17. Jackson
17
jackson
The windshield wipers of the RV give a steady, melancholy tempo while I sit on our small couch and play. My fingers pick at the strings, and a soft, slow melody fills my ears as rain pelts the windows and Brian’s hushed voice makes his sixth phone call of the day. He’s been nonstop ever since we hired him. Even though he’s in the RV with us, he’s still all business from 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. The only time he loosens up is after dinner when he downs a few beers and smokes a joint with the rest of us.
I don’t even know what he does on those calls. Stuff for the band, I’m assuming, but he won’t give us the details. Marty asked him what he was doing on the phone all day, and Brian’s response was, “When I have something to tell you, I’ll tell you.”
So, I won’t be asking him a damn thing. He’s a cool guy. A little intense, but I think we’re all glad he’s here—just a little on edge with it, too. Like we suddenly have a father figure on board, and even though he’s a cool dad, he’s still the one we have to answer to.
My head snaps up when Brian shoots out from the back of the RV and points toward the windshield. He still has his phone balancing in the crook of his neck when he says, “Take the next exit.”
Dave’s eyebrows furrow in the rearview mirror. “But we still have half a tank.”
“Take the next exit, Dave. We’re picking someone up.” Before any of us can say anything, he’s retreating to the back of the RV with his phone pressed to his ear.
“What the hell?” Dave mutters from the driver’s seat.
I look across from me where Marty and Brady are playing cards at a small foldout table. Both guys look as clueless as I feel. Why the hell are we stopping for someone? Who?
Setting down my guitar, I walk to the front of the RV and sit next to Dave while he drives. “Do you know what this is about?”
His bitter laugh bites the air around us. “Do I look like I know what this is about?”
“You look like you might kill Brian.”
Dave grins, giving me a sideways glance. “We’ll see, won’t we?” Looking ahead at the road, he pulls off the highway and onto the exit ramp. He raises his voice when he says, “This might be easier if Brian would tell me where to go!”
Like clockwork, Brian briskly heads toward us from the back of the RV. He claps his hands together, and I give up my seat so he can direct Dave.
Brian pats me on the shoulder as we switch places. “Take this right,” he tells Dave as he collapses into the seat.
We still have time before the next stop, but that doesn’t make Dave any less annoyed about the prospect of another detour.
Brian continues to give Dave directions while my fingers pluck at the strings, but I’m barely playing. I’m distracted, counting the minutes we’re wasting and reading the different street signs as we squeeze down the narrow city streets .
Dave takes another turn and grumbles under his breath, “I better be able to drive this thing out of here.”
“You will. You will.” Brian gives Dave a few reassuring pats on the back, and I bite back a smile at the way Dave’s entire body tenses. He’s over Brian’s surprises, but in the past forty-eight hours, none of Brian’s surprises have been bad. He’s given us free beer, took us all out to dinner last night, and he supplied the RV we’re all in, free of charge. If you ask me, I’ll take whatever else he has hidden up his sleeve. “Stop here,” Brian says as he leans forward and lays on the horn in front of a random apartment building.
Moments later, a girl bounds down the stairs holding a cardboard box and wearing a lime green backpack. She looks to be about my age, and once she runs up the RV steps to pop her head in, I see I’m right. Her bright green eyes bounce to each of us before she pulls back the hood of her rain jacket, revealing pink hair that she has up in a messy bun. A silver septum piercing rests just above her broad grin, a smile that I have no doubt could bring an army of men to their knees. She’s pretty.She’s not Margot. But she’s pretty.
My hands stop playing as Brian stands to face the rest of us. “Everyone, this is Mya. She’ll handle all the merchandise at the shows.”
Mya props the box on her knee so she can wave.
“But we don’t have any merch,” Marty says, his dark eyebrows cinched as he stares at the girl.
“Well, this isn’t the only box I have,” Mya says with a laugh. She nods over her shoulder. “The rest is still inside.”
Brian takes the box from her and opens the lid. Reaching in, he quickly tosses all of us a T-shirt. They’re black with our band’s logo printed on the front. It’s the same . . . but also different. Like she took our band name and somehow made it better—sharper. Even though the colors are mostly made up of white, the design pops against the soft black material .
“Holy shit,” Brady says as he lets out a slow whistle, and it feels like he stole the words out of my mouth. We have merch. We are officially a band with merchandise available for purchase at shows because there are people who would buy it. I try to let that sink in as my eyes trail from the T-shirt I’m holding up to the girl who supplied them.
Mya says, “I had to make those on my Cricut to hold us over, but when I order more from the printer, they’ll probably look better.”
I think we’re all in shock, coming to the same realization that we have shirts, because none of us move until Mya says, “So . . . do you guys want to help with the other boxes or . . .?”
Her words are like a jolt of electricity through the RV, and we all jump to our feet. As we pass her, Brian calls out each of our names to introduce us. “Dave, Marty, Brady, and last but not least, Jackson.”
Mya smiles at each of the guys as they pass, and when her green eyes land on me, she repeats my name with a nod like she approves.
Everything about this feels like a dream. This doesn’t feel like my life. Maybe because, up until a few days ago, this wasn’t my life. My life this summer revolved around Margot, which was amazing. But I can’t lie. This feels pretty amazing, too.