58. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
“It sounds like shit,” Birdie says about thirty minutes before doors open in Midtown Manhattan. The only people milling around are venue staff and band crew.
I’m behind my brother’s drum kit onstage and playing Nothing Personal’s “Tragic Hold” with a cringe. Not because I hate the song. I immediately hear a boingy noise and a warble.
“So bad,” Birdie shakes his head, hearing it too.
“Your rack tom is choked,” I say, then shoot him a warning glare. “Don’t mention my Tom.” I clarify quickly, “Tom Carraway Cobalt.”
“I should give him a business card with my full name, just so he sees mine is cooler. Birdie Haydn St. Pierre,” he says while scrutinizing the kit. “Hit the floor tom again.” I do, and he frowns. “That’s so floppy.”
“I’ve got it.” I loosen the lugs on the rack tom before tightening the ones on the floor.
Birdie checks his phone. “Fuck, they’re here.”
“Mom and Dad?”
“Yeah. Dad said the line is wrapped around the block.”
We’re at Radio City Music Hall, an iconic, intimate venue with all theater seating. A great concert for them to attend. Moshing is unlikely.
I can’t go grab our parents while I’m in the middle of tuning Birdie’s drum kit. There are backline techs in our tour crew, but my brother is particular about sound and wanted me to fix it.
The answer to this problem comes onstage. Tom walks toward us, texting on his phone, his left wrist still splinted. “I am not, am not, am not sharing a room with my sister. Ben Pirrip is losing the plot here. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He should not be sleeping on a pull-out again. This is so messed up.”
It is very weird, considering the Cobalts are so loaded they could purchase the entire 21st floor. Hell, maybe even the entire fancy-as-fuck high-rise. Then again, I understand the pricelessness of living with a sibling while you can.
I’m not in a hurry to ditch my brother in Chelsea. Would bail on the burnt-pepperoni apartment, though.
Birdie is only partially paying attention to Tom’s rant. He’s too concerned about the drums. He’s squatting down and twisting a lug on the floor tom.
“Hey, nepo baby,” I call out.
Tom huffs at his phone.
“Tom. Can you shelve the Cobalt Empire drama for two seconds? I need your help.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He immediately shoves his phone in his pocket. “What can I do?”
“My parents are here. I need you to bring them into the green room.”
Surprise jumps his brows and Birdie’s. Then Tom says a quick, “Yeah, for sure. I’d be happy to. No take backs!” He points at me and rushes out with a grin. He’s wanted to meet my parents for a long time. But they still don’t know we’re together.
No idea how this is going to fucking go. I won’t be around to see it, I realize.
Birdie stands up while I test the kick drum. “Cobalts are acting like the sky is falling because why?”
“You know why.” He’s heard the drama every week. “Their little sister wants to move in with them.”
He bends back to the floor tom. “What kind of girl has five brothers in a major tailspin?
“I’ve barely met her, man.”
“Hope to never,” he says, then releases a tight sigh when I lightly tap the floor tom and it wobbles. He needs to get out of my way. I’d just fixed that.
“Let go.” I swat his hand aside and shove his chest back. “I’m doing it. Stop stressing.”
Birdie nods a few times and tugs down the sleeves to his graphic tee. “You should be more stressed. Your Tom-Tom just went to greet Mom and Dad alone.”
“Because I’m helping you, dickhead.”
He has an appreciative look. “I owe you a Future Favor. Don’t waste it. You’ve only had like two this year.”
“It’ll be something good.” I test the toms again. “Better?”
His lip twitches. “Rack tom sounds off.”
I loosen another lug and try not to imagine Tom bringing my parents into the venue. What’s the worst that can happen?
Blood trickles down my face from a three-inch gash in my forehead. The positive is that I banged into a metal truss after the final encore song. We finished our set, and I’m sitting in the green room, pressing blood-soaked gauze to my forehead.
I haven’t even seen my parents yet.
Tom said they didn’t want to bother me and Birdie, so they’d catch us after the show. “They’re very comfortable in their seats next to my parents,” Tom assured. “All parents safe, sound, and accounted for. Also, I nailed it.” He grinned. “They already love me.”
I would’ve thought he was fucking exaggerating if he wasn’t rocking on his feet in excitement when he said it.
