Hollow Stars

by Lauryn Dyan

  I face the crowd. Most of the drunker folks are still jumping up and down but others are starting to exchange bewildered glances. I turn around and pace the stage a moment to regain my composure and find Sonny and Oli anxiously looking at me too. Sonny opens her eyes wide and signals at the mic with her chin for me to hurry and sing as she pounds the keyboard. If there was ever a time to fake it, this is it.

  I swivel back to the sea of people with a plastic smile as though this instrumental solo was my plan all along. I bob to the music a moment before I finally lean in and shout, “How about these fucking guys?” holding out my arms at my bandmates. The crowd erupts and I wait a beat for the applause to fade before I sing the last line of the bridge and then go straight into the chorus. I let my voice soar, sinking to my knees and screaming into the mic. I have to pour all my energy into my performance. I must. Because if I let even an ounce of it go toward figuring out how I started the show completely blacked out, I’ll lose my goddamn mind right here on stage.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “What happened out there?” Sonny asks, as she grabs my hand to lead me off the now empty stage before anyone else can get to me. I spot Samantha tucked behind the heavy, open curtain watching me over our empty road cases, an unreadable expression on her face.

  “I have no fucking idea,” I whisper. “I don’t remember stepping on stage or the beginning of our performance.”

  “That is crazy. Do you think Ric…” She’s about to ask the question that’s been plaguing me since the house lights came up, but we nearly smack into the devil himself rounding a corner from the depths of the venue.

  “Hey babe, how was your set?” He touches my arm and I involuntarily flinch away. His jaw tightens instantly with surprise and hurt. “What’s wrong?”

  Even with the clattering of instruments and din of voices in the bustle of breakdown, an awkward silence falls around us. I’m not sure what to tell him. He’s the last thing I remember before coming to. It’s another coincidence in a long line of happenstance unless they aren’t coincidences at all...

  Sonny jumps in to fill the uncomfortable quiet.

  “She had another blackout.”

  “What? During the show? How the shit does this keep happening?” He looks genuinely confused and concerned and it makes me want to collapse into his arms. Have a long scream or cry or maybe both. My suspicion wavers. This can’t be his fault. Sonny must sense my crumbling nerve because she places one hand on my shoulder to anchor me from floating into his grasp.

  “I don’t know. You tell me?” I say, with steely resolve.

  He furrows his brow and it casts a shadow over his troubled, beautiful eyes.

  “What the hell does that mean?” His glance flits to Sonny with a flash or irritation. This conversation probably would be better in private but I’m worried, if she leaves, he’ll make my doubts evaporate like he always does. It might be time to assess what’s happening to me logically rather than emotionally. Too bad that seems impossible staring at the face that makes me want to sing cliché love ballads.

  I gulp and it swallows down some of the venom in my voice.

  “My last memory is of us standing right here after your set.”

  He runs his hand through his hair.

  “You don’t remember anything after that? The, um, equipment storage room?” We must have gotten a room after all. He seems embarrassed to talk about our sexcapades in front of Sonny, but I’m not. Talk of my sex life has always been between me and God and Sonny.

  I shake my head in response. The sound of a cymbal crashing rings through my ears but I’m not sure if the crew on stage just did it packing away Oli’s drums or if the reverberation is an echo of something that happened when I was lost in my blackout.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Kennedy. If you think I had something to do with this, you’re dead wrong,” he says, through clenched teeth. While he sounds mad at my unspoken accusation, he can’t hide the panic in his searching eyes. Is it worry he’s losing me or worry he’s being found out?

  “I don’t want to think you did,” I admit, conflicted. “But you’re always there when something goes wrong.”

  “Of course I am. I’m always with you.” He takes a breath before he angles himself more towards me in an effort to block Sonny who has not moved a muscle since we started talking. “And I will be, no matter what.”

  I look beside me to my best friend but she purses her lips and shrugs unsure what to tell me, even though we both know what I want to hear. I tentatively step forward and place a hand on Rickly’s chest. He needs no other invitation. He quickly envelops me in his arms and I sigh with relief to be close to him again. So much for remaining unemotional.

