Chapter 11 Rehearsal
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Rehearsal
Tristan stood in front of the microphone stand, staring at the fine mesh above the ball and wondering how he would sing all the songs without confronting his demons. Indeed, he had successfully banished them from his mind. All the lyrics and melodies. All the memories.
Four beats on the bass drum brought him back to the rehearsal room. José started drumming, filling the space with a hard rhythm. Meanwhile, Andrej untangled a few cables at the mixing desk. Leaf sat with his head bowed on the couch, changing the strings on his Gibson.
In the guitar stand next to the amplifier rested Tristan’s white Schecter Tempest. He didn’t play the guitar for every song, and as far as he could recall, it had been less than two months since he last restrung it. It had also been that long since he had played it.
My fingers are going to bleed.
Andrej yanked the microphone out of the holder and inserted a cable before placing it back into the stand. “By the way, I found an old phone that you can have,” he said, walking to his bag on the couch next to Leaf.
Tristan’s gaze lingered on Leaf, who was carefully tightening the last string.
He then plugged the cable into the tuner, set it on his knee, and tuned the guitar.
A smoldering cigarette lay in the ashtray on the table in front of him, from which he absentmindedly took a drag before returning his attention to his instrument.
The sight was soothing. Knowing that Leaf was there made everything better. Always. But the fact that he had obviously suffered a setback and Tristan was partly to blame felt like a knife in the back.
“Here,” Andrej said, holding up a phone and placing it on the table amid the paper cup, beer cans, and overflowing ashtray.
“Thanks.”
“I think there’s still some credit left on it,” Andrej said. “I also saved all the important numbers for you.”
Tristan just nodded, and his gaze wandered off into the air. All the important numbers. Hm … Suddenly, grief welled up inside him, choking him.
Except Milo’s …
“Let’s get started!” Andrej said eagerly and put on the bass.
Tristan gripped the microphone stand with both hands, his heart racing faster than ever. His mouth was dry, and his breaths came in shallow gasps, too shallow for him to sing.
Should he have warmed up? He tried to take deep breaths, to fill his stomach and chest with air, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.
Meanwhile, Leaf plugged in the guitar, and José struck the sticks together.
Tristan’s throat was too dry, and he desperately needed a sip of water, so he headed straight for the fridge.
Shit, yesterday definitely involved too much whiskey.
After grabbing a water bottle and gulping it down, he returned to his place behind the microphone.
“Okay, ready,” he said. It felt like getting into the ring. Although his throat was moist again, the thought of singing now made him feel sick. Something heavy lay in his stomach, and he was sure it wasn’t yesterday’s alcohol. Tristan swallowed down the nausea and cleared his throat.
José counted again, and they started with full force.
José and Andrej set the rhythm, and Leaf played his arpeggios.
When the intro reached its peak and the music rolled back like a wave, Tristan pulled himself up on the microphone again.
One last time, he considered whether he should stop, but then he took a breath, put all his strength into his voice, and began to sing.
He strung words together. His words were not only in his heart but also burned into his brain. He retrieved them from the hard drive as if they were meaningless.
But that was good. It was a start. He could return step by step. Carefully.
He slowly got used to the fact that he was doing what people expected of him to do. Warm up to the fact that it was also what he wanted. He still had five days and didn’t need to go from zero to a hundred right away.
“Be patient with yourself,” Dr. Snider had said.
Right now, he had no other choice if he didn’t want to break under his own words. He wasn’t alone in this; drums, bass, and guitar held everything together, creating melodies that led to new ones. The pitch changed and rose a third higher.
His hard, rough voice softened into something different—a new self emerged.
Sometimes he felt like a stranger to himself, and the fear of exploring this side was often overwhelming.
This self brought him both joy and pain, demanding that he remain the person singing right now, only to disappear into the mist as soon as the song ended.
Shutting his eyes, he tried to capture the aftereffects of the song. He loved it, despite how much it tormented his soul. As the instruments faded out, he reached for his water bottle and washed away the pain with a big gulp.
“Yeah! That was good!” José exclaimed. “We definitely still got it.”
Andrej high-fived him. Leaf drank his beer and lit a cigarette.
Relieved, Tristan took the microphone out of the stand and waited for the next song.
José drummed, Andrej laid down a fat bass line, and Leaf played long distorted tones.
Cautiously, Tristan let the music in. Alert. Refusing to get lost in it.
“Tris,” Andrej said, as the song ended. “What are you doing?”
“What?” he asked, feeling uncertain.
“Your hand. You’ve never done that before.”
“What?”
“You’ve been covering your face the whole time. Sorry, but if anyone wants to be seen, it’s you. Take your hand down.”
Tristan placed the microphone back in the stand. He really didn’t have the nerve for such a discussion right now.
“Let it go,” José intervened.
For a moment, nothing happened. Everyone seemed to be waiting, but Tristan didn’t know what for. Andrej prompted him and gestured behind him.
“Your guitar.”
“What? No. Not now.”
“Yes.”
Confused, he retrieved his instrument, then spotted a song list hanging on the amplifier.
“Is that …?”
“The setlist, yes.”
“No. That’s not right.”
“Since when? We wrote it together.”
Yes, Andrej and he together. Back then, Tristan had been convinced he had found the right order.
But now everything was different. It felt wrong, because everything had changed.
An error had slipped in. Here, song titles were listed under each other, which essentially had no meaning, were no more than names, but still held the whole world together and served as a hiding place for the true content.
Tristan looked at Leaf, who stood by his amplifier, smoking and watching him attentively. Concern flashed in his eyes, along with the high from earlier when he disappeared to the restroom. Although Leaf and he had written almost all the songs together, he had always stayed out of these discussions.
“It’s wrong,” Tristan said as he slung the guitar over his shoulder.
“What? We’ve been discussing this all afternoon,” Andrej protested. “That’s the right order. There’s basically no other.”
When they both turned to José, he held up the sticks crossed like a crucifix and shook his head. “No. That’s always been your thing. I don’t interfere with that.”
Tristan adjusted the guitar strap on his shoulder, his gaze drifting to the setlist a few times. It completely captivated him and made everything around him disappear into a dense fog.
Like the goddamn Theses nailed to the door. Attached to the amp as if it were law.
“We need a new one.”
“Uh … Tris? Are you still with us?” Andrej sounded concerned.
Only then did Tristan notice his shortness of breath and a tingling sensation all over his body. But the list held him like a prisoner.
“Tris,” José spoke up. “Can we … I mean … Let’s just play through everything for now. Feel free to change the list if you want.”
Those words seeped through to him and brought him out of his stupor.
He knew he sometimes lost track. His foster parents had him tested for autism because of it, but apparently, he was perfectly normal—whatever that meant.
He didn’t even know what sometimes went through his head when he moved outside of time and focused his concentration on just one thing.
The band knew how to deal with it by now, and José brought him back to the present with his suggestion.
“Okay,” Tristan replied, dismissing his brief lapse as if it were nothing. He slung the guitar onto his back and took a sip of water. “We just need a new one,” he said, placing the bottle back next to the microphone stand. “So, now … ‘Yesterday’?” Tristan struck the first chord.
“The list is fine as it is,” Andrej grumbled.
“Please,” José pleaded, shaking his head.
Tristan still hadn’t fully returned, so it was easy for him to ignore everything around him. But he knew Andrej wouldn’t just give up the setlist like that.