Page 41 of The Invisible Roommate

Gerard simply shrugged and set up the album. A handful of songs in, he asked if there were more cookies. Emory pointed him to a Tupperware container on the counter.

Gerard munched while Emory listened, but his attention waned faster than he expected. A yawn formed in the back of his throat. He tried to tamp it down, but it escaped during a lull between tracks.

Brushing his shirt free of crumbs, Gerard asked, “Is this putting you to sleep?”

“Of course not,” Emory huffed, attempting to sound his usual self. He was not sure he could sleep with all the production elements going on. Every few seconds a new instrument or synth was introduced or a new chant of na-na-na or wahoo-wahoo.

“I wouldn’t blame you if it were.” Gerard sighed to himself. “These songs are pretty formulaic.”

Emory sat up straighter, piqued by a word in his own wheelhouse. Formula. “Say more on that.”

Gerard teetered in his chair, seemingly surprised by the request. “Songwriting, like any other craft, has its tried-and-true structures. Songs usually go intro, verse, prechorus, chorus, verse, prechorus, chorus, bridge, chorus, outro.”

“Sounds a bit like the scientific method,” Emory said, inching forward.

“It totally is. You have this guide to follow. Some songwriters use it as a jumping-off point. Others treat it like gospel,” said Gerard. A contemplative look fell across his face, which Emory couldn’t quite parse out. “With the success of our first album, the label wanted to ensure we were going to ride our upward trajectory into the stars, so this whole project was about hooks and arena anthems and producers with really rigid standards about what a pop song should and shouldn’t be.”

“What shouldn’t a pop song be?” Emory asked. If baking was mostly a science, maybe art was, too. Music appeared more complex than he’d ever given it credit for.

“It shouldn’t be over three minutes and thirty seconds. It shouldn’t use more than six chords. It shouldn’t pile on sounds all at once. It shouldn’t have lyrics higher than a cumulative fourth-grade reading level,” Gerard spouted, using his fingers to count off these principles. “Some people in the industry refer to it as melodic math.”

“That’s funny, when they all sound more like psychological tricks than mathematical equations.” Emory considered this further. “No more than six chords?”

“Easy chords, too. Anyone could play them.”

“I doubt I could.” Emory had never had cooperative, nimble hands.

“A monkey with a ukulele could play them.”

“You highly overestimate my musical abilities,” Emory said. “All the literature says it’s significantly easier to learn an instrument, much like a foreign language, at a young age.”

Gerard raised an eyebrow. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“You’re plenty young!” Gerard got up and retrieved his hard-shelled carrying case from beside the door. The acoustic guitar he produced from inside took Emory’s breath away. The body was painted a shade of green that reminded him of the Chesapeake Bay, and above the sound hole, a plump chameleon sat happily, almost but not quite blending into the background, with its pink, sticky tongue unfurled.

“What an instrument,” Emory mused, eyes locked on it.

“You think so? It was the first big purchase I made after we signed our record deal.” He glanced down at the guitar with pride in his eyes. Emory wondered how many of the songs he’d heard so far had been written on that beauty.

Emory stood to inspect it closer. “Why a chameleon?”

“When I was a kid, my parents took us to the zoo in Baltimore,” he said. “There was this boardwalk with a bunch of species from Africa. They had a chameleon exhibit, or at least that’s what the sign said. There was this short, spindly tree with green leaves on it toward the front, but I didn’t see any reptiles moving around in it. The employee stationed there saw how excited I was. He told me all about chameleons, including that they changed colors based on the temperature, light, and their moods. I thought that was the coolest thing since I had a lot of trouble communicating my wants and needs when I was a kid. If only humans could project their emotions on their skin like that.”

“Maybe that’ll be my next bio invention,” Emory said, wanting to smile, but his facial wrap made it too hard to move.

“If anyone could do it, it would be you,” Gerard said, then looked shyly away. “There were three chameleons living at the zoo, but the employee said only one came out at a time, and they were often very still and quiet so as to blend into their backgrounds. He said if I looked hard I might be able to spot one.” Gerard smiled, seemingly at his younger self. “I’m surprised I didn’t burst a blood vessel, given how long I stood there staring. My brothers got mad. Garret kept saying, ‘It’s probably hiding. Let’s go! We’ll come back later.’ I wouldn’t hear it. So my mom took Garret and Gavin to get ice cream while I stayed behind with my dad. Eventually, one single leaf rustled, and I spotted the chameleon’s bulging, scaly eye staring right back at me. I swear I screamed with excitement. My dad snapped a picture before thanking the employee. When we met up with the rest of my family at a table near a concession stand, my dad showed them the picture, and my brothers were so jealous. They asked if we could go back, but my dad told them no because there was still more zoo to see. But he winked at me, like I’d done something good by staying behind and standing my ground, like he knew I’d be rewarded for my patience. I remained obsessed with chameleons. Sometimes, I’d watch those live cams they set up at zoos to relax after a show.”

Emory melted a bit for the young Gerard in the story. It was so wholesome. So un–We the Wells. Were pop stars allowed to be that cutely nerdy? “I don’t remember reading any of that on your Wikipedia page,” Emory joked, instead of saying what he wanted to, which was That’s so sweet.

Gerard raised a brow. “Somebody’s been back to the library.”

Emory’s stomach dropped an inch. He’d been caught, and there was no use lying now. “I needed more reading material.”

“But you had time to stop and Google me?” Gerard asked, seemingly delighted, pointing the body of his guitar in a flirtatiously accusing way.

Wait—was this banter? Was Emory being flirted with?