Chapter 25
Independence Day
We use my phone’s GPS after the infamous breakup text was sent, so I try not to look at it again. It’s currently telling us to turn down a gravel driveway. Soon, we enter the wooded camp area with an open gate welcoming us in.
The gravel trail winds through trees until we reach a clearing that has a covered stage with a few steps on either side and a “Farewell Unity Athletes” banner across the front. Sam finds a place to park, and we begin to unload his car that’s stuffed like Mary Poppins herself packed it.
A couple who appear to be in their late thirties greet us and show us what we have to work with. There’s an all-weather PA system with mics, and since they’re only expecting a hundred to stay, we should have plenty of power for a group this size.
Luis and Carla are great, helping us unload and showing us where to find restrooms and a cooler full of ice and bottled water. Carla lights up when she tells us about the camp and their team-building exercises and athletic training.
It looks fun, other than the athletic torture part, with several cabins at the end of different trails that are well-marked and lit for nighttime hide-and-seek and capture-the-flag games.
Alex went to church camp every summer and loved it.
I couldn’t have been away from my responsibilities that long anyway, but I need the freedom to shut down and be alone, so a twenty-four-hour schedule that doesn’t allow me to hide in a book sounds awful.
Carla and I bring the stands for the keyboard and guitars up from the back seat as Sammy strategically places mics, amps, pedals, and all the things I know nothing about while discussing the sound configuration he wants with Luis.
I should’ve started the day in a T-shirt and shorts, because I’m already sweating as we go up and down the steps.
Clinical strength deodorant and sandals are my refuge. There’s a large fan on the right side, so I stand there for a minute to cool off while Carla walks away to take a call. I pull my phone from my pocket, wondering if it’s a bad idea to look even as I do it.
We blocked Nathan’s number, but it’s just a matter of time before someone in his family lets him use their phone. I like Sarah and Jackson. Hopefully they’ll understand why I had to end things the way I did.
Jace and Annie have been messaging in our group, but I see Jude has texted me separately.
Jude Daniel (Take a Sad Song and Make it Sexy) Crawford: I think my heart stopped. Glad I wasn’t driving.
The picture hasn’t loaded. I can read the message, but I can’t see what he’s talking about.
The signal isn’t great out here. It’ll come through eventually, but it could be anything.
A meme, a pretty guitar, an injury … did something happen?
Ugh, this man. He probably went over his word quota talking to me yesterday.
Me: I can’t see the pic. Are you okay?
Jude Daniel (Take a Sad Song and Make it Sexy) Crawford: I’m good, Lu. Video if you can.
Me: Still focused on not puking, but I’ll try.
“Get off the phone, slacker!” Sam calls out, testing the mic, causing me to jump at his volume. His wild, unhinged cackle is my warning. The lid will be coming off the crazy any minute.
“You promised me your best behavior, Moose.”
“I always give my best, Squirrely.”
I begin my own terrible little concert to soundcheck each instrument. If he wasn’t completely convinced of how little I know, he is now.
“Come over here and test these mics. I’m going to listen from the field and be sure I can hear you.”
There’s a reason he’s only worried about hearing me. He’s loud. So loud. There has never been a time I couldn’t hear him, mic’d or not.
He starts playing a game we made up called Requesto-Rando.
He yells a word, and I associate it with a song until he stumps me.
I get through a color, weather, and a vehicle before he thumbs-down “Crazy Train,” so I give him a rapid-fire sample of “Pink Cadillac,” “Build a Boat,” and “Fast Car,” all a cappella.
“I can do this all day long in multiple genres and eras, so you might as well give it to me, Moose Boy!”
“Okay, gimme a holiday smart-aaaaaa-angel bestie.”
I make a face at him, stalling for a moment, not because I can’t think of one, but because I’ll have to belt it. Confidently. Liza and me singing in our empty house is one thing, but this is an audience of strangers and a gifted musician. I prefer to blend in, and I’m good at it.
I’m a little raspy like Jude at a higher pitch—sort of unpredictably asthmatic—but there’s no other way to sing “Independence Day” except with a whole lot of gumption.
So I go for the chorus.
Sam shoots both fists straight up.
Craaaaaap. That’s what he wanted. Why didn’t I just sing a Christmas song?
“I knew it! I see you!” He jumps back on to the stage. I bite back a smile when he wags his finger at me. “No more hiding all that. Today’s your independence day.”