Now he’s on the phone, his knee on the couch cushion beside my thigh while he hovers over me and inspects the gash beneath the gauze. “He said he’s not dizzy. No blurred vision. Okay, okay. Thanks, yeah.”
We’re both coated in sweat from the ninety minutes we just spent onstage. Our breathing is still labored, but I think Tom’s is more from worry.
He hangs up and tells me, “A medic is coming from the first aid station.”
Great, so they should be here soon to check out the stupidest fucking injury I’ve obtained in my life. Sorry, no, the one time I cut my hand on a can of tuna was fucking dumber.
I’m more pissed at myself than anything. I wish this happened at literally any other concert. I don’t think I’m concussed. Just trying to stop the bleeding before my parents appear. “My mom is going to freak out,” I warn Tom.
“My mom would too if I looked like Carrie.”
I get the movie reference, but I can’t see myself. “There’s no way I look as bad as a girl who had pig’s blood dumped on her head at prom.”
“It’s pretty bad, dude.” Tom leaves just to return with a wet rag. He wipes my face for me, staining the cloth crimson, and he keeps asking if I’m disoriented.
“No,” I promise, knocking my foot with his since my hands are occupied. “I’m more wired than anything.” It’s not long before the medic makes a quick assessment and sutures my forehead.
Three stitches later, I’m bandaged up, and Birdie is leading our parents into the green room. Our mom has nervous energy. Her head is on a swivel, eyes swinging left and right in search of me like I’m a four-year-old about to be snatched in an airport.
I used to joke with Birdie that we must’ve been kidnapped when we were kids. Now, as I’ve gotten older, I wonder if something happened to her. If it has nothing to do with us.
Our dad carries an air of apprehension. Like he’s preparing for things to go to shit and to dig me and Birdie out of it.
“Mom!” I call out to save her the trouble. “Back here.”
“Phoenix?” Her gray eyes go bulbous at the bloodied towel in Tom’s hand. He tosses it over the couch.
“He’s fine. Totally okay. Barely scratched.” Tom flashes the least smug smile in his arsenal. One that’s very cute, very endearing. He’s trying hard.
It works. My mom’s strict collar relaxes when she reaches us. No makeup, she has soft, fair skin and a delicate face. Almost the antithesis of Tom’s mom, who I saw earlier. Rose has red lipstick, smoky eyeshadow, and knives for cheekbones.
“What happened?” my mom asks, wincing.
“Take a seat, please. I’ll explain,” I motion to the loveseat adjacent to the couch. They both stiffly sit, and Birdie remains standing while I paraphrase the uninteresting ordeal and watch my dad’s lips downturn farther and farther.
I’m sure he’s thinking, This wouldn’t happen in the orchestra.
He pushes up the sleeves to his button-down. He might not be made of a billion dollars like Tom’s dad, but he cleans up well. He has a trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and dark, nearly black, hair that he slides his fingers through several times.
“You should be at the hospital,” he cuts in, unable for me to even finish saying, I’m not dizzy. I’m fine.
Tom is restraining this stupid fucking smile, and I realize now…my dad is as impatient as me. Fucking hilarious.
“Dad—”
“Head trauma—”
“I’m not even a little bit concussed,” I bark back.
“I’d prefer you go.”
“Me too,” my mom nods. “You need an MRI. CT scan.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It is not that bad.”
“Who told you this?” my dad asks.
“What medic checked you out?” my mom glances around like she can flag them down and ask a million and one questions.
“I’ll go to the hospital in like fifteen minutes,” I agree, just to end this.
“Did you take your bike?” Dad asks. “You can’t ride it—”
“Aware. I won’t be on a motorcycle.”
“Take the train,” Dad suggests.
“If he wants to be mobbed,” Birdie says, popping a soda.
Mom’s face falls. “Mobbed?”
Thanks, Birdie.
“Tom and Phoenix had to have security just to get in here without being fondled.” Birdie motions a finger at us. “They’re like really big C-list celebrities now.” He grins into a sip of soda. Tom looks like he wants to smack it out of my brother’s hand.
“A-list,” Tom corrects. “We’re a big deal.”
I can’t even refute Tom. We were swarmed outside the Rockefeller Plaza for our late-night segment. We had six security guards on us, and I still had to pry hands off Tom.
I’ve seen the level of fame that follows his parents, and we’re still not near it. Which is insanity to me. This is more than I would’ve ever comprehended from the start.
