Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
I’m wearing all black, as if it’ll camouflage me in the crowd.
The only pop of color is the red lanyard around my neck.
The card hanging from the lanyard says: ‘Miranda Knox Management.
‘ Miranda gave it to me in an official capacity, so I could go anywhere in the venue to take photos and not be stopped by security.
The venue is called The Factory. It’s a converted warehouse with exposed brick walls and industrial lighting. It’s plastered with posters of indie bands and local acts, with dates and times they’ll be playing on stage.
Currently on stage is one of those local bands. Four guys in their twenties, known as Faded Warriors, playing competent but unremarkable alternative rock. The lead singer has too much energy, bouncing around the stage as if he’s trying to make up for the song’s lack of substance.
The sparse crowd is filling out and buzzes with electricity. It’s like the venue is drawing a larger crowd because the town is here to see Sky Chaos. The clip online has millions of views for a reason.
Even though bodies are packing the main floor, the crowd isn’t paying much attention to Faded Warriors.
Frustration is radiating off the guitarist, and the singer pushes harder into the chorus, hoping to spark a reaction.
I’m betting they’ve heard there are industry people in the audience and want to prove they’re worth paying attention to.
Watching them struggle makes me squeamish.
The song ends to polite, scattered applause. The lead singer wipes sweat from his forehead and forces a smile. “Thanks everyone! You’re a great crowd! We’ve got two more for you.”
As I navigate through the crowd to get some test shots, I recognize a group from Ashworth Academy, and my skin crawls.
Jessa and Kimberley, the ghouls from art class, are dressed for a nightclub. Their tight dresses shimmer under the lights, their heels click against the concrete floor, their makeup is big and bold, and their silky hair blown-out to perfection.
Plus, they’re not alone.
They’re surrounded by a group of guys who likely walked straight off the football field. Broad shoulders, athletic builds, and attitudes of being the most important people in any room. One of them has his arm slung around Kimberley’s shoulders.
My stomach doesn’t just drop. It plummets.
Jessa says something, and the entire group erupts in laughter. One of the guys makes a gesture I can’t quite see, and they laugh even harder.
Are they talking about me? Did someone already spot me?
My hands tremble around my camera.
I need to move. At least get into a better position for photographing the stage. But my feet won’t cooperate.
With solid effort, I manage a step backward. A second one. A third one. Until I’m pressed against the wall near the sound booth. I slide further to the left, partially hidden behind an older group who are talking amongst themselves.
From here, I have a terrible angle. The stage is too far away, and there are too many bodies blocking my view. I won’t be able to get the shots the band needs. The lighting will be wrong, and the composition will be all off.
But I can’t make myself move closer. My stomach twists at the thought of walking past Jessa, Kimberley, and their football player entourage. I’d rather go deaf from the oversized speakers than risk them seeing me, or worse, saying something to me.
One guy leans down to whisper something in Jessa’s ear, and she scans the crowd with sharp, predatory eyes. I press myself flatter against the wall, my heart hammering so hard I feel it in my throat.
The group shifts slightly, and I glimpse one of the football players. He’s tall, with dark hair and a smirk that makes me sweat. He’s holding his phone up, taking a video of the crowd, sweeping it slowly across the venue.
What if he catches me on camera? What if it ends up being another video on someone’s feed with a cruel caption? I can only imagine the crude stories they made up yesterday when both Ryder and I skipped school.
My breathing is coming too fast now. Shallow. Panicked.
“Breathe,” Mom’s voice whispers in my head. “You belong here just as much as anyone else.”
But I don’t. I don’t belong here at all.
These people own every space, and I’m just the weird new girl who breaks expensive equipment and can’t even manage to show up to class.
For Ryder’s sake, I force myself to lift my camera. Maybe if I just focus on the technical aspects I can do this. ISO. Aperture. Shutter speed. But all I can see through the viewfinder is the crowd blocking my view. The terrible angle. The impossible distance.
I lower the camera, defeat settling in my chest.
I can’t do this. I thought I could, but I can’t.
Faded Warriors exits the stage, and around me, the crowd surges forward in anticipation. Everyone is pressing closer to the stage, except for me. I’m pathetically frozen against the wall and hidden in the corner like a coward.
