Chapter 37
T he energy backstage from the audience is palpable. The countdown to showtime is in progress. It’s almost time for liftoff. Everyone knows it. Roadies are flying around, making frantic last-minute adjustments. I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet, my wallet chain swaying across my thigh. Carson is beside me doing his vocal exercises. A few feet away from us, the brothers are staring into each other’s eyes with their arms clasped, gearing themselves up to be at the high energy level they need to be for the performance. The four of us have been together officially as a band since I turned fifteen. Our preshow rituals haven’t changed, but it’s an absolute rush that people pay money to see us. It’s a relief too. It wasn’t so long ago that we were all working multiple jobs and barely scraping by to afford a cramped one-bedroom apartment.
“To the Delphium.” Car grabs a shot glass from a roadie carrying a tray full of them. “To us.” He holds the tequila up in the air and knocks back his usual pre-performance shot of Don Julio 70.
“To Shooting Star.” Stevie grabs a glass and so does Levi. The younger sibling often follows the older brother’s lead.
“Let’s rock their world tonight.” Carson makes a toast. Levi and Stevie nod, the brothers downing their shots. I don’t partake, but the others do. The shot is medicinal for Levi. He loves to play. No one is as talented on drums as he is, but he gets nervous as shit every single time he goes on the stage. One show, he got so freaked, he quit the band. We went on to play without him, and we sucked, but later, we found him at a nearby gas station. Stevie talked him into staying in the band, and after that, we started doing the preshow shots of tequila.
“To us.” I aim my gaze at Carson and then at the brothers. “Let’s do this.” Leaving my bandmates, I march onto the stage. I hold my black Les Paul with the ebony inlay close to my body. My cutoff Rolling Stones lips T-shirt adds a cool buffer between me and my guitar. The crowd goes absolutely nuts when they see me.
Reaching center stage, I spread my legs apart and stamp the soles of my Dr. Martens into the painted black wood, owning my spot. It took a lot of blood, sweat, and tears to get here, but it’s a hollow victory without Peace. The fans standing in the pit below me go quiet, then their silence spreads like a shockwave throughout the entire place. The spotlight falls on me. For a single moment, I’m a god and don’t feel like a complete piece of shit. With my blood sparking like the radioactive entrails of a comet, I acknowledge the fans with a respectful chin lift and bow my head over my favorite instrument. Plucking the opening chords, I play “Wish On,” our most popular tune, and the rest of the band walks onto the stage, taking their places around me. Stevie saunters to the left with his bass. Levi goes to his kit up on the riser. I slide to the right so Carson can be where he should be…at center.
As Carson sings the lyrics, I allow my mind to wander to the girl who wrote the words in her journal and shared them with me. For a few indulgent moments, I imagine Peace in the audience. If a wish could be granted, she’d be standing in the pit, her pretty eyes locked on me. She’d have her hands clasped to her chest, and her gaze would be shining with pride for me. The fantasy I create in my mind is so real, I can almost feel her. The warmth of her smile. The strength her faith gives me. The blinding brightness of her spirit. She is…was a shooting star that shone too briefly in my life.
Carson belts out the last line of the opening stanza, his voice treading on the musical groundwork I lay for him. Focusing on him and reality, I swallow, moistening my throat and preparing to harmonize with him on the chorus. This reality isn’t so bad. I’m in a band. I have my brothers. But telling myself those things doesn’t change the way I feel. I’m still disappointed Peace will never see me like this.
An additional tractor beam locks on Carson. Cradling the mic in his hands, he eclipses the light and enslaves the audience with the power of his voice. In worshipful repose beside my friend, I coax melancholy from my Les Paul that complements the mood of the song. I’m comfortable in a supportive role until my guitar solo.
I take a step forward, my fingers blurring on the strings. Carson leans backward, doing some hip shimmies behind the center mic pole, using the scarf he tied around it as his dance partner. Several chicks scream. One directly beneath us grabs onto the man beside her and swoons.
We are on fire. Stepping back, I grin at Carson, and he grins back. We’re both feeling it tonight.
When we hit the last note, there’s a moment of stunned silence before the audience roars their thunderous approval. Somewhere in the back of the club, a girl yells, “I love you, Car.”
“I love you too, darlin’,” he says into his mic. Following the direction of the besotted girl’s voice, a flash of mystical green catches my eye. I’m supposed to play the opening chord to the next tune, but I veer off course as my gaze shipwrecks on an otherworldly siren.
“Peace,” I breathe. She’s here. It’s not a wish but a dream come true.
On the floor beneath me, she’s standing a few rows back. But I can clearly see her, and she’s gorgeous. The black-and-white photo of her with her football player didn’t do the full color reality of her justice. She’s easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. My languishing soul comes alive in response to hers.
With my guitar in my hands, I embellish the next line. I need to show her how her being here makes me feel. My hips sway to the melodic eddies of my improvisation, and her side-to-side shuffles synchronize with my sound. Like I once did years ago, I let my music speak for me, knowing despite the hurt and the distance between us that it’s a language we both comprehend.
The world slows as her dress slides along her enticing curves. My hands ache to trace them. Her hair is artfully slicked back, a golden accessory to her stunning face. Her delectable lips are parted, and my mind trips imagining her taste. Peace all grown up isn’t just beautiful. She’s a fantasy. My mouth goes dry with desire.
I point to her and crook my fingers. I want her to come onstage with me. She shakes her head. She remains fluent in the language we both speak, but she refuses to communicate with me any longer. With her eyes bright behind the lenses of her dark-rimmed glasses, she turns away, severing the connection between us.
“No,” I cry out, and my mic picks up the discordant sound. Disappointment squeezes the air from my lungs as Peace fades away, swallowed up by the crowd. Losing her plunges my soul right back into darkness. I miss another note. Carson gives me a concerned side-glance and ad-libs some words to cover for my mistake. Stevie helps out too, plucking an intricate bass line. I follow my brothers out of the dark. Getting my shit together, I bring on the rhythm. Levi does his part too, holding us all together with drums. A fog rolls onto the stage. The audience cheers, thinking all this improvising is part of the show. And the song does sound better with us going off script. Carson hits a primal high note. I screech like a banshee on ecstasy with my guitar. Bass and drums follow us to the finale. Scattered illusions are all that remain as we finish the song.
Shaken, I frantically search the audience for the one who in the past never failed to lift me up and inspire me. I look for Peace, but I don’t find her.