HERO t-shirt Jason gave him last Christmas and lets the shark-mouth hood flop over his face.
Twenty children who have just seen a spectacular three-dolphin show are barely paying attention to David and Jason as they lug their guitar, keytar, amps and mic stands to the makeshift stage in the San Miguel Aquarium Conference Room A, a.k.a. The Whale Shark Room. They're chatting and fidgeting amongst themselves while the two Designated Entertainers hunt for appropriate wall sockets and do a hasty soundcheck. Even the parents, two of whom had booked them, are too busy being on their cellphones to care.
David looks at Jason -- who shrugs, as if to say, they payed us -- and smiles small and private at him, hidden behind his hand as he adjusts the strap of his battered keytar.
Once David gives his OK, Jason strums a quick chord progression and their audience settles down. A bit. "Hello, I'm--" he winces at the sudden squeal of feedback from the mic, "--I'm Jason, he's David and we're The Space Cadets."
"Nice to meet you guys," says David, and without further ado, they launch into the song they've dedicated to the birthday girl, written two days ago and titled, Happy Birthday (Live Every Week Like It's Shark Week!)
Midway through their cover of the Spongebob Squarepants theme song, a kid in overalls throws a fistful of cake at David's face. It goes downhill from there.
Forty-five minutes later, they're standing next to the van in the aquarium's parking lot, reeking of spilled soda and processed sugar. David is tugging mournfully at the cake-smeared front of his hoodie, while Jason's rummaging through the backseat for their emergency bottle of water.
"Something is squishing inside my flip-flops," Jason says when he emerges triumphant, holding the warm bottle aloft. He hands it to David and accepts a wad of seahorse-patterned napkins in return.
David scrapes off most of the solid chunks and begins removing the sticky remnants of icing. "My abuelita always said to dab, not rub," he mutters, and Jason nods; grandparents are always wise in the ways of stain removal and ballroom dancing.
After they're mostly party debris-free, Jason leans against the driver's-side door and says, "At least we got paid."
David settles beside him, making a face. "And we didn't have to, um, with the ribbons and--"
"Yeah." The opening of the All-Night Bowling Disco hadn't been a gig they could forget so easily. There'd been glitter in unexpected places for weeks.
David crumples the last of the stained tissues and stuffs them into the empty water bottle. "Lunch at your place, right?"
"Yup. Hang on, there's still a bit of--" Jason digs out a crumpled handkerchief from his back jeans pocket and after licking a corner of it, wipes a dab of electric-blue icing off the curve of David's ear.
David complains, "That's gross," but stays still until Jason signals the all-clear.