Chapter Fifteen
They’d had all these preshow rituals, as a band.
Steve always downed a Mountain Dew in five seconds and crushed the can in his hand, giving a rebel yell that he said hyped him up for the next two hours.
Micah had her vocal warm-ups. John would sit quietly with his eyes closed, as if he was meditating, but mostly he was thinking about one tricky transition he had to do between two pedals on their opening song, switching between clean and distorted and back again.
Right as they were about to go on, they’d stand in a circle, their arms around each other, and yell, “You’re electric, Ohio!” It had been incredibly cheesy and cringey. It had been the best John had felt in his entire life.
Now they didn’t do any of that. Steve was scrolling through his phone; Ryder was smoothing down his hair, trying to catch a glimpse of his distorted reflection in a metal pole; and Frankie’s fingers were moving as if they were playing bass, clearly running through their parts.
Micah was pacing back and forth, chewing on her thumbnail.
She kept passing right in front of John, and he wanted so badly to snag her around the waist, to pull her toward him and just whisper in her ear It’s going to be okay .
But instead he looked down at his shoes, waiting for the moment when the cruise staff member told them it was time to go on.
She was dressed in an outfit that was half eighties-inspired, half a nod to the Nightshifters TV show.
Tight, shiny black leggings and a loose shirt that hung off one shoulder, patterned in bronze-and-black stripes that looked vaguely like werewolf fur.
Her hair was in her usual ponytail but teased out, with three tight braids close to one side of her scalp.
When ElectricOh! had been a band, they’d had stylists for photo shoots, TV appearances, that kind of thing, but she’d always done her own styling for tour performances.
It blew his mind, especially when his “getting ready” consisted of deciding which black shirt to wear.
“Electric?” the cruise staffer said, poking her head in. “You’re up!”
All their equipment had been set up toward the front of the stage, in front of the equipment for another band who would go on after them.
It wasn’t an unusual setup for an opener, especially one who was only going to play three songs, but it meant that they didn’t have as much room to move in.
John was only a few feet away from Micah, who grabbed the microphone and raised one arm in the air, the action revealing a glimpse of the pale skin at her waist, her long fingers silhouetted against the lights that were shining down on the stage.
“Nightshifters!” she yelled out to the crowd without bothering to bring the microphone to her mouth. “Let’s fucking gooooo!”
These were all the parts that John had forgotten, that came back to him like no time had passed at all.
The sheer adrenaline rush of playing those opening chords, the crowd moving like a wave as people started jumping and dancing and singing along.
The way he was immediately lost in his own world, cocooned in the insular soundscape coming through his in-ear monitors, the way he felt immediately part of something bigger than just him, the energy of the crowd and his bandmates lifting him up.
And Micah. She might’ve been pacing and chewing on her fingernails only a few moments before, but now you believed she was a rock star.
She was spinning and tossing her head, her ponytail whipping in the wind, she was stepping up on one of the monitors at the front of the stage and holding the microphone up to let the crowd repeat a line back in a call-and-response.
She could save the universe. She could do anything she wanted.
She made the transition to the chorus no problem, her foot stomping along to the beat from Steve’s kick drum, leaning into the mic as she delivered the last line the way she always had live, half singing, half a yell.
She turned to John only briefly then, shooting him a quicksilver grin and letting her tongue hang out in a message he got loud and clear.
Holy shit , her dancing eyes said. I did it. We’re doing it.
And then two seconds later, she was spinning toward the front again, coming in hot with the next verse.
They finished “Sunflares” in what felt like a blur of seconds, and then they rolled right into “Open Mouth.” It had always been one of John’s favorite songs to play live, with this low, pulsing rhythm that built to a crescendo toward the end.
Although Ryder had written his own lead guitar line, it had been on a foundation that Micah and John had written together, and the song structure was a little strange in the way they could’ve only managed when they were too young to know any better.
He caught Frankie’s eye, and couldn’t help but smile as they mimicked the way he was leaning into his guitar, rocking his body back and forth.
