Better Than This

by Tia Souders

  My mother stood abruptly, smoothing her slacks as she did. “Excuse me, will you?” she asked, then turned without waiting for acknowledgement.

  Mr. Neely and Mr. Fransisco, ever the gentlemen, murmured their approval, but my throat went dry the second she stood. I couldn’t swallow over the panic rising in my throat, and as I watched her disappear up the stairs, I thought I might be sick.

  “Should we wait for your mother?” Mr. Fransisco asked, startling me.

  “No!” I said, a bit louder than intended. “No. I’m sure she’ll be back in a minute. She’s probably just using the restroom.” Maybe I could play for them and end the interview before she returned?

  “I hate to start without her, but we’re on a schedule, and I guess she’s heard you play a million times before. Why don’t you go ahead and play something for us? Start us off with original pieces, if you have any.”

  I forced myself to focus and clear my head. Wiping my damp palms on my skirt, I grabbed my guitar from the case on the floor and positioned myself. It took me several seconds to collect my scattered thoughts, most of them upstairs with my mother. I decided on a song I wrote a couple years ago, on an evening my mother went on one of her tirades.

  The song was one I played a million times. I began, trying to keep my increasing nerves out of the music. The song spoke of heartache and despair, which moved and flowed into a chorus, then picked up slightly, further highlighting the urgency in the emotion behind the chords. The song contained both jazz and blues influences and was one of few I had an easy time adjusting to after the accident. Because of the emotion I felt during composition, the song had a way of relaxing me.

  When I finished, I glanced up to Mr. Fransisco. His dark eyes sparkled as he shot Mr. Neely an approving grin. “You were right. She’s amazing—quite the talent.”

  The crushing weight on my shoulders and chest lifted, allowing me to genuinely smile for the first time since they arrived. But when my mother reappeared a moment later and sat down next to me on the sofa, the heaviness in my chest returned with a vengeance. My nostrils flared, as the scent of something strong and medicinal wafted into my nose. It took me a second to place the smell, and then it hit me—cough syrup. She raided the medicine cabinet.

  How many bottles had there been? Surely, just one.

  I inhaled a second time, trying not to be obvious at what I was doing, when I noticed a minty scent along with the cherry cough syrup. Was that… mouthwash?

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  “Miss Becker?” Mr. Fransisco asked, his voice growing impatient.

  My eyes snapped open. “What?”

  “I asked if you could please play something else for us. I suggested a piece from your upcoming audition.”

  “Oh, of course. Yes.” I glanced to Mr. Neely who inclined his head, his wide eyes imploring me to play. His expression alone told me not to screw this up.

  Ignoring my mother’s dazed expression, I repositioned my fingers on the strings and neck of the guitar, taking a deep breath. In. Out.

  My stomach tangled in knots, and so I pictured the chords of the song in my head and imagined my fingers playing over them until the image of my mother faded.

  Just play, I urged myself. Just play.

  My fingers glided over the strings and the chords of the L-200. It was a piece Mr. Neely and I had gone over to the point of exasperation. Bach’s Fugue. Extremely impressive if done well.

  I played seamlessly, keeping my eyes on my guitar, only glancing up once to see the intense gleam in Mr. Fransisco’s eyes. Squeezing my eyes shut, I glided into the rhythm of the music, letting myself feel the harmony. I gave myself over to it, pouring out all my anxiety into every chord until they felt as though they lived in my soul.

  So immersed in song, it took me a moment to notice the movement beside me. I opened my eyes, unease creeping over my flesh. But nothing could have prepared me for the sight of her swaying to the music like she was at a Rolling Stones concert. Out of nowhere, my mother applauded. At first, I tried to ignore it, squeezing my eyes so tight I saw red. But when the cackling of my mother’s laughter began, I could no longer ignore her.

  I glanced to Mr. Neely and Mr. Fransisco and their mortified expressions, and I fumbled the strings. I got behind in the music. Rushing to catch up with the harmony, the song quickly became unrecognizable. I willed myself to get it together, to get back on track, but when my mother left the room and returned with a glass of ice and something buttery in color, I lost it entirely.

  “Would you gentlemen like a drink?” she asked. “You look like you could use one,” she said, exaggerating the words in an odd way.