  ***

  I shoot up stick straight in my metal bed. I was having a vivid dream when an ear piercing shout from my nutty neighbor jarred me from my sleep. Griping the sheets, I breathe heavily. Was that really a dream or another memory resurfacing? My mouth is dry but I know from experience, the second my feet hit that cold, linoleum floor, I’ll forget everything. I need to go over every detail now before I lose it again to the dark vortex in my head.

  The dream was disjointed like I changed from scene to scene too fast, leaving out the transitions. It started at the beach:

  I’m in Rickly’s arms gazing down at the moonlit waves, giggling as the tepid water pulls the sand out from under our bare feet making us sink into the soft earth below. His eyes study me as he gently tips my face up to his.

  “You’ve never looked so perfect,” he murmurs. I smile as we sink further down.

  Then, in an instant, we’re walking hand-in-hand along a path of dark, wooden planks illuminated in patches by streetlights. The boardwalk. I remember it vaguely from Florida. The word ‘tour’ hangs in the air though we are both silent. I feel warm and content as we approach the only open shop along the path.

  “Let’s get tattoos!” I shriek, as a pink, neon ‘Ink’ sign comes into focus.

  Rickly laughs.

  “You sure? We’ve been drinking.” I try to drag him inside but the world around us begins to vibrate. My feet stop along with the buzz as he pulls his phone from his pocket. “We’re by a hot dog stand and tattoo parlor,” he informs the caller.

  “I want a freaking hot dog,” I squeak, spotting the silver kiosk. “Shit, it’s closed.” My giddiness fades as the glinting cart disappears with Davey materializing in its place. He must have been who Rickly was talking to on the phone though Rickly is now M.I.A. too. I hate how dreams don’t always give a perfect narrative of what’s happening.

  “He went to the bathroom,” Davey explains. He narrows his raven eyes at me as the atmosphere shifts and becomes heavy. The cold sweat on my back is still drying from this moment when the dream twisted to a nightmare.

  “We’re getting tattoos,” I offer. “I want an infinity symbol since I never want this amazing time in my life to end.” My smile wavers as he stares at me blankly.

  Rickly surfaces beside me from nowhere. He leans into my ear, but when he whispers his words, they’re not in his voice.

  “Nothing lasts forever and neither will your fame.” As he pulls back, I turn and see it’s not Rickly at all, but Davey, a sinister expression playing across his face. His dark features start to distort into sharp, pointed ebony masses and I have an overwhelming urge to run. Perhaps my neighbor’s sole cry of ‘Count Chocula!’ that woke me played into that last part.

  As I process the pictures, I let Davey’s name escape my lips. Is he responsible for all this, or am I projecting my suspicions on him because I so badly want to believe Rickly has nothing to do with it? I intentionally look at the K on my ceiling and imagine his black-clad frame on that tile carving it into the surface. Is he the asshole who did that and so much more?

  ***

  The warm night air surrounds us but the breeze passing over my still fresh sweat gives me a shiver. Rickly and I stand outside my bus waiting for the driver to come unlock the doo
r. We’re the first ones here tonight. I’m anxious to get to my bunk and try to piece together what happened on stage. Fortunately, we’re hitting the road right away so I don’t have to make up an excuse for not going out to party.

  “You’re shaking. Are you freezing or freaking out?” Rickly asks, rubbing one hand up and down my bare arm. I like performing in tank tops, but right now it seems like a dumb choice.

  “A little of both,” I respond, dejected. I knew this was all too good to be true, there had to be a catch. I just didn’t expect it to be losing my mind. When we first got signed and I fantasized about our future, I assumed we’d hit speed bumps: creative differences; a shitty song but, hopefully, not a shitty album; tawdry one-night stands; a broken down bus. This is extreme. I like to think everything happens for a reason, but unless this is God’s wrath for me disappointing my religious mother, I can’t imagine why this is happening.

