The several hours that followed were incredibly awkward for Robby. Phil and Larry constantly said he could so-easily create a percussion part for anything they would write, but they were wrong. Lack of practice left him very rusty, and even though it was Phil's fault, every time Robby made a mistake, Phil would stop playing altogether and give him a sour look. It got to the point where Robby had to write down his part, which was unusual. He placed the notes he had taken on a stand in front of his drumset and leveled it out to be directly blocking out Phil's entire figure from his view.
"Right," Phil said, after they had rehearsed three of his songs. "Well, now that we've finally gone over the new piece, why don't we go over Robby's thing." He peered over Robby's music stand and picked up the topmost piece of paper from it between his index finger and thumb. A very sarcastic smirk appeared on his face as he scanned Robby's attempt at writing music. "Ah, totally promising."
"Be nice," Tim ordered, throwing a crumpled paper ball at Phil. "You never give anybody a chance anymore."
The paper ball bounced off of Phil's head and rolled away towards Larry, who kicked it towards the trash can by the door.
"I am nice," Phil insisted, patting his hair down. "I'm probably the nicest person you've ever met. I mean, just because I offer you all my honesty doesn't mean I'm mean." He flipped his bangs at Tim and turned back to the song.
"...so, what do you think?" asked Robby, finally speaking.
Phil glanced back at him, still smirking. "It might make it to the cd. But it's not radio-quality."
"Don't be disappointed! I'll be singing it! You can't go wrong with me." Phil nodded and pulled away Rob's music stand, knocking the stack of notes to the ground. "Woops! Could you get those? Thanks." Phil set the piece of paper down in front of himself on the music stand and peered down at the chicken scratch.
Robby gave the back of Phil's head a disgruntled look as he bent down to get all the papers. As he straightened back up he heard Phil start playing his guitar. Phil's guitar-playing wasn't by any means as terrible as his attitude, and neither was his singing. In fact, Robby didn't have anything against Phil's musical talent. The lyrics so smoothly flowed from his mouth, no one would have ever thought that he spent most of the day smoking like a chimney.
"Behind my back, I hear whispers
Between the cracks, secrets stir
I need to know the rumors spreading
Before the truth becomes a blur
There's nothing true about this saying
There's nothing true about this lie
Why is the truth I claim decaying
Why does the truth just make me sigh?
Both you and I know it's unreal
But only I know how I feel"
Rob was speechless; his jaw, hanging. It was absolutely perfect. Phil had executed it just the way he had imagined. Before Phil could turn back to him, he quickly regained his composure and waited to hear his thoughts on the song.
"Eh, it's okay," Phil said, not making eye contact with Robby.
"You wrote that, Robby?" Larry asked. Robby noticed that he was also quite impressed by Phil's performance.
"Yeah," Robby answered. "You like it?"
"I do," Larry said. Then he turned to Phil. "You're outta your mind if you don't think that's 'radio quality'."
Phil rolled his eyes. Rob grinned. It was just too bad Phil had no idea the song was about him.