Chapter 8
Theo
Since the Saints are filling in for a band who canceled last-minute, we have a single day to practice before I’m supposed to turn them loose on the historic Sunset Theater, the most high-profile stage of their careers.
One meager day to repair their fractured relationships and improve their lackluster performances, with the executives at Manifest watching. No pressure at all.
There’s a single hushed moment when we walk into the Sunset Theater and the band beholds the legendary stage, contemplating the rock history that’s unfolded here. One moment of peaceful reverence where I find myself thinking that today might not be so bad.
And then all hell breaks loose.
Before he’ll start practicing, Kenny insists on burning sage around the periphery of the theater to expel bad spirits.
When he’s finished, and the energy still isn’t sitting right, I have to stand perfectly motionless while he burns sage around me, the apparent source of the bad vibes.
Burnt sage, it turns out, smells like cat piss.
When we’re done with the herbs, crystals are next.
I’d naively assumed the backpack Kenny was carrying was full of song notes and drum shit, but it turns out it’s full of rocks, which he pulls out one by one, lining them around the stage in the right order to achieve a “harmonious balance of energy.”
And Kenny is the easy one. Ripper’s obsession with the spotlight is rivaled only by his obsession with catching his reflection in every shiny surface.
Bowie and two guitar techs have to carry a mirror offstage just to get him to focus.
He keeps goading Hannah and Kenny, grabbing Hannah’s guitar to play riffs, nudging aside Kenny’s carefully placed crystals.
Hannah, on the other hand, is a detached machine.
I can’t tell if she’s nervous for tomorrow’s show or pissed to have been roped back into playing, but the moment we get onstage, she pulls open a thick black notebook and bends over it, ignoring us, like she’s going to plan the whole show herself.
Unfortunately, even Hannah isn’t immune to Ripper’s antics.
She keeps putting down her notebook to snap at him, which only riles him, which then makes Kenny fret more about energy.
It’s no wonder these fuckers can’t produce anything. They’re ungovernable.
I’m left with no other option than to pull the Captain Dickhead Maneuver, a tried-and-true method in which I use my status as the band’s number-one enemy to bond them in mutual hatred. Desperate times.
“Kenny,” I yell. “I can’t believe I even have to say this, but stop polishing your amethyst and sit down at your kit. Ripper, put down Hannah’s Jazzmaster. You don’t play lead guitar.”
“I could,” he says, “if some people weren’t so territorial.”
Hannah’s jaw tightens, but I’m already on it. “We can talk about that later. For now, I need you to practice.” I turn to her. “And you.”
She raises her eyebrows.
I look down at the black notebook in her hand. “Can I see that?”
For a long, fraught minute, I don’t think she’ll show me.
Finally, she shoves it at me. The notebook’s open to a page with the words Family Fruit scribbled in large, spiky handwriting.
It’s full of lyrics that have been crossed out and written over in darker ink.
The moment I start to read, my throat closes up.
Like “Six Feet Under,” there’s no pretending the words on the page are anything but Hannah’s insides, spilled on paper.
It takes a particular set of skills to write something as raw and exposed as this without sailing into overwrought territory.
And even if you pull off composing the song, you then have to perform it in public.
If the Saints put “Family Fruit” on their new album, Hannah will have to cut her heart open at each show and bleed onstage.
I won’t be able to fully judge the merits of “Family Fruit” until I hear it, so I ask Hannah to lead the band through a practice run.
“Stop,” I say, after about a minute. The three of them quiet their instruments. “Why don’t you stretch out the bridge? It’s going by too fast. You could double down, really make people sweat, beg for the chorus to come hammering in.” I straighten and wait to see what she thinks.
Hannah gives me a deadeyed stare. I hold my ground, then register a noise and realize she’s kicking her mic stand. I imagine she’s pretending it’s me. Finally, she says through gritted teeth, “I’ll try it.”
“Excellent.” I turn, then hear laughter. I swing around just in time to catch Hannah mocking my satisfied expression and mouthing the word Excellent, before she schools her face. “Yes?” she asks, the picture of innocence.
