Chapter 9
Prawns!” Freddie yelled.
Alfie jumped, and his plate fell to the floor. “What?” he asked, sounding spooked as he glanced around in a panic. “What’s going on?”
“We’re here to help,” I assured him. I’d done the same thing as before—shaken off Bryony, rushed to meet Freddie, given him the rundown of what was happening.
We hadn’t taken the time to eat, just hurried right into the greenroom, past the stagehands who were just starting to deal their cards for poker.
But when Freddie paused to take his picture, I didn’t stop him—or remind him to get his phone when he left it the way he always did.
I’d realized that it was important that he leave it behind.
“That stir-fry is not your friend,” I told Alfie as I tossed out the paper plate.
“And the portion you ate at the strip mall is going to give you food poisoning right as your show starts.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Alfie turned to Freddie, then looked back at me. “Are you having a laugh?”
“Nope,” I said.
“Wait, who are you?” Tristram/Doug asked, then paled. “I mean, erm, who d’ye be, lass?” His accent this time—as far as I could tell—was veering into very bad Irish.
“It’s okay, I know you’re from Chicago,” I assured him, and he visibly relaxed. “And I’m Cass. Just trying to help out the band.”
“It’s for the best,” Freddie assured Alfie.
“So you can’t perform tonight,” I said, and all three bandmembers’ heads whipped over to stare at me.
“Sorry, that’s…naur,” Alfie said, shaking his head. “I’m the guitarist, y’see?”
“Yeah,” Freddie said, turning to me. “He’s a pretty important part of the band. What do you mean, he can’t play?”
“He can’t play,” I said, then lowered my voice so only Freddie could hear. “We just tried this. Even if we get him to stop eating now, he still gets sick. He can’t go onstage unless you want him to vomit all over it and wreck your shot.”
“Well, obviously I don’t want that,” Freddie said, his eyes going wide. “How are we supposed to play without a guitarist?”
“You play guitar,” I pointed out, wondering what the problem was.
He shook his head. “I play bass.”
“Isn’t that the same?” All three band member erupted in identical sounds of disbelief. “Well, they’re both guitars,” I said defensively.
“We need a guitar player,” Tristram/Doug insisted. “Or at least someone on keys. But you can’t have a band with just bass and drums.”
“I mean—Death from Above 1979 does,” Alfie pointed out. “And…Megachurch?”
Freddie shook his head. “I don’t think you’re helping your argument here.”
“Can’t you do it?” I asked Tristram/Doug.
“I play drums,” he said, and held up his sticks, like I might need a visual aid. “We need drums, too.”
“And Niall doesn’t play anything?” Not that I wanted to have to rely on Niall, but this was an emergency.
“Just mind games,” Alfie said grimly.
“Wait,” Freddie said, looking surprised. “That’s not on. He means well, Niall, it’s just…”
I shook my head. “He really doesn’t.”
Alfie pointed at me. “See, Cass gets it!” Then he frowned. “Wait—how exactly do you get it?”
I glanced at Freddie—I was suddenly very aware of the other two band members watching us, leaning forward to hear every word. “Can we talk somewhere?” I asked, lowering my voice.
“What did you mean, Cass?” Freddie asked when we’d stepped into the hallway for some privacy. “About Niall?” His brow was furrowed as he looked down at me.
I took a deep breath before answering. It wasn’t that I was a 100 percent sure about this—but it was the only explanation that made sense, given everything that I’d seen. “It’s your allergic reaction.”
Freddie grimaced. “Right. When I get hives because of something I eat.”
“Not eat. Something you drink. Niall gives you a bottle of water right before you go onstage. And I think he puts something in it—something to make you sick.”
“What?” Freddie blinked at me, then gave a stunned half laugh. “No. He couldn’t have.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.” I glanced down the hallway toward the stagehands, but they all seemed much too immersed in their game to pay any attention to us. “He puts—I don’t know, cucumber or fruit or something in it. He knows about your allergy, right?”
“Well, yeah. But…”
“And you said the reaction happens pretty soon after you eat or drink something. Right?”
Freddie nodded, a little reluctantly. “Yes.”
“The last two times, I told you about your allergic reaction, and you promised not to eat anything. But right before it happens, you take a drink of your water bottle. The water bottle Niall gives to you.”