  “We will figure this out. You shouldn’t be blacking out when you’re sober,” he states. I nod and gaze down guiltily. “What?”

  “I did have one shot tonight,” I admit. It’s ridiculous to be ashamed of a single shot when I’ve done ten times that in a night, but considering the circumstances, it probably wasn’t the best decision.

  He stops rubbing my arm. His statue-like silence is worse than being yelled at.

  “Are you pissed?” I ask, looking back up at him cautiously.

  He exhales.

  “A little, yeah. I know we agreed to be more sober, not stop drinking but, given everything that’s been happening, I thought you’d be smarter than that.”

  I’m warming up now, my defensiveness slowly boiling to the surface.

  “This is a lot to handle. I didn’t think a sip of alcohol was going to lead to such an epic blackout. I only wanted to calm my nerves before the show,” I snip.

  “That’s the problem. You always need something. To calm your nerves. To fix a hangover. To get through a boring lunch.”

  “Seriously?” I retort. “You do the same thing!”

  Rickly shifts closer to me and lowers his voice as the driver, Kurt, walks up from behind the back of the bus. “Yeah, but I’m not having ‘episodes’ and honestly, I usually just do it because you are.”

  Now I’m hot with rage and hurt. I always thought we did that stuff because we both enjoy it. He’s basically calling me a bad influence and, what’s worse, making it seem as though he never really wanted to do any of it. It’s like all those good times early in our relationship were a lie. I was having fun and he was going along with it. That may be an irrational generalization but, in this instant, it’s all I can think.

  “Well shit, I didn’t realize I was so controlling. Forcing you to drink or take pills against your will to tolerate being around me.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Don’t get carried away,” he says, dismissively.

  Kurt scoots behind us to the door and gives an awkward nod. He fumbles with his keys in an attempt to quickly unlock it. He’s a nice guy. Keeps to himself but is always friendly and accommodating. I’m embarrassed we’re making him uncomfortable, which adds to my growing irritation. I wait for him to go inside before I unleash my scathing retort.

  “I’m not sure what the fuck you meant then but I need some time to figure it out, and what’s happening, without you making me feel like shit.”

  “What? I just want to help! I’m not trying to hurt your feelings,” he flounders, surprised by my reaction.

  “Well, you failed.” I pause as the rest of our bandmates come out of the venue’s back door. They're laughing and passing around a bottle. Trecia and Sonny lean together conspiratorially while they point at Davey and Ace and a pang of jealousy hits me. I want to be carefree again, hanging out and joking with my friends. My mind will no longer allow it. Tears flood my eyes. I need to wrap this fight up before they spill over. “You should sleep in your van tonight.”

  “Kennedy,” Rickly begins, but he must sense my stubborn resolve because all he adds is a clipped, “Fine.”

  He turns on his heels and walks away, making some quippy remark to Jack as he passes to play off his exit. As I watch him make his way to his ghetto mobile, I immediately regret sending him off. Pissed at him or not, having him near is the only comfort I have right now. I just shot myself in the foot, and somehow it doesn’t seem like the first time.

  ***

  “Charting the Stars.” The bold, white letters practically shout at me from the cover of the magazine that arrived from my mom in the mail today along with a newspaper. I’ve been staring at my band pictured happily on the shiny paper since I opened the envelope in my room, unable to bring myself to read the article inside. I feel a strange detachment from what I’m seeing. The photo, while recent, seems like it was taken years ago. We’re strewn about a park in various poses, but our expressions are all the same: euphoric. I lay in the middle of the grassy field on my back with my head resting on my hands, hair splayed around me like a starburst gazing at the sky they’ve photoshopped to be a deep navy and violet. I remember this picture from Atlanta. I’m surprised at how content I appear despite the fact I missed the interview before the shoot and was stressed beyond belief. It’s a beautiful cover. A bright spot sprung from one of my darkest days on the road.

