16. Band Meeting
16
BAND MEETING
MAL
“Mama,” I said, “you won’t need the overnight bag.” We were standing in the walled courtyard in front of the gatehouse, the sun just coming up. “I told you, we’re doing an out-and-back in one day.”
She shook her head firmly as she locked the front door. “No one from New York goes to California without at least a nightgown.”
“Travel in a private jet,” I said, opening the door to my van for her. “It goes when we say, comes back when we say. No schedule. We do the Milt McAllister Show and get back on the plane. I’ll have you home by one in the morning, two at the latest.”
She stood next to the black Lexus. “Let’s take my car.”
My turn to shake my head firmly. “I’m not riding in his car.”
Mama put one hand on her hip. “Don’t be so stubborn. It’s part of my salary. It’s my car.”
“Is your name on the title? It’s not, is it?” I took the tote bag off her shoulder and put it in my van. I thought I’d done a pretty good job of masking the fury in my soul at the thought of riding in a Furneau car like one of his serfs, but my mother knew me pretty well. She probably knew I was pissed.
She sighed and got in the passenger seat. “You’re going to pick up Miss Prentice in this ugly thing?”
I pulled out of the courtyard and started across the causeway to the mainland. “She’s ridden in it before. And don’t call her Miss Prentice. You’re not a servant today.”
“Habit. Calm down.”
“And she’s not a guest this time. She’s my date. She’s my . . .” I worked up the courage to say it out loud. “She’s my girlfriend.”
Mama played it cool, offering me only a neutral nod. I glanced over as I navigated the curvy roads up the wooded hills, and she was definitely masking a satisfied smile. I rolled my eyes.
Prentice was sitting on the outside steps up to her apartment. The sight of her lightened my mood immediately.
She was fast. I couldn’t even get out to open the door for her before she was pulling the sliding door open and piling into the back seat.
“Great idea to take the van,” she said, bubbling over with happiness. “Perfect vehicle to leave in an airport parking lot. Hi, Gerta! Isn’t this exciting?”
“Hello, Miss—I mean, hello, Prentice. It is exciting. Even if we never do have the time to make it in to see the boys in the recording studio, I think this is better. I can’t believe we’re going to the Milt McAllister Show . I watch him every night!”
“Me too! And to see Aftermath play? God, this is such a thrill!” She leaned forward and the warmth of her arm wrapped around my neck. She kissed my cheek. “Thanks for bringing me!”
“My pleasure.” I probably looked like an idiot trying to mask a little satisfied smile of my own. I couldn’t remember—why had I been grumpy before?
Prentice sat back again and slapped something. Probably her own jeans-clad legs. “Going to California to watch my . . .”
Her voice faded away just when it was getting interesting. But my mother wasn’t as subtle as I was.
“You can say it. He just did. He called you his girlfriend.”
Panic fizzed along my scalp, down my spine, and beat a tattoo against my calves. Shut up, Mama.
But a quick glance in the rearview found Prentice biting her lips to hold in a smile. “Did he?” she mused. She caught my eye. “Did you?”
“I—I did.”
“Okay, then.” Her smile bloomed, and my panic faded. She was okay with it, with me claiming her as my own. “Then I’m going to California to watch my boyfriend play on national TV. That’s a pretty good day, I have to say.”
She didn’t mind me claiming her—in fact, she’d claimed me in turn. Well, all right.
I focused on getting us on the highway, moving carefully and with precision. I didn’t grip the wheel too tightly. Surely no one knew I was bottling up a gushing geyser of relief and pleasure.
A big step taken.
My mother watched the scenery passing out her window, and I felt the weight of Prentice’s hand on my shoulder, on the side away from Mama.
I held her hand briefly, crossing my arm over my chest for the bliss of her touch. I caught her eye in the rearview, and she was smiling.
Damn it, so was I. Embarrassing. Why had I brought my mommy to this moment?
We followed the signs for the private terminal and left the van in a fenced lot.
“How wonderful that there’s a guard on duty,” my mother said archly as she shouldered her tote bag for the walk to the terminal. “It would be so unfortunate if someone stole this magnificent conveyance.”
“See if I invite you to any more tapings,” I said. I snagged the bag off her shoulder and offered her my arm. My other hand reached out and Prentice was there, reaching for me.
I had a moment of raw, pure happiness. No matter what else happened, I would always have this moment, walking across the boredom of a parking lot, planes roaring by overhead, with the two women who mattered most to me.