“You never said anything about that,” Mom frowns at me.
“Nothing bad happened. We’re fine,” I assure her.
“Tom, will you drive him to the hospital?” she asks.
Surprise hits me and Birdie.
“I will, yeah,” Tom nods.
“Do you know how to drive a car?” I ask seriously, staring at his lips for a second.
“Yeah.” He nods, glancing down at my lips too, then up at my eyes. He smiles. I’ve only ever seen him ride his motorcycle. And that was one time. I’ve coveted his Yamaha, to the point where he gave me the keys. He said it’s been collecting dust in his parking garage.
“Or maybe…a cab?” my mom is asking my dad.
“I’ll have my bodyguard drive,” Tom assures them. “But I’ll go with Phoenix.” He places his hand on my thigh, and I’m about to shove him off—but it hurts even thinking it.
So I don’t.
My chest is tight, and I prepare to tell my parents the truth. When I twist back to them, my mom is smiling. My dad even has a soft one.
Before I ask anything, my mom says, “The Carraways, the show—it was absolutely dynamic. The music…” Her eyes well with pride in ways I’ve never seen before. “I can see why you have so many loving fans.”
My dad bobs his head in agreement. “The scream-singing I could do without.”
Tom laughs, which makes me laugh into a smile too.
“But besides that,” my dad says, “it was wonderful. Really, Phoenix. It’s really nice seeing you in your element.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say quietly.
Tom pushes up to a stance. “I’m going to find my parents. Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. St. Pierre.”
“Likewise,” my parents say together, Mom with a big, big smile. Birdie cringes at it.
Tom points at me. “I’ll be back to collect you.”
“Great,” I say dryly. “You want to put an AirTag on me too?”
“No need. I am a homing pigeon, Phoenix.”
Is he calling me his home? I look him up and down. “I thought you were a fucking lion?”
He flips me off behind my parents’ backs.
I laugh and turn back to my mom’s smile, which hasn’t dimmed. Then she’s telling me, “I haven’t seen you this happy in so long.”
I don’t think I have been. “I feel like I’m finally moving past the Chase stuff. This album I wrote with Tom has helped. Performing it every night.”
My dad nods with a crinkled expression, like he’s trying—really trying—to comprehend how angsty, raging music can heal and not hurt.
Rock music isn’t the reason we’re in pain. It’s the reason we haven’t let our pain consume us.
“That’s good,” he says. “That’s really good.”
It’s been dawning on me minute by minute. “Tom told you we’re together, didn’t he?”
My dad has a coy smile, then he looks down at my mom.
She procures a folded piece of paper out of her purse. “He wrote us a letter.” She tucks the white paper to her chest like it’s precious. “You’re very lucky you’ve found each other.”
My dad gives a much more robust nod.
Tom wrote them a letter? It’s barely processing.
“When’s the World Tour start?” my dad asks, and as I begin talking about The Carraways, I realize they’re not asking about money and my debt. They’re openly supporting my band in a way they’ve yet to do.
I feel like I’m dreaming. Reality returns when I ask, “Were you able to watch Nothing Personal? Birdie played great tonight.”
My little brother glances expectantly at them, waiting with bated breath.
“Bird, you were terrific,” Mom says, nodding too fast. “Really great. Philippe?”
Dad sucks in a breath through his nose. “Of course, you’re always excellent, but drums are Phoenix’s discipline. It’s nicer seeing you on cello.”
“He played cello too,” I say.
“For one song,” Dad rebuts. “And not even in his band. It was your band. It would be nice to see Birdie put all his potential and talent into something…more.”
Birdie stares unblinkingly at a stain in the carpet.
“Dad,” I force out.
“It’s not a criticism—”
“—the fuck it isn’t.”
“Language, Phoenix,” Mom chastises, glancing around the green room like we’re at the theater and going to be kicked out.
“It’s been a great night,” Dad tells us. “Let’s not end on a soured note.” The only reason I let it go is because Birdie shakes his head at me like, Not worth the trouble. I thank them for coming and hug my mom goodbye, then my dad. And he says, “Go with your boyfriend to the hospital.”
I assure him I will, then they’re gone.
Birdie and I are staring off, side by side. He’s the first to say what I’m thinking. “Must’ve been some letter.” He chugs his soda. “Think he can write me one?”