4. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
The Whitney Theater is right next to The Manhattan Symphony Hall, and that’s where I find my brother, deep in the belly of the orchestra pit.
I’m hustling down the first row. Paid the usher twenty dollars to let me in to talk to my brother. I don’t know if he believed me even after I gave him the cash. But what am I going to do in here? Eat popcorn off the floor?
The orchestral musicians are all gone except for Birdie. Only people left are stagehands removing Clara’s living room backdrop and some remaining ballet dancers stretching and goofing around on stage.
Yeah, I missed the final performance of the New York Ballet Company’s The Nutcracker.
It’s bad.
I splay my arms over the pit rail, which is a short wall that separates the orchestra pit from the audience. The look Birdie is giving me would eviscerate just about anyone else, but I’m too used to his acidic nature.
He’s wearing concert blacks: black dress shirt, black pants, black shoes and socks. He rips out his earplugs by the cord they’re attached to.
“The dick better have been good, man,” he snaps. The dancers on stage stop leaping like they’ve just found their new source of entertainment. I glance warily at them, and they make no sign of being discreet.
One blonde girl stares directly at me and whispers in the other’s ear.
“Fucking A,” I mutter and stake a dark glare on her to fuck off. She hoists her chin in defiance. Ballerinas.
I’ve subbed in for musicians plenty of times at the ballet to know a literal and metaphorical divide sits between orchestral musicians and dancers.
Barely any of us are on a first-name basis. Dancers interact mostly with Giulia Carabello, the seasoned, regimented conductor, and the rare occasion when someone crosses the line between the pit and stage, it’s major gossip.
Most of the time, I just hear about dancers having meltdowns or bitching about the live tempo being off and screwing up their “perfect” variation.
I lean farther over the pit rail and lower my voice. “I wasn’t having sex,” I growl out to my brother.
Birdie’s brows rise as he stuffs a timpani mallet into my black mallet bag, which he must’ve grabbed from my room. “Really? Because I was happy to fill in for you knowing you were at least getting laid. Now I’m feeling used. Like a dirty old sock.”
“It’s not like that.” I gesture to him. “I appreciate this.”
“Appreciation means shit. You owe me.” He zips up the bag and follows my gaze toward the stage. The girls are giggling.
Birdie grins.
I grit down on my molars and nail him with a vicious look. Don’t do it.
“Man, I know you have a twelve-inch dick,” he says loudly while making direct eye contact with me. “But there are worse problems in the world. Wars. Famine—”
“Birdie—” I’m hustling to the end of the aisle where stairs descend into the orchestra pit.
“—World hunger. We all can’t be worried about your big…”
I’m in the pit.
“Fat…”
Feet away.
“Co—”
I place my hand over his mouth. The laughter from the stage echoes shrilly.
I can feel Birdie’s shit-eating grin underneath my palm.
I’d like to say this is an unusual occurrence, but Birdie making me the butt of a joke is practically his way of saying I love you.
Probably because he knows I can take it.
“Truly unnecessary.” I drop my hand from his mouth and shove his chest.
He’s still smirking as he sways backward. “Please. You’ll thank me later when one of the dancers in the corps de ballet asks for your number.” He grabs his water bottle off the floor and twists the cap.
“I don’t want their number.”
“Right. You’re shooting for a principal. Got to get the talented dick.”
I roll my eyes. “Can we stop talking about dick for five seconds?”
He grimaces into his swig of water, then rubs the back of his lips with his hand. “So you didn’t get laid and you don’t want to talk about dick?” He sweeps me in deeper concern. “Seriously, where were you?”
“You might want to take a seat.”
He rubs a hand over his buzzed head. “Mom and Dad?”
“It’s not about them.” I gesture toward the black aluminum fold-out chair.
Birdie plops down, his expression graver as he prepares for bad news. “Wait.” He holds up a hand, then unbuttons the first three buttons on his shirt, rolls up the sleeves to his elbows, and digs in his backpack. He takes out a standard pencil.
I frown. “What is that for?”
“To stab you with in case this goes poorly.” He scratches something on the sheet of music at the stand.
“Just don’t go for the jugular.”
“I was thinking more like the thigh.” He rips off a portion of the paper and hands it to me.
“Death by lead is the way I’ve always wanted to go,” I say dryly, then let out a short laugh as soon as I see his phone number scribbled on the torn page. “Who am I giving this to?”
“Dancer. The cute one with blonde hair.”
“The bitchy one,” I correct.
“Bitchy and cute.” He points the pencil at me. “Deliver my nine digits.”
I fold the paper. “This is your Future Favor?” It’s what we call our IOUs. I didn’t think he’d be cashing in already.