That moment of quiet satori evaporated under the rush of Archer when we got to our gate.
“Prentice, Gerta, hi!” Archer grabbed me and dragged me back into the hallway, his drive-by greeting raising eyebrows, but he didn’t care. “Brother Malachi, I think this is the day!”
I looked back over my shoulder to make sure Prentice and my mom were okay. They were in the waiting area on the other side of the glass wall, loving on Charlotte, who was wagging with all the enthusiasm a massive canine could muster. “What day is this, Archer?”
“Well, look in there!” Archer gestured eagerly through the plate glass in front of us. “Who do you see?”
Did he want a roll call? “Um, there’s Phil, Ian, and Nicky, and?—”
Archer was almost quivering with energy. “Not them! Look who Ian’s brought with him!” I shook my head at him, and he took a breath and slowed down. “Look. Magda and Big Pat. Right there .”
“Ian’s parents. Of course they want to see their son play on Milt McAllister .”
“And Nicky’s parents! That’s Mr. and Mrs. Swanson. And Finn, Ian’s favorite brother! Ian is the reason you and I can’t bring everyone we know. He’s filled up all the seats on the jet!”
Unlike Archer, I didn’t come from a big family. Everyone I cared about was already in the waiting area. “Yeah?”
“I think he’s going to do it!” Archer looked at me expectantly, and when I failed to make the connection he wanted, he turned his back on the room to do a little pantomime involving running his fingers over the base of a finger on the other hand.
Boom—I got it. I grabbed Archer’s arm. “He’s going to propose to Nicky!”
“Shh! Don’t blow it! But why else bring her parents, right? I mean, holy shit!”
Now my energy was as useless and overwhelming as Archer’s. “Shit! Oh my god! What’s she going to say?”
Archer dismissed my question but immediately turned back to examine the waiting room like a particularly fascinating exhibit at the aquarium. “She’ll say yes, won’t she? I mean, it’s Ian . She loves him. Fuck, I wish he’d just do it. The suspense is killing me!”
“I don’t know, Arch. Look at him. This might not be the day. He’s totally calm.”
“That’s because he’s Ian. I mean, obviously, but?—”
Charlotte discovered she was on the wrong side of a large window from her beloved, so she barked at Archer until she drew attention to our hallway huddle. Phil headed for the door.
“Not a word,” Archer whispered. “We don’t know a thing about this.”
“Like you have to tell me!”
Phil stuck his head out the door. “You guys coming? The pilot is ready if we’re all here.”
“Fingers crossed,” I whispered to Archer as we joined the others.
I greeted Ian’s family and Nicky’s parents and introduced my mother to Phil. Then I had a confusing eyebrow conversation with Prentice, who was smiling and gesturing from my mother to Phil. What?
It wasn’t until we were following some guy across the tarmac to the plane that she was able to whisper to me. “Your agent thinks your mother is worth getting to know. He’s been eyeing her like she’s candy and he’s starving. I think we’ve got a love connection here.”
“What? No. Cut it out, he is not . . .” My voice trailed off as I watched Phil escort my mother up the short staircase to the private jet. The idea was startling, and I tried to see her as a stranger would, not as my mother.
Trim figure. Good head of hair. Capable, strong, nice smile. How old was she now? I did the mental math. If I was twenty-eight, then Mama was forty-seven. Too old to be admired?
Well, no. She wasn’t too old at all.
But . . . Phil?
Did I want my agent to be eyeing my mother? Fuck no.
Would it help to break her out of my repulsive father’s influence? Fuck yes.
Ian and I both had to duck in the plane, but that was the only inconvenience. Three rows of wide leather seats sat at the front of the cabin, in front of a small boardroom-style table and a series of sofas, everything in cream and tan and the occasional flash of dark red.
“Wow,” Nicky said. “This plane is gorgeous, Phil! Your agency owns it?”
Phil laughed as he seated my mother next to a window. “We rent it when we have a big act we want to get across the country—an act as big as Aftermath! Let’s all take our seats. After we take off, I want to have a band-only meeting back there, but for now, buckle up!”
He sat next to my mother, which I regarded with suspicion, but Prentice pushed me into the pair of seats across the aisle. “How about that,” she whispered as we got settled.
“I’m not sure I like it.”
“Why? Is she seeing someone?”
I looked away to hide the fact that my nose was curling up in disgust. “No. She’s not seeing anyone.”
“So . . . this could be good for her.”
