78
Lillian
Initialism has been rearranged since I was last here.
The makeshift wall has been moved, connecting Munchies Arcade and Culinary Delights to the main area, making the venue larger. Too large for normal shows there. And the pinball machines are now in the same room as the stage. It doesn’t make sense.
The mural of the androids has been put as the backdrop for the stage, blazing color across the room, which is one change that seems perfect.
Christensen’s behind the bar, where my friends are already sitting, drinking a variety of brightly hued drinks with sugared rims.
My eyes go straight to Sasha. They’re wearing a black dress, tights without runs, and heels that would leave me flat on my ass. They have a poise about them today that I both want to admire and to dismantle with my hands and my mouth. There will be time for that. Time isn’t running out as fast as I always believe it is.
“The prodigal daughter arrives at long last,”
says Christensen to me. He hands me a bright drink with a swirly straw that I wish I could pretend isn’t delicious.
“I’m not late,”
I say.
“The rest of you are early.”
Quinn spins his stool around.
“I’m anxious for this news. Was that wall load bearing? Is the news that we’re all going to die?”
“Good people, youths, my friends.”
Christensen pauses for drama. He’s a ham, but he’s my favorite one.
“This upcoming year, on January fifteenth, Initialism is going to be hosting the next surprise show by the one, the only …”
My brain is scrambling for who this might be. I feel like I know. Someone who’s been doing a surprise concert tour, just appearing and disappearing.
Cyprus gets there first.
“Wait, Monochrome Stoplight is playing here? At Initialism?”
Christensen nods and the next couple minutes are spent trying to get us to calm down and stop hyperventilating and talking about setlists and outfits and how Liv James is probably some sort of supernatural being.
Liv James is going to be here, and I know about it before almost anyone.
I’ve always been scared Monochrome Stoplight would finally come to my city and I’d hear too late and not get in.
Now it’s guaranteed.
“Save your pandemonium!”
says Christensen.
“I’m not done. Monochrome Stoplight has been doing the entire Whisper Campaign tour with local openers. They asked me to send them recordings and live footage of some younger acts that I know well and can count on. People who might suit their feel.”
My heart skips straight over probability, leaving my rationality behind.
“Now, I sent them a bunch of bands. They were very certain about who they wanted opening at Initialism. They chose Wavel —”
At which point everything descends into chaos that Christensen has no hope of reining in.
He’s trying to tell us details, but I only catch half of them.
How it’s a big enough show to rearrange the venue and it’s a huge responsibility and something about sound check times and if we so much as breathe a word of this before Monochrome Stoplight announces it we’ll all be disappointments to Liv James.
But don’t put too much pressure on it.
But also don’t screw this up.
I’m counting days until January 15, thinking how many rehearsals we can fit in before then, what songs to choose, which ones Christensen might have sent to Monochrome Stoplight.
I’m wondering what to say when I meet Liv James, thinking how I’ve seen her bring openers onstage to sing with her at the end of shows.
In the midst of miraculous news, I can’t help but dare to dream.
Everyone’s talking at once except Sasha.
They’ve gotten quiet.
From their face, they may be sad, or bemused, or have simply regained the poise they had before the news broke.
Mostly, they seem a little elsewhere.
It happens sometimes, but they always come back.
I’d like it to be soon.
I want Sasha here for this moment.
I want Sasha here for every moment.
“People are going to notice us!”
Cyprus is saying.
“Fucking Liv James noticed us! I always listen to artists she recommends.”
Meanwhile, Quinn’s going on about how he needs a really, really excellent haircut and I just want everyone to open their calendars and schedule some practices.
Sasha kisses me, quick and bright. Celebratory and familiar. I’m with them and they’re back again, grinning at everything around them.
They reach into their purse and hand me a spiral notebook opened to a new page.
“Let’s get planning,”
they say.
“Is there anything we can do to promote ourselves around the event? We’ve got to see if there are any particular songs that made Monochrome Stoplight interested in us, make sure to meet what they’re looking for. But still sound like us.”
I lean close to their ear, whisper.
“I love you, Sasha.”
Because everything’s happening.
The others have joined in, and I’m dividing the paper into columns before Sasha has time to respond. Sasha’s right there beside me, all of us leaning over the table. I know I say that too soon. I know it.
But the world is short on truth. If I’ve got a beautiful one, I want it out there.
Under the table, Sasha takes my left hand and presses a pen into my palm. They draw twin lines, curving up and away and then back down to meet.
Over the next days, whenever the heart starts to fade, Sasha traces over it again.