  I stopped playing without explanation and dropped my hands to my side.

  It was over. How could I explain my poor performance, let alone my mother’s behavior?

  “No, I don’t want a drink,” Mr. Fransisco said, his face flushed.

  She laughed. “You’re just like my husband. He doesn’t drink either, but where is he now?”

  I wanted to die as she waved a hand in the air. “Mom!” I yanked on the sleeve of my mother’s arm, but she didn’t so much as look in my direction. “Mom.” My voice broke.

  “Oh, Sam, it’s fine. I’ll tell you where he is.” She pointed to the men. “He’s probably with that woman,” she slurred. “Pfft!”

  A drop of spittle flew from her mouth, landing on Mr. Fransisco’s glasses. Grimacing, he wiped it away.

  “He doesn’t think I know, but I do. I do.”

  I wrung my hands in my lap, my thoughts pinging off the inside of my brain like a pinball machine while the heat of shame warmed my cheeks.

  “I think we should go,” Mr. Neely said. He glanced at me, apology warming his eyes.

  “Yes, I think leaving is a good idea,” Mr. Fransisco said.

  Both men stood and headed for the door. Mr. Neely paused, touching my arm in a gesture of sympathy. Something akin to disappointment rimmed his eyes, making me wonder whether Juilliard was my dream or his. And before I could take another breath, they left me standing in the doorway.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Mr. Fransisco said behind him as he hurried to their car.

  But my humiliation wouldn’t be complete without my father. So, when he chose that particular moment to pull into the driveway, I wasn’t surprised. I almost laughed at the timing. First my mother and now this…

  He stopped the car and jumped out. His clipped stride ate up the walkway until he came face-to-face with the men.

  “Who are you? And what are you doing here talking to my daughter during school hours without my permission?”

  I stepped forward. “Dad, leave them alone. They’re leaving, anyway.”

  Mr. Neely raised his hands, palms out, clearly not wanting to further agitate my father who stood before him red-faced, veins pulsing in his forehead. “We were here to interview Sam, but, as she said, we’re leaving now. No harm done.”

  Mr. Fransisco glanced at me one last time, delivering the final death blow with a single sentence. “Good luck to you.”

  They got in their car and left the same way they came. My father barely waited a minute before he turned on me. “What’s this about, Sam?”

  19

  The fresh evening breeze gave way to the stale air of The Clover. A slight haze hovered above the heads of a packed crowd. Purple and blue lights danced over the faces of the nearly three hundred people packed into the close quarters of the small club. Funny how I had dreaded this moment for days, but after today’s epic interview with The Davenport Foundation, I welcomed it like a soldier going into the trenches. I had to admit, I was just a little curious as to whether my day could possibly get any worse. Experience told me it could, and I was sadistically eager to find out.

  The tangy scent of sweat filled the air as I surveyed the massive amount of bodies packed together in the club. Derek found me as I squeezed past the crowd.

  “Sam!” He reached out and wrapped a hand around my arm, then
leaned toward me to be heard over the noise. “There’s almost three hundred people here. Can you believe it?”

  Before I could say anything, he pointed to the back of the room. “Carl opened up the back for more and set up tables and chairs for people outside. He has the door opened out to the patio and a sound system hooked up, so people can hear from out there.”

  I glanced to where Derek pointed, and sure enough, the door by the far wall stood open. Lingering in the doorway, Carl peered out into the crowd, turning to yell something at someone behind him, when Laird appeared beside him.

  Butterflies floated into my stomach and my heart beat against my ribcage. “He came,” I whispered.

  “What?” Derek asked.

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  Did this mean he still cared? Please, let it mean he still cared.

  I stared at him, willing him to look at me, but after a minute, Derek pulled me in the direction of the stage. I mounted the steps two at a time. Three huge posters, all of the band, hung on the wall behind the stage. Derek must have printed them especially for today considering I didn’t recognize any of them. In the middle was a close-up of me, waist up with my hand on the headstock of my guitar. I tried to recall when it was taken but couldn’t. All I could think about was Laird, how badly I wanted to talk to him, and what seeing him there meant to me.