Maybe Miranda was right. Maybe I was doomed to cause a scene.
My eyes burn with tears I refuse to let fall.
But it isn’t my fault if there’s a scene.
My eyes flick back to the meanie duo. I don’t fixate on them too long because Sky Chaos takes the stage to thunderous applause.
Ryder walks out first, and he absolutely owns it. Shoulders back, head high, and a confident stride of someone born to be in the spotlight. The stage lights hit the silver chains at his throat, and he lifts one hand in acknowledgment of the crowd’s roar.
“Oh my gosh, he’s so hot,” a girl near me squeals to her friend.
“Right? Like, how is he even real?” her friend replies.
Behind me, a group of burly guys raise their drinks, cheering with drunken enthusiasm.
Chase and Brooks follow their leader, waving to the crowd with comfortable confidence. But all eyes are on Ryder as he slings his guitar strap over his shoulder and steps up to the microphone.
Looking at him, no one would know he’s fighting anything. He looks completely in control, as if he’s done this a thousand times and will do it a thousand more.
But I see it.
From my hidden position in the shadows, I see what the crowd can’t. The slight tremor in his hands as he adjusts his guitar. The way his chest rises and falls too quickly, and the way the muscle in his jaw jumps.
He scans the crowd with commanding stage presence. His gaze sweeps right past my corner without stopping. He doesn’t see me in the darkness, and for just a fraction of a second, panic flashes across his face.
Brooks hits his drumsticks together over his head, counting them in. They launch into their opening song, but Ryder’s hands fumble on the guitar. The opening chord comes out jarring and sharp. He tries to recover, but his fingers slip again, and the second chord is even worse.
The crowd’s cheers falter, and confusion ripples through the front rows.
Chase and Brooks keep playing, trying to cover for him, but Ryder’s completely in his head now. He misses his vocal entrance entirely, and when he finally comes in, he’s a full measure late.
My stomach drops.
This is bad. This is really bad.
Across from me, Miranda’s expression is carefully controlled, but there’s visible tension in her shoulders. After Ryder’s opening stumble at The Jameson Late Show, Miranda didn’t stop bringing it up. She kept guilting Ryder to do better.
But guilt won’t help him do better.
On stage, Ryder’s confidence is shattering. His hands shake, and his voice wavers as he continues to scan the crowd.
He’s looking for me.
I step out from behind the equipment case without thinking, moving closer to the stage. The motion catches his eye, and recognition floods his face. Ryder’s shoulders drop and his chest expands with a real breath.
Our eyes hold for just a beat.
I lift my camera and give him a small nod.
Something shifts in his posture. His grip on the guitar steadies, and his next chord rings out true and clean. His voice comes in stronger on the next verse, finding the melody and matching the emotion. He’s still a little shaky, but he’s finding his footing.
I start photographing, moving slightly along the edge of the stage to get different angles. Every few measures, Ryder glances my way, and each time he does, I’m there. Camera raised, steady and present.
His playing smooths out measure by measure. His voice grows stronger with each line.
By the time they hit the chorus, he’s not just recovering; he’s commanding the stage.
The crowd feels it too, and the energy shifts. Bodies move to the rhythm, and phones are raised to capture the moment. And I capture it all through my viewfinder.
“That’s it, Sprout,” Dad’s voice guides me. “That’s the shot.”
My vision blurs with tears, but I don’t lower the camera.
Click. Click. Click.
By the final chorus, Ryder is fully present. His guitar solo is clean and powerful; his fingers flying across the fretboard with precision. The crowd is jumping and singing along to the parts they know from the Late Show appearance.
The song ends, and the crowd roars.
Ryder looks directly at me, and the relief and gratitude in his expression have me melting.
He caught himself. Or rather, we caught him.
Chase claps him on the shoulder, grinning. Brooks counts them into the next song, and this time, Ryder’s opening chords are perfect.
Over my shoulder, I glimpse my aunt. Miranda’s shoulders have relaxed, though she keeps scanning the venue as if she’s figuring out what changed between the beginning of the song and now.
I blend into the crowd as best I can, but Ryder tilts his frame as if he has found me in his peripheral vision. Calm washes over me, and the same calm mirrors in his stance on stage.