Chapter Forty Elton Emu
Chapter Forty
Elton Emu
Griffin
Over the last three months, I’ve performed for crowds of over fifteen thousand people around fifty times, but I’ve never been more nervous than when I arrive on set for Birds on the Block.
I walk down the carpeted hallway of Connection Studios with Ava by my side. In one hand, I clutch my guitar case. My opposite hand holds a coffee a little too tightly. I have to keep loosening my grip when the paper cup begins to dent.
Connection’s walls are lined with framed photos and memorabilia from various television eras and major documentaries.
Double doors to sound stages pop up every few feet, and each time we come upon a placard with the show name, my hand tenses in Ava’s.
When we see it isn’t Birds, we keep walking, and my heart slowly finds its steady pace once more.
I received my script two weeks ago, and the moment Jimmy handed it over, I studied it relentlessly.
Part of it was practicing lines, but mostly I couldn’t stop staring at it, analyzing every word I’ve read before and every revision Beverly made after.
It was a slice of familiarity under the dim light of the tour bus.
It was something to look at when my phone didn’t buzz with new texts.
We should tap the brakes.
Fuck.
The last remaining double doors stand at the end of the hall, and beside them, etched into the placard on the wall, is Birds on the Block.
I open one door, allow Ava to walk through first, then cross the threshold onto set. Immediately, both Ava and I freeze in place. I almost drop my guitar case on the spot.
This must be how Dorothy felt arriving in Oz for the first time.
I’m not sure colors truly existed before I stepped in here.
The sound stage looks exactly like a city block, lined with brick storefronts, stoops, and fire escapes.
But the colors are incredible: a streetlamp in canary yellow, hanging shop signs in aquamarine, and stained glass windows with every shade of the rainbow.
Behind it all is a sky-blue backdrop of the city, as if the Block is perpetually in a perfect day.
I pull in a deep, shaking breath. We made it. Beverly did it.
I look down at Ava at the same time her head jerks back to stare up at me. I can’t help my grin.
“What do you think, munchkin?”
She blinks out at the set again and gives a barely suppressed giggle.
“Pretty,” she answers. Her P’s have improved throughout months of practice on the tour bus. I played the P song more than I should because P is for prepared, and I practice what I preach.
“Yeah, I think so too,” I respond.
Ava calls a lot of things pretty: the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Colosseum in Rome, and London Bridge—mostly because she could see the sky reflected in the water, which still fascinates her.
But the view from the top of the Eiffel Tower was inarguably her favorite, due to the height of it all, which she has zero issues with, unlike me.
I’ve learned over months of traveling with my daughter that a lot of people don’t enjoy taking their kids on trips, but seeing the world through Ava’s eyes has given me new appreciation, even if we have Poe next to us mumbling, “They’re just bright lights.”
Now that the world knows Ava exists, I refuse to spend a single moment without her. The silver lining to our mess is that I get to travel without hiding, so I’m showing her everything. There wasn’t a chance I wouldn’t bring her to Birds. Plus, they sent Ava her own invite.
“Griffin!” a voice calls across set. I follow it to find a familiar teen in a black shirt. Rob grins, striding across the floor, shimmying past people and cameras—bumping into one with a “Sorry”—before reaching us.
Ava shifts behind my legs. Rob crouches down and holds out his hand for a high five.
“Hi, Ava. Remember me?” he asks.
It takes her a couple of moments, but she smiles and slaps her tiny palm to his. Something in my chest tightens. I wondered if Ava would remember anyone from Elk Grove.
I hold out a hand to Rob, who quickly shakes it.
“I’m supposed to pretend like I don’t know you,” he says behind his hand.
“You’re doing great,” I say. “The yell didn’t give you away at all.”
He flushes red. “Right.”
Another person in a black T-shirt and headset slides by. “Oh, let me take that.” She grabs my guitar case from me, then gestures around. “Your daughter is free to look at the set before we get started.”
“Oh, thanks,” I say, but the person walks off so suddenly I’m not sure she hears me.
I pat Ava’s back, and she climbs the stairs onto set and walks across the arched cobblestone streets as she peers up at the cityscape in awe.
I follow, continuing to take in the studio—the massive stage lights and cameras, the crowd of production assistants and puppeteers holding their characters on their arms as they chat.
A table that sits in the corner with felt, fabric, and spare puppet eyeballs.
But then my throat turns dry when I see a lump of blue feathers slumped into a tall black folding chair.
Bernie.