  I leaf through the first few pages, procrastinating on getting to the main feature. Dozens of other bands grin up at me or scowl with serious faces in an attempt to look badass. We were once a thumbnail and blurb in the “Need to Know” section of this same publication.

  “An up and coming band from Arizona with an atmospheric sound, strong local following, and growing buzz in the west coast,” it’d said. We’d jumped up and down like giddy school kids when we saw it. Our rise spread like wildfire from there. I wish I could reverse time and do it over again, but then I might just end up back here. No, I change my wish. I want to figure out what’s wrong with me first, then go back and do it over and correct that one part, if it’s even fixable.

  Finally, about two-thirds in, I flip past a headphones ad and find it. Another variation of the park scene in a two-page spread announcing our story. In this image, I’m on the far right under a large, birch tree that separates me from the rest of the band. Whoever shot this didn’t know how appropriate this picture would be today but, instead of rolling grass and a park bench separating us, its miles of highway and a mental black hole. I run my hand along the figure of each of my bandmates with longing. Only when I get to Davey does my yearning give way to something darker. Suspicion. Time to dive in.

  The article starts predictable enough. A succinct, but brief, overview of our rise to fame. This one reads like the same old, same old. “High school friends recruit members for band…started playing covers…began writing their own material…created an engrossing live show…caught the college set’s attention…landed a record deal,” etc. It sounds like a dream come true. Every musician’s fantasy.

  There are a lot of quotes from members of the band weaved throughout, but only a couple from me. I’m lucky the interviewer was at the shoot so I’m even included at all.

  After the preamble, we get to current events. My stomach drops at the first line.

  “Are the Stars falling?” The writer alludes to my absence from the interview, calling it unusual to have an in-depth session with a band minus their lead singer unless the group is experiencing strife.

  “Fuck no,” Jack had replied. The author then segues my entrance with reassurance he’s not full of shit. She has a point though. What was Samantha thinking? Why did she let them start without me rather than postponing or rescheduling? The thought never crossed my mind. All I could think was how I let everyone down. Maybe it was Sam who let me down. Hadn’t I earned some leeway? Maybe not after almost getting arrested on the beach days before…

  I stew on that as I read on. The author starts the next section by recounting our electric performance of our first album the night before. As I turn the page, there’s a quote from me in b
ig, blue letters under our standard publicity photo we took not long after being signed.

  “I want to write that song that someone can’t live without.”

  Amen. I still want to do that when I get out of here. That would be a good album name, “Songs You Can’t Live Without.”

  Next, she hits our creative process. The first quote is from Sonny.

  “We work well together bringing a song to life. It’s like we’re this surgical, wonder team. Each of us using our different talents to carefully make sure it survives and thrives.” I smile, picturing me and her in my bedroom back home, delicately prepping the beginnings of a new song. Then the excitement of hearing each of the guys give it new life as they graft in their parts. It’s a perfect metaphor.

  Finally, the writer wraps things up with talk of our future. I gasp as though I’ve been punched in the chest as I re-read the main quote in black italics to be sure I’m not misinterpreting it.

  “I’m stepping up and taking lead on developing lyrics for our next album. I’ve got all this passion inside me and it needs a place to surface and breathe.”

  Perhaps if the words were from Sonny, I’d be less offended. Perhaps. Just a stretch of the truth to answer a question asked when I wasn’t present. But they’re not from Sonny, they’re from Davey. It’s goddamn Davey. Did he steal my band?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Sometimes, the wealth of information on the Internet is both a blessing and a curse. I’m holed up in my bunk, my hands aching from gripping my phone tightly while I Google blackouts and memory loss. A lot of its repetitive and little is helpful. There’s no ah ha! article that matches exactly what’s happening to me with a cause and a cure. It’s all what I would expect.

  “Memory loss can be caused by a head injury, aging, stress, sleep deprivation, depression or drugs and alcohol.” It also lists stroke, which is so scary I almost had one reading about it but my lack of other symptoms made it an unlikely culprit.