Huge photographs hung from the walls, artsy pictures of garbage-strewn alleys, gushing black water, and rats.

Yes: rats. And that wasn’t the weirdest thing about Astor Michaels.

Our new rep licked his lips a lot, and when he smiled, his teeth never showed. He kept his sunglasses on until we got down into the darkness, and once he took them off, I wished he’d put them back on again. His eyes were way too wide and spent a lot of time lingering on the three girls, especially Minerva.

It was creepy, but I guess when you’re a record company rep, you get to ogle all the girls you want. And anyway, it didn’t matter whether I liked the guy or not. We were signed.

Well, almost. Pearl said her lawyer was still going over the contract. That’s right—she said “my lawyer,” the way she’d say “my gardener” or “my driver” or “my house in Connecticut.” Like a lawyer was something you kept in a drawer along with the double-A batteries and spare apartment keys.

“In a few minutes, we’ll all go upstairs,” Astor Michaels said. “Marketing is dying to meet you. They love the music, of course, but they want to make sure you really have it.”

What’s “it”? I almost asked. But I figured that if you did have it, you probably didn’t need to ask what it was, which meant I didn’t, so I should just shut up.

“Should we have dressed up for this?” Pearl asked, which didn’t make any sense because she looked fexcellent in her tight black dress, a thin choker of diamonds around her neck. The only bad thing was that her glasses were missing, which made her look less smart and in charge.

Still, she looked amazing.

Astor Michaels waved a hand. “Just be yourselves.”

What if myself happens to be a big sweaty ball of nerves today? I wanted to ask, but that also didn’t sound like a very “it” thing to say.

We went upstairs, where a bunch of people with six-hundred-dollar haircuts sat around a conference table shaped like a long, curvy swimming pool. Pearl took charge, of course. She talked about our “influences,” naming a bunch of bands I’d never heard of except for seeing their CDs on Pearl’s bed.

Minerva sat at the head of the table, shimmering, sucking up all the compliments that came her way. She obviously had it—even I could see that now, reflected in the marketing people’s gazes. Ever since Minerva and Moz had secretly hooked up, her junkie vibe was slowly changing into something else—whether less creepy or more, I couldn’t tell.

But the haircuts ate it up.

Moz also seemed to make an impression on them, like he had it too. As if Minerva had given it to him. He was much more intense these days, his eyes radiating confidence and a new kind of hungriness that I couldn’t understand.

That was the weird thing: as Minerva got less junkie-like, she seemed to push Moz in the opposite direction, so we were really only breaking even.

Me and Alana Ray stayed quiet, like a rhythm section should. I was a bass player now, after all, and we don’t say too much.

After a while we headed back down to the safe, leaving the haircuts upstairs to talk about us. Astor Michaels said we’d done a good job, then gave us some fexcellent news.

“We want you to play a showcase. Four Red Rat bands in a little club we’re renting.” He licked his lips. “In two weeks… I hope that’s not too soon.”

“Soon is good,” Pearl said, which was probably the smart thing to say, but a wave of panic was rolling through me. Two more Sunday rehearsals with my new instrument didn’t seem like enough. I practiced hours every day, of course, but that was nothing like playing with the whole band. Those big bass strings still felt clumsy under my fingers, like playing with gloves on.

“There’s one issue, though,” Astor Michaels was saying. “We’re printing the posters tomorrow. Taking out ads as well.”

“Oh, crap.” Pearl cleared her throat. “And we don’t have a name yet.”

“We’ve been meaning to come up with one,” I blurted. “But there hasn’t been time.”

“Can’t agree on anything,” Moz growled.

Pearl shifted uncomfortably next to me on Astor Michaels’s big leather couch. “Can’t we just be ‘Special Guests’ or something?”

He shook his head, lips parting, a little glimpse of teeth slipping into view. “Posters and ads cost money, Pearl. That money’s wasted if your name is missing.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” She looked around at us.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Astor Michaels said. “I’ll leave you five to discuss this while I go and have lunch. When I come back in an hour, you give me a name you all agree on. Not a list, not suggestions or ideas: one name. Either it’ll be perfect or it won’t be.”

Pearl swallowed. “So what if it’s not?”

He shrugged. “Then the deal’s off.”

“What?” Pearl said, eyes widening. “No showcase?”

“No nothing.” Astor Michaels stood and headed out. “If you five can’t agree on a name, then how are you supposed to tour together? How are you supposed to make records? How can Red Rat commit to you for five years if you can’t commit to one simple name?” He stood in the doorway, slipping sunglasses over his laughing, too-wide eyes. “So unless you agree on something perfect, the whole deal’s off.”

“But… not really,” Pearl said. “Really?”

“Really. You have an hour.” Astor Michaels looked at his watch. “How’s that for motivation?”

We sat there in silence for a moment, the blown-up photos of rats staring down at us. The room was full of guilt, like we’d all committed some terrible crime together.

“Was that meant ironically?” Alana Ray asked.

“Um… I don’t think so,” Pearl said.

“Crap,” Moz said. “What are we going to do?”

Pearl turned to me and Moz, suddenly angry. “I knew we should have figured this out when it was just us three, in that first rehearsal. Now it’s all complicated!”

“Hey, man,” I said, holding up my hands. “That’s the day I said we should call ourselves the B-Sections. Why don’t we go with that?”

Moz and Pearl just stared at me.

“What?” I said. “Don’t you remember? B-Sections?”

Pearl glanced at Moz, then turned to me. “Yeah, I remember. But I didn’t want to be the one to explain that band names based on musical terms—the F-Sharps, the Overtones, the Tapeloops—are in fact the lamest. Thing. Ever.”

Moz shrugged. “I just thought you were kidding, Zahler. I mean, for one thing, being plural is stupid.”

I frowned. “Being what?”

“Plural. With an s at the end. Makes us sound like some fifties band, like the Rockettes or something.”

Minerva let out a giggle. “The Rockettes are dancers, Moz. They have long, tasty legs.”

Okay, maybe she wasn’t totally normal yet.

“Whatever,” Moz said. “I don’t want to be a plural band. Because if we’re the B-Sections, then what’s one of us? A B-Section? ‘Hello, I am a B-Section. Together, me and my friends are many B-Sections.’”

Minerva giggled again, and I said, “You know, Moz, anything sounds retarded if you say it a bunch of times in a row. So what’s your great idea?”

“I don’t know. A ‘The’ in front is cool, as long as the next word isn’t plural.” He kicked Astor Michaels’s desk in front of him. “Like, the Desk.”

“The Desk?” I groaned. “Now that’s just a genius band name, Moz. That’s much better than the B-Sections. Let’s go upstairs and tell them we want to be the Desk.”

Moz rolled his eyes. “It was just an example, Zahler.”

I sank back into the big leather couch. I could see how this was going to go. It was that old classic, the Moz Veto. Like whenever we’re trying to figure out what movie to see, Moz never suggests anything, so I have to keep coming up with suggestions while he goes, “No,” “Not interested,” “That sucks,” “Seen it,” “Subtitles are lame…”

Pearl leaned forward. “Okay, guys, we don’t have to panic about this.”