“He lives in LA. At least, I think he does.”
She put a hand on my arm to calm me. “I think your mother can handle herself. Oh, thank you. Coffee, please.”
The flight attendant also had champagne for the journey, but it was seven in the morning. I took coffee too.
Once we were airborne, Phil stood. “Can I have the band at the table, please? What? Yes, Nicky, you come too. You’re the marketing manager, aren’t you? Here we go. Oof, Charlotte, down. Sit down—all right, sprawl down. We could put a saddle on that dog and ride her around. Okay, have a seat.”
I faced forward in time to see Prentice shift seats to sit by my mother. Good. Let them talk to each other. No overinterested men anywhere around.
Archer nudged me, and we both looked at Ian, who was as calm as always. Come on, man. Give us a clue.
“We’ve got a lot to discuss,” Phil said, “but first, how do you all like the plane?”
Nicky spoke for all of us. “It’s a lot more comfortable that Archer’s truck!”
Phil enjoyed that comment. He looked like some kind of music-industry Santa Claus, handing out gifts to good little girls and boys.
“Well, get used to it,” he said, “because . . .” He paused, making sure we were all paying attention. We were. “Tomorrow, ‘Street Dancing’ by Aftermath is going to be number one on the Billboard charts.”
I had a moment of paralysis, and then I was shrieking.
I wasn’t alone. Archer and Ian were yelling, too, all three of us thumping each other on the back and howling. Charlotte was on her feet, confused and eager, and the flight attendant stuck his head out from the galley in concern.
Phil repeated his news loud enough for everyone to hear, and then we all gave up being cautious, and everyone had some champagne. I kept laughing with astonishment.
We’d been a band for fourteen years. Played thousands of gigs. Written dozens, maybe hundreds of songs between us.
And then all of a sudden . . . number one.
Holy shit!
I kissed my mother’s cheek and Prentice’s laughing lips, and then we let Phil bring us back to the table, where he worked to calm us down.
“You keep this up, boys, and you’ll be flying to your next gigs. No more driving all day in the truck so Charlotte can get there too. She’s about to become a frequent flyer. No, lie down. Damn it, she’s drooling on my pants! Archer!” Grinning, Archer called Charlotte to her and got her to lie down again. Phil wiped at his pants leg with the napkin the steward rushed to provide. The bottle of champagne reappeared, too, but Phil put his foot down. “Families can have what they want, but band, I’m telling you, no more champagne until after the show,” he said sternly. “You can get shit-faced on the ride home for all I care, but I want you guys sober and ready when you play ‘Street Dancing’ this evening. Everyone know the schedule?”
Land in Los Angeles at one. To the studio by two. Taping at five. Back to the airport by seven. Home by one in the morning.
“I’m not going to get a lot of time with O’Connor,” Archer complained, but Phil was unimpressed.
“But the time you will have will be at the Milt McAllister Show , so I’m guessing she won’t mind. Now, let’s plan for success. Boys, I think it’s time you hired Nicky here full-time. You need to capitalize on this momentum.”
Nicky looked up, startled. “Um, I have a job.”
“I know,” Phil said. “You run your parents’ dry-cleaning company, and the Aftermath marketing is your side hustle. You’re very good at it. But I don’t think this can be a part-time job any longer. After all . . .” He sat back with that Santa look again. Oh, what now?
“Yeah?” Archer asked. “After all what?”
“After all,” Phil said casually, “four major record labels are now vying to sign you.”
No eardrum-shattering whoops this time, but Phil definitely had our attention.
“What does that mean?” I asked. “I mean, I know what it means, but . . .” I gestured to try to express the vastness of my confusion.
“It means that this is a new day, and you boys are hot. You and your so-called dog. In the past, the record labels would have handled everything. We wouldn’t have needed Nicky to handle marketing because they’d do it. And take all the profits.”
“We make a lot from the merch,” Ian said.
“I know. And that’s why I’m going to see to it that your next contract will include the fact that you all will retain your merchandising rights. And that’s why I think you need to hire Nicky full-time.”
All gazes swiveled to Nicky. Her eyes darted to the seats, where her parents were now using headsets to watch a movie. “Well, I?—”
Ian picked up their linked hands and kissed hers. “We’ll talk about it,” he said to Phil. Then he looked to me and Archer. “We’ll all talk about it. Later.”
Archer’s eyebrows went up. I guess mine did too. Was this Ian telling us he had a different proposal to offer first? “Yeah,” Archer said. “Later. We’ll talk about it later.”