My mouth falls open, but before I can spiral, he goes into our usual run-through of “Check Yes or No.” He walks around to different spots getting a thumbs-up from Luis about the sound, followed immediately by announcing that our set list is out the window.
“Sam, that set list isn’t even twenty-four hours old! Why did we sort through all those songs if we weren’t going to use them?”
“I’m a creative soul, Lu Lu. You can’t box me in. I’ve grown as an artist. I have new ideas.”
“Since last night?”
“Are you worried?”
“I suppose not.” I take a deep breath and blow it out. It’s Sammy’s world, and I’m just visiting.
“We’ll do a lot of the same songs, but let’s be spontaneous. I’m only tellin’ you so you don’t panic.”
“When do I panic?” I haven’t, but it’s not out of the question.
“You usually don’t, but see? Best behavior.
I know what I’m doin’. Random works for us, so let’s go with it.
This way we can do a whole song or just a few lines and nothing has to be perfect.
It’s genius. You should give me a big wet one right here.
” He points to his cheek, and I give him my best blank stare.
I see his point. But I need to be prepared. I’m not a six-foot-four package of sunshine and Skittles. I don’t have his natural talent or charisma. I have nine years of school choir, six years of competitions, and a quirky obsession with old music. That’s it. Nothing special.
“You’re the genius.” I acquiesce. “Tell me what to do.”
“That’s the beautiful thing here, Smalls. This isn’t me. It’s us. It’s what we do! I’m throwin’ words and songs in this bucket over here—ones we already worked out—and then telling the kids to throw some in. It’s gonna be EPIC!”
You know, normally I’d panic right about now, but he’s so happy.
No one knows me here, and he’s right. We do this all the time.
Maybe this time there’s a hundred or more people, but whatever.
I’ll never see them again. It’ll be just like the grocery store, only I won’t be getting pushed in a shopping cart, so technically this should be easier.
I’m fine. One of my greatest talents is the ability to shift attention off myself and onto a bigger personality, and no one has a bigger personality than this moose.
It’s not the stage that scares me anyway; it’s the possibility of stinking it up that has me worried about my breakfast performing an encore.
But I think I know how to match his energy, as Liza insisted.
Time to turn off the imposter syndrome and go into sister mode—which is bound to get weird since not one breath has ever escaped his lungs without flirting.
“Hey, Sammy. Get that thirst-trap sign out of your car.”
“Smalls, you don’t need a sign. I’ll unbutton my shirt and wear a cowboy hat for you anytime.”
I flutter my lashes and make a kissy face. “I know it, hot stuff. You can be any month you want on my calendar, but your social media handles are on the sign, right?”
“Yeah, they are.”
“Help me help you, pretty boy. Go get it.”
Sam hops over three steps to bring his bigger-than-life retractable sign to the side of the stage. “Are you sure this is okay?”
“Do you want to gain followers and get your music out there? You don’t have to do that here, but if you want to do a Requesto-Rando thing with the audience, I think we should use the sign. They’ll be pulling out their phones to follow you before you ever sing a note. What do you think?”
“I think you should be my manager.”
“Sure, Sammy. I always wanted to herd cats for a living.”
His grin slips, and I instantly regret my mouth. I need ibuprofen and a fresh filter.
“Sorry, Moose. You’re not hard to work with; my battery just dies faster than yours. You’re the most talented human I know, and when we leave here, at least a hundred more people will love you as much as I do. Most of them will probably be seventeen-year-old girls. Can you handle that?”
He hugs me so hard, my feet lift off the ground. “Let’s DO THIS!”
“Okay, I need a picture to post.”
“One of us on the porch?”
“This isn’t my gig, Sammy.” I laugh. “How about a selfie on the stage with your sign and the camp banner showing?”
“Together,” he insists.
“Fine, take the picture with your big gorilla arm, and I’ll do the caption.”
“Deal.”
Fun fact: Annie and I have managed Sam’s social media since Christmas. He hates it, so that was our gift to him. All he has to do is look pretty and send us gig videos. We do the rest. We’ve taken him from two hundred to five thousand followers in eight months, and he gains more daily.
It’s not rocket science.
He looks like a baby Thor and sings like an angel.
Cowboy hats and Wranglers were made for him.
Add in a hint of bad boy when he goes all animal on the drums and promoting him’s like giving away Popsicles on a hot day.
He gets some wild direct messages, but Annie enjoys those, so I let her have them.
She’s been handling his accounts for the last two weeks since I was helping him with his paper, but I can log in anytime.