55
Sasha
The song ends and we wave goodnight.
Lillian holds up her guitar, Quinn his drumsticks.
It’s over and we’re off the stage talking over top of each other saying oh my god holy shit.
The people won’t be quiet.
The houselights are back on, but they cheer enough that the next band, the one running the show, says we’d better play one more.
Lillian agrees now and worries later.
“That’s all the songs,”
says Quinn.
“All the good ones we’ve all rehearsed.”
The lights are going back down and the tone of the cheering has shifted.
“Do ‘Hangman Forever,’”
says Cyprus.
“You two go out there and start it. Share the microphone. Me and Quinn will join in partway through. It’ll look great.”
Lillian starts to say it’s not ready, but Cyprus pushes us back out onstage.
Lillian picks up her electric and gives it a strum.
Her and I have sung this song together a handful of times with her playing acoustic guitar.
Only a couple times for the band.
I’m still sketchy on a few lines of the haunting lyrics.
The levels get turned back up halfway through the chord ringing.
Lillian presses some pedals to change the sound and it becomes as acoustic as it can be.
When we sing, Lillian’s mouth is inches from mine.
I can feel every one of her notes.
We sing of coming closer in the dark and wrapping in each other’s arms and kissing under an exit sign, and it’s not hard to make it feel intimate.
I think anyone watching us could see it.
It’s not a fake gesture like Augustus and I performed to look like best friends onstage when we barely spoke to each other off it.
It’s not like Isabelle and I in public, always touching, her ability to switch on adoration in her eyes.
Maybe it looks like the same theatrics, but my heart is racing.
In the middle of the song, Quinn makes his way back to the drum kit and Cyprus comes in with an ethereal synth part.
It stays quiet to the end, never escalates out of its sadness.
We all take a bow at the front of the stage.
It’s over for real, people scattering to buy more drinks, line up at the bathroom and talk over the transition music while we hurry to clear our equipment and make way for the last band.
Amidst coiling cables with Wavelength’s blue tape markers on them, all four of us keep catching glances from each other.
Because we know we’ve done well.
We’ve made something.
Then, instead of going backstage, we plunge into the crowd and scream, dance and sing along with the final act.
So the post-show low gets pushed later and won’t be as heavy when it finally hits.
We give and receive from the stage, then reverse it and receive music and give our love back.
After, our ears ringing and bodies thrumming, we join the press of people going into the lobby.
That low can wait a little longer, because there are people my friends want me to meet.
I tell myself no one recognizes me.
I have a new story, and it only started a few months ago.
I work on a catalog of faces, names and connections.
I’m good at this, though I don’t track a tenth of the people Cyprus greets with hugs and specific questions about their projects.
It helps that I genuinely like people and want them to feel liked.
Plus these people are pretty likable and give me lots of validating compliments on my outfit.
I even see one of my downstairs neighbors and almost wave at him, then remember I’ve told different versions of my story to everyone, that I can’t let separate parts of my life cross.
Luckily, he’s on his way out.
Quinn goes to check on the merch table, where Wavelength stuff is being sold along with the other bands’ merch.
Cyprus leads us toward a group in the corner, saying.
“You’ve got to meet Jemma.”
“Jemma’s the best,”
says Lillian, with a look that indicates that she thinks Jemma’s considerably less than the best.
Lillian has a bold way of finding her way into closed circles of people, holding my hand to guide me around another cluster and then sweeping me in with her, making me feel welcome and known. This is her terrain, and she’s suddenly more social than I’ve ever seen her. Unthreatened and unshaken by everyone until she sees the last person in the group we just joined.
She shuts down, can’t speak. Her hand tightens on mine.
Cyprus bails her out.
“This is Sasha,”
she says.
“Sasha, meet Jemma, TJ and Emelia.”