He makes a disgruntled expression before rising off the chair. “No, this is a brotherly duty. Hurry before they leave.” He’s pushing my shoulder.
I am a magnet to conflict. Prone to confrontation. Crossing into a ballet dancer’s domain isn’t going to end well for me. “And why can’t you do it yourself?” I ask.
“They think you’re the one with the big dick.”
“The fuck, fine,” I curse, shoving him back with my forearm. The things I do for my little brother.
I drag a fold-out chair. The pit is about seven feet below the stage, so I stand on the chair to see over it, and I rest my elbows on the surface. As soon as I’m facing the ballerinas, the two slender girls twist to look at me in suspicion.
“You.” I nod toward the blonde girl, her hair pulled in a tight, painful-looking bun.
She crosses her arms in defense. “I have a name.”
“Does it look like I know it?” I ask irritably.
“Beth Anne.”
“Terrible name. Here.” I slide the piece of paper toward her on the stage.
She lets out a sharp laugh. “Uh, no.”
“Great. Thanks for doing my brother a favor. I’m sure he would’ve had tons of fun with you.”
“Asshole,” she says while her friend draws her toward backstage. They whisper together, then end up laughing as they disappear behind the curtain.
When I jump off the chair and rotate to my brother, he’s shaking his head repeatedly. “Excruciating,” he says. “You have the charm of a black hole. How many sad fuckers have you consumed?”
“Not enough.” I push the paper with his number into his chest.
Birdie takes it. “I’d say you’re in a mood, but the ‘drop-dead’ vibe is basically your natural state.” Still, he explores the edges of my face, especially as I rub at my sore eyes. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”
It is hitting me. The lack of sleep. My head heavies.
He shoves the paper in his front pocket, then picks his water bottle back up. “Is that why you no-showed?” he asks. “Feeling too jittery?”
“I can play without sleep.”
He holds out a hand like eh. “Maybe a drum kit, but I’ve seen you on timpani after 48 hours no sleep and you can’t keep time.”
I glare. “Fuck you, I can keep time.”
“You rush and play ahead of the beat.” He smiles and sips his water. He’s such a shit. He’s also a motherfucking musical prodigy, so I can’t exactly argue with him forever.
“It wasn’t lack of sleep,” I tell him. “I honestly just forgot I promised Stewie I’d fill in for him tonight. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
Birdie nods. “So you turned off your phone?”
“Put it in airplane mode.”
His brows hike. “Now I’m out of guesses on what’s going on.”
A stagehand stomps onto the stage. “Dancers, time to go! We’re cutting lights in five!” His eyes fall to the pit. “Same for orchestra!”
Birdie grabs his backpack, and I go for the mallet bag, slinging the strap over my shoulder. He looks me over. “You take the train?”
“Suzuki.” I’ve had my bike since I was sixteen.
“Not getting on that thing. Fucking donor cycle.”
“Didn’t think you would.” I know his feelings on motorcycles.
Last time Birdie rode on the back of my Suzuki, he was fourteen and broke out in a cold sweat by the time I took him to school. Nothing scared him more than the idea of breaking an arm and being unable to play cello for weeks on end.
Nothing scared me more than hearing “I told you it was dangerous. You should’ve never gotten that bike, Phoenix. Look what you did to your brother” from our sensible parents.
We exit the Whitney Theater and end up walking a couple blocks to a nearby park. An ice-skating rink filled with the last guests of the night. Lights twinkle in trees, and I try to hang on to the magic of the holidays before it’s all stripped down soon.
We snag a couple hot dogs from Sabrett’s and land at a bench overlooking the rink.
“Cheers.” Birdie licks mustard off his thumb and holds out his dog. I tap mine with his before we both take bites.
I glance over at him for a beat.
We barely look alike. I took more after our father’s side. The French. He took after our mother’s. The Irish.
Birdie’s hair is a warm brown color, much lighter than my nearly black, and it’s buzzed against his scalp. He has steel-gray eyes, a black 6mm gauge in his ear, and a red birthmark shaped like a slow breaking cloud on his neck.
I’m mid-chew when I say, “I told Jere I wanted to play in a band again.”
I’m technically not a member of Nothing Personal, but I’ve been with the band just as long as Birdie.
When my brother signed on as their drummer three years ago, I joined the stage crew.
I’ve been on tour with them. I test and set up their equipment before each performance. I’ve been to most studio sessions.
And I’ve written eighty percent of their songs.
A hundred percent of their hits.
Birdie swallows slowly. “For real?”
“For real.”
He frowns. “The drums?”
“What the fuck else am I going to play?”
“You’re right, you suck at guitar. And your bass playing sounds like a cow slowly dying in its sleep.”
I laugh. “Fuck you.”
“I’m not wrong.” He smiles over at me.