My friend lies with his beak gaping open, as if shocked by the ceiling above him. He seems almost lost without his puppeteer. I understand that feeling.
In a chair beside him are a few other familiar faces: Hector Hawk, Carmen Crow…birds that dictated the first few months of my time with Ava. But beside them is a new bird—an ostrich I don’t recognize.
“Daddy!”
I twist around and find Ava stationed behind a fruit stand with her arms in the air. In her overalls and striped tee, she looks like she could be a cute little puppet herself.
“Are you gonna sell me something?” I ask her.
But she doesn’t answer. Instead, she stares past me. Her eyes practically shimmer at whatever she sees. And when I turn, my heart plummets down into the fake concrete sidewalk.
Beverly emerges from a side hallway, striding side by side with Finch. Her dress is stunning. Casual but perfect for her. She carries a chipped mug of coffee as she and Finch talk a mile a minute. I wonder what number cup she’s on. My hand twitches around the paper cup of coffee I brought for her.
So ridiculous. Of course she has her own.
She doesn’t see me yet, and it feels almost selfish to watch her from afar like this.
She laughs at something Finch said. It’s so genuine and gorgeous.
Christ, I’ve thought about that laugh for three months.
Three months of lying in a twin bed, staring at the underside of the top bunk on our rumbling tour bus.
Three months of scouring for any updates on Birds, setting search engine alerts for all new articles.
Three months of belting out songs to stadiums full of people I wish were her, each lyric of “Your Right Hand” carrying pieces of my heart with it.
Beverly finally looks out to set, and like a heat laser, she finds me.
I halt, my body sizzling under her gaze. She doesn’t move either. I wonder if she’s struck by me as much as I am by her. The corner of her mouth lifts into a sweet smile. My breath leaves in a ragged exhale.
She places her coffee cup onto a small table next to the black folding chair with Bernie, then walks across the bare concrete floor to me.
She takes a large step onto the stage, moving closer, closer, closer.
Beverly looks even better than she does in my dreams. Long dark lashes, glossy pink lips, and emerald-green eyes.
Illuminated under the stage lights, her hair has a halo around it. Angelic, as always.
She stares at me. Her smile has fallen. Her inhale is deep. Words are caught in my throat.
“B!”
Ava runs around the fruit stand. Beverly blinks away from me as if leaving some sort of daze, then beams down at Ava.
“Hi, A! How are—oof!”
Ava barrels into Beverly.
“Hi, B!”
“Hi, A.” Beverly swings my daughter up in her arms with the same familiarity she did three months ago.
Ava giggles uncontrollably, hugging with both arms wrapped tightly around Beverly’s neck.
Beverly’s cheeks are flushed, but she’s likely just overwhelmed after getting attacked by a two-year-old.
My own chest is heating, though, from nothing more than staring at her.
“You’re early,” Beverly observes.
“I am.” Words rasp out of me.
She smiles. “It’s a nice change. You’d be surprised how many actors run late.”
I couldn’t wait to see you.
I must be staring for too long, because her lips part in confusion. I clear my throat and look around. “This is amazing, Bev.”
“Oh, thanks,” she says. “Yeah, Finch kept a lot of the old set pieces in storage, and we rebuilt a few from scratch.”
I can only imagine her awe-struck eyes when she saw the Block reconstructed for the first time. I wish I could have been there for it.
“And how are you?” Beverly asks, dipping her chin to talk to Ava.
“Daddy piano.”
“Wow, look at you saying your P’s so well!” Beverly’s smile is everything I missed and more. “I actually have a little gift for you.”
Ava’s eyes widen. Beverly steps offstage with her, and they walk over to the chair holding Bernie. In his lap is a small red car—the one Ava played with back in Elk Grove. Ava snatches it from Beverly’s hands before Beverly can even finish passing it to her.
There are so many memories with that car. So many small moments where we wrote songs while Ava raced over the cityscape rug. The days were colder, but the warmth from our laughter made up for it.
“Are you excited about today?” Beverly asks Ava. “Excited to watch your dad talk to Bernie?”
“He excited,” she answers.
I run a palm over my beard, looking to a random spot on the wall that notably isn’t Beverly, even though I can feel her staring at me. I’ve been thinking about this for months. And now that we’re here, I’m not sure what to say.
It’s fine; I have a plan.
“Let’s get started, then,” Beverly says. “Think he’s ready?”
Ava bobs her head up and down quickly as Beverly finally sets her down.
“You can put your coffee here, if you want,” Beverly offers.