“Don’t take too long,” Phil said. “These contracts are offering impressive budgets for marketing and publicity. And Archer, I think you were wondering about the video production budget?”
Archer’s attention shifted from Ian and Nicky to Phil. “Videos? Like, how much?”
“Like, enough to hire some very exciting directors. For example . . .” Phil walked us through the more glamorous aspects of the offers he was fielding from the record companies, and Nicky had some thoughts on backing up Phil’s work with the advice of an entertainment lawyer. “Yes, you’ll want lawyers, and you’ll each need to find a financial planner who will act in a fiduciary relationship because you three are about to see quite a lot of money rolling in. Want two rather tasty examples?”
Wide-eyed, we nodded.
“I’ve had a call from Hello Sunshine—that’s Reese Witherspoon’s production company. They want to buy sync rights to ‘Charlotte’s Lullaby,’ if you guys are interested.”
“What’s that mean?” Ian had written the lullaby, which had been inspired by Nicky, not the dog, but that didn’t matter. It was still his baby.
“It means that it’s still your property and you still get to perform it whenever you please, but they have the right to put it on the soundtrack to a movie.”
“Do we get to approve the script?” Archer asked, but Nicky whacked his arm with the familiarity of family.
“You don’t need it. Reese Witherspoon only makes movies about strong women. It’ll be a great movie. Say yes! Say yes!”
I was feeling overwhelmed. Things were moving fast. But Phil wasn’t done yet.
“The second example,” he said breezily, “is that you’ve been invited to perform on Saturday Night Live .”
He grinned at the astonishment he saw around him.
“Um,” Ian said.
“Shit,” I whispered.
“Fuck me!” Archer screamed. “Of course we have! Phil, you are a master!”
I was drumming my feet on the floor, and Ian and Nicky were locked in an excited embrace. We had to explain to our assembled families why we were screaming . . . again.
Phil was puffed up with pride. “The timing couldn’t be better. Laser is very pleased with how your time is going in the studio. He tells me your new album is going to be huge. He says he’ll have it ready for release by May fifteenth, and SNL wants you on the seventeenth. They want ‘Street Dancing,’ of course, but start thinking about the second song you want to perform. No, don’t discuss it now. I’ve got more to cover here.”
“There’s more?” Archer squeaked.
“There’s more.” Phil’s voice dropped. “Lean in here. Okay, you’ve had lots of reasons to cheer in this meeting, and you deserve every one. But every silver lining has a cloud around it, and you guys are no exceptions. Stay calm, but this is the downside.” He inhaled and checked to make sure we were all paying attention.
Well, duh. With a lead-in like that? How could we not?
“I’m working with the FBI. No, keep your voice down. Nobody’s parents want to hear this, so zip it until we know more. You’ve gotten a few death threats. None of them have raised serious red flags, so don’t panic, but you need to think about hiring some private security.”
Overwhelmed. I was definitely overwhelmed.
“Death threats?” Archer whispered. “Who would want to kill us?”
Phil wagged his head. “The world is full of nuts. None of them are credible, but it’s smart to take this seriously. I’ve got a guy I want you all to talk to about taking some very basic security precautions.”
Ian had his arm around Nicky. I looked up at Prentice and my mother. Security? I needed security?
“And Archer, let’s talk about a dog trainer. My threat assessment expert thinks Charlotte could be very useful in upgrading the appearance of your security.”
“We have a trainer,” Archer said. His voice had lost some of its strength.
“I know. She’s like a different dog. Very well-behaved. You’re doing very well with her. But let’s teach her how to better protect you.”
“Me? Me in particular?”
“Well, don’t read too much into this, but the threats do seem to target you. You’re the front man. It’s not really much of a surprise, is it?”
“Jesus God Almighty.”
“Plus, I think the recent truck concert at the high school ought to be your last impromptu gig, don’t you?”
Archer, Ian, and I exchanged a look. With that one glance, we reconnected as if we were onstage.
“No,” Archer said. “We liked the truck concert.”
“Arch had the hood and roof reinforced just for the gig,” I said.
“Reaching people who can’t afford tickets,” Ian said. “That’s a good thing.”
“Yes,” Phil said. “Very admirable. But those ticket sales are important.”
Ian shook his head at Phil, who backed down.
“All right. But I must insist on increased security then.”
“We’ll talk about it,” Archer said, echoing Ian’s line. “Shit. We have got a lot to talk about!”