“Why would he do that? It makes no sense—”
“It’s your phone.” Freddie frowned and started patting his pockets, and I pointed to where he’d left it on the instrument case. “You leave it there, and he picks it up and sees the text from the manager confirming she’s coming.”
“But I still don’t think that he’d…”
“He got really upset, back when you just tell him,” I said. “You try and bring him Irn-Bru to make up for it.”
“Well, that’s understandable….”
“You told me yourself that he always wants to be the star. What if he didn’t like the idea that you were going to get your big break—and not him? And maybe he decided he wasn’t going to let that happen?”
“No!” Freddie said, and I could hear the frustration in his voice. “Niall wouldn’t do that.”
“But he does! And I’ve seen it. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
Freddie stared down at the ground, his brows knitted together.
I felt my heart squeeze as I looked at him—I could only imagine how I would feel if someone told me Bryony was going to betray me.
But then a second later, it hit me—was this how Bryony felt when she found out I hadn’t applied to the Mermaid Café and was planning on leaving? Like I’d betrayed her?
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I’ve just seen you guys crash and burn four times now. And I know this is important to you. I’m trying to help.”
Freddie looked up at me, and I could see the hurt in his eyes. “Right,” he said, shaking his head. “I know you are. It’s just…hard to hear.”
“Yeah,” I said, crossing my arms, then putting my hands in my pockets. We were in uncharted territory here, and I wasn’t sure what came next.
“Well,” Freddie finally said, breaking the silence. “I should probably get ready for the show.” The lightness, the buoyancy that he always seemed to have was gone, replaced with a weariness I hadn’t seen before.
“Oh,” I said, taken aback but trying not to show it.
A second later, it hit me that of course things would be different this time.
He wasn’t going to smile at me and tuck my hair behind my ear and tell me that he hoped we could hang out after.
I’d just told him his best friend was about to betray him. “Right, of course.”
“Okay,” he said, giving me a sad smile as he turned back to the greenroom.
“Good luck,” I called after him, and Freddie gave me a half wave before heading inside, leaving me alone in the hall.
I didn’t want to see Bryony, or Bruce, or any of the Emmas.
I didn’t want to see anyone I knew—I just wanted a place to watch the show.
I needed to see if I was right, of course, but mostly, I wanted just once to see the band’s set go off without a problem.
It didn’t seem right that this was Freddie’s big chance, and not only did it go badly, but I was forced to watch it, over and over again.
I found a spot outside the bulk of the crowd, by the water. I pulled my jean jacket on for warmth, and then looked around, hoping that nobody would notice me. I had a feeling I would be okay—most everyone was turned the opposite way, facing the stage, but even so, I needed to be vigilant.
The speakers crackled and, as always, the announcer’s voice sounded. “Disney Grad Nite seniors and chaperones! Please welcome—all the way from jolly olde England—Eton Mess!”
I watched, heart in my throat, as the band members took the stage, all of them looking disconcerted, like there had just been an argument before they’d walked out.
This was not the smiling, confident group I was used to seeing take the stage.
I glanced over at the music manager—I had a perfect view of her from where I was sitting.
She pocketed her phone and focused on the stage, and I crossed my fingers on both hands.
I let out a sigh of relief when I saw that Alfie wasn’t with the band.
There was a spotlight on his microphone, but no Alfie appeared.
Freddie had the bottle of water with him, but he put it down by his feet as he pulled his guitar over his head, and I was relieved to see that it didn’t look like he’d opened it.
“Uh, hello, seniors! Congratulations!” Niall called. He kept glancing over at Freddie and at the bottle at his feet, his expression disgruntled. He definitely seemed more scattered this time, less smoothly composed. “Are you having fun tonight?”
The crowd yelled enthusiastically, but I just sat still, my eyes fixed on Freddie, willing this to turn out well.
“We’re down a guitar player,” Freddie said, speaking into the mic. And even though I knew it wasn’t possible, it felt like he looked right at me as he said it, like his eyes had found mine in the crowd. “So I hope we’ll still be able to put on a good show for you.”
“’Course we will,” Niall snapped, losing his posh accent for just a moment. Then he pushed back his hair and smiled at the crowd. “Here we go!”
Tristram/Doug counted out one, two, three on his sticks, and then the band started to play.
And it…wasn’t good.
It was fine—certainly better than the versions of this show where people got sick onstage and erupted into hives. But there was obviously something missing. Clearly, I had been wrong, and it really did matter when you were down an instrument.