Captain Dickhead Maneuver, I remind myself. They may be making fun of me, but at least they’re doing it together.
I make my way to the side of the stage, where I’ll stand during the actual show. The minute I’m gone, Kenny, Ripper, and Hannah huddle together, debating my suggestion about the bridge. I take a deep breath, letting my lungs fill with air. Then I throttle an invisible band member.
“If it’s any consolation,” Bowie says, stepping up and giving me a smile, “you’re not the first person they’ve accused of being a soulless corporate drone.”
“Oh, wow.” I struggle not to roll my eyes.
“That does make me feel better.” But I return Bowie’s smile.
I’ve already grown to like him. He juggles the whole crew and he’s never without a smile.
Plus, I walked into one of the storage rooms in the back of the Sunset Theater and found him breaking down boxes and rocking out to their first album. The man genuinely loves the Saints.
“So.” I fold my arms over my chest. “How long have you been with the band?”
Bowie shoots me a surprised look. He’s on the shorter, rounder side, with spiked dark hair, a studded necklace, and kind, dark eyes. He reminds me of the guys who used to hang out in the library playing Dungeons and Dragons in high school. “From the beginning.”
I whistle. “College?”
He nods. “We were all in the same dorm freshman year. I started hanging with Kenny, then met Tarak and Hannah—sorry, Ripper and Hannah. Even when they were just messing around, I knew they had something special. I had a front-row seat to them coming up.”
“That kind of loyalty is rare these days.”
Bowie looks across the stage. “Sometimes life just puts you where you’re meant to be, you know? It was never a question, following them on the road. Those were wild times in the beginning. Just the five of us, figuring shit out.”
The five of them . . . “You mean the four of you and their old manager?”
He gives me a sad smile. “Ginny. She was the glue. She knew how to handle each of them.”
I let the words sink in for a minute, then ask, “And she went to the same college?”
Bowie nods. “Ginny followed Hannah everywhere. They were only a year apart. I’ve never met two closer people.
” He lifts his chin at Hannah, who’s busy demonstrating something to Ripper.
“Right after Ginny died, she disappeared. We found her a couple days later on the beach where they used to surf. Didn’t look like she’d slept.
Said she was waiting for Ginny to come home. ”
I clear my throat. “Do you mind telling me what happened to her? Ginny, I mean.” It was strange how little I’d found about her on the internet.
“She drowned,” Bowie says, so matter-of-factly I can tell it takes effort.
“One of those freak things. It was right after we started touring, about ten months ago. We got a weekend off and Ginny went home to visit her parents. Went out in the morning to surf. They think she hit her head on her board, then got caught in a rip current, because they found her pretty far down the shore.”
“Shit. Her poor parents.”
Bowie gives me a strange look. “Uh, yeah.” Onstage, the band is starting to put the pieces together on “Family Fruit,” Hannah’s voice carrying, Kenny and Ripper layering in.
“It’s been bad around here since she died,” Bowie admits. “It was almost a relief when Hannah quit. Like, the shoe had finally dropped, you know?” He shoots me a smile. “But then ‘Six Feet Under’ went viral. What’s the count now?”
“We’re at twenty-two million views.”
He nods at the stage. “It’s a good song. But she sells it.”
I watch Hannah sing a line, then sing it again, testing a cadence shift. “I know.”
He turns to me. “Hey, between us, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about—”
My phone starts buzzing in my pocket. I pull it out, then slap Bowie on the shoulder. “Sorry, man, I have to take this. It’s Roger.”
As I walk swiftly away from the stage, into the bowels of the venue, he calls out, “Tell him you met a great tour manager named Bowman Jericho who he should hire for other gigs!”
I wave, kick open the door to the greenroom, and find it empty. Only then do I answer. “Roger, hi.”
“Theodore.” Roger’s voice is booming, like always. “My favorite viral sensation. Congrats on blowing our view predictions out of the water.”
I duck my head around the corner to make sure I’m truly alone. “Sir, I can’t take credit. It was all the Saints.”