He exaggerated his movements even more, which led to them exaggerating theirs, and after all the work of practicing these old songs for the last month, the near-miss nightmare of rehearsal earlier that day, he was surprised to find he was having fun .
He was having a fucking blast. He turned his back to the crowd, playing toward Steve as the drummer smashed into that big buildup that John had been waiting for.
When John turned back around, he bumped into Micah, who was much closer than he’d expected with their limited stage area.
It happened sometimes during live shows, and you just had to keep playing, make sure that you didn’t miss a note and then you could compare bruises later.
But then Micah crashed into him , like they were fourteen and back in the pit again, and when he looked at her there was a playful challenge in her eyes.
She slid her hand along the back of his neck, which he knew was slick with sweat, and he felt her fingers tangle briefly in his hair before she pushed off him.
She hunched over the mic as she belted out the final lines of the song, getting lower and lower until she was on her knees, her ponytail flipped over, the tip almost touching the stage.
John played the final chords under Ryder’s closing lead line, but inside he felt like something wouldn’t stop vibrating.
He could still feel her hand on his neck. And had she pulled his hair ?
After the song was done, Micah set the mic back in its stand, carrying the whole thing up with her to the front of the stage.
“You’re electric!” she yelled out to the crowd, and they responded in a roar of noise that had John reaching to remove one of his in-ears just so he could hear it.
It had always been one of Ryder’s complaints about Micah, that she talked too much in between songs, and considering this was supposed to be a tight three-song set, John knew there was an argument that she shouldn’t be doing it now.
But this was the first time they’d played together in over a decade, and it might be the last time they ever did—at least like this, plugged in and the five of them all on the same stage.
He couldn’t begrudge her a little talking.
“Thank you so much!” she said now. “Seriously, this is…wow, this is amazing. We’re in the middle of the ocean.”
A cheer from the crowd, and Micah laughed a little. “Right? The middle of the fucking ocean. Wild. It’s wilder still just to be up here, I never—”
She turned back to face the band, like she was asking their permission. Or maybe like she was apologizing. But then her face cleared, and she turned to face the crowd again.
“If you don’t know us, we’re ElectricOh!,” she said. “And we are so excited to be here. If you’ll indulge me for five seconds, I wanted to introduce some of the people up on this stage, just so you know who you’re looking at. On bass, we’ve got the very lovely, very talented…Frankie Simons!”
Frankie played a quick scale on the bass that made John smile, because he got it for the inside joke that it was—it sounded much more impressive than it actually was to play, and it had always bothered Frankie when movies included moments like that as a sign that a musician could hack it.
From the grin on Micah’s face, she got it, too. “I think they can handle it, Junior,” she said, then swept her hand toward Steve. “And behind me, we have the baddest-ass drummer on the planet, he can still hit even if his kid doesn’t like punk music…Steve Gerding!”
Steve twirled his sticks before playing a quick, staccato drum solo.
“Don’t worry, Steve,” Micah said, tilting the mic stand to one side before catching it with her foot to set it upright again. “All kids go through a rebellious phase.”
That was the other thing about Micah. She owned the stage no matter what she was doing on it—when she was singing, when she was just riffing between songs. When John looked out over the audience, he could see that she had them in the palm of her hand.
He was so busy looking outward that he almost missed that she was talking about him now. She was talking to him.
“That’s right,” she said, laughing. “You know it’s true. Go ahead and play us a little something.”
He wished he’d caught whatever she said at the beginning.
He blanked, couldn’t think of a single impressive riff he could play.
He plucked out the notes for “Hot Cross Buns,” the song they’d learned on their first day of band in middle school.
The crowd laughed, someone in the back giving a loud whistle.
Her face softened. “A classic,” she said.
And then she was moving on to introduce Ryder. Smart, leaving him last. That would satisfy his ego a bit. He played a little solo and then gave a modest wave afterward.
“Okay,” Micah said. “That’s enough of that. Now—”