  Someone’s stiff fingers raked the back of my neck, catching me off-guard. I glanced to Derek who winked at me and smiled. I let my eyes fall over the posters once more along with the signs proclaiming our comeback, and the depth of their exploitation nearly dropped me to my knees. Disgusted, I shrugged away from his touch, wondering who I was angrier with: them for treating me this way or me for allowing it.

  I placed my guitar case on the corner of the stage and took it out. I slung the instrument over my shoulder and moved back to my position in the front, ready to get this night over with.

  I played a couple notes, letting the feel of the strings soothe me while the rest of the band prepared behind me. Like a magnet, my gaze drifted to where I last saw Laird to see him watching me. Even from a distance, I saw the churning blue as if I were up close. He frowned, his forehead forking with worry, and I wished I could go to him. I wanted to reach out and smooth the lines with my fingers, with my lips. To tell him I was sorry. He was right, and I was okay.

  But instead, I turned back toward my friends for direction. I knew Derek had our routine and the evening planned down to the minute. We needed to warm-up, and there was no doubt every second we were on stage would be strategic. I already heard him in my head, murmuring to give ‘em just a little taste.

  Ron stood behind me, his electric guitar slung over his back, laughing at something Derek said, as he messed with his drums. Next to them, Lauren wore her usual scowl, her blond hair gleaming an odd shade of pink under the purple lights, while Faith flirted with some guy left of stage.

  I watched them all set up, mulling over the fact that none of them said more than two words to me. Tonight’s performance should’ve been a huge thing for me, not them. This performance, my first one since my injury, was a big deal, even if I hadn’t wanted it. To put myself publicly on display when I had only fully accepted the loss of my finger little more than a week ago was a feat. Yet not one of them asked me how I was feeling. They weren’t huddled around giving me a pep talk or trying to ease my nerves. Instead, they talked between themselves, preparing for one of the most monumental days of my life without me.

  I turned to look at the crowd. People mingled in groups, talking and sipping their drinks. I recognized some of the faces. Many of them were regulars at our events; not just at The Clover, but from our other venues, as well. Some I recognized as students from our school, while others were regulars at The Clover. Amongst them, unknown faces dotted the crowd, and I wondered how many of them came to see me fail and how many came to see the girl with the missing finger succeed.

  I felt the weight of my guitar dig into my shoulder, somehow heavier than moments ago, and I glanced back to my bandmates one last time. The four of them stood together, laughing at something someone said. A flash of anger singed my cheeks as they talked. And then a thought occurred to me. Maybe today was about proving something to myself. Not my friends. Not the hundreds of nameless faces who turned up to see “a good show.” But for me.

  Without thinking, I plugged my guitar into the amp and checked the stereo equipment. Satisfied, I let my hand strum hard down the strings. The sound cranked through the speakers, reverberating through the room. Hundreds of faces turned in my direction and the crowd went quiet and still.

  I swallowed, and my hands went numb as nerves constricted my chest. I thought about turning and running when my gaze snagged on a mop of dark hair and thick glasses in a sea of people. Tad.

  I exhaled, able to breathe again.

  “Sam, what are you doing?” Derek yelled from behind me. “We’re not ready.”

  I squeezed my eyes and smiled, then let my fingers move over the strings. I moved to the center of the stage, never missing a note as the soft sounds of one of my favorite classic rock songs poured from my fingers into the guitar. I played lightly, letting the beauty of the music course through the room. The chatter of my friends increased behind me, but I ignored them. When I heard Derek’s telltale countdown, I glanced back. They had taken their positions and were ready to join in.

  I played harder. Because this was my moment.

  My sound pulsated through the room. I felt the music surge through my chest as the notes and chords burst forth. The second my friends began to play, my time would be over, and so I braced myself for them to take this moment away from me, but they never joined me. And one final glance behind me told me why. Carl held the chords to their amps in his hand, standing in front of a red-faced Derek whose words I couldn’t hear over the sound of my music. He and Ron gestured with sharp stabs of the arm toward me, but Carl stayed rooted to his spot on the stage, his eyes narrowed at Derek, shaking his head.

  After I finished, I moved into a moody classical piece. One meant to impress. I played it with all my heart. My fingers came alive and my head buzzed with excitement as I poured every emotion I had into the strings, willing my fingers to move faster and stronger than ever before.

  Ten minutes and another song later, I played the last chords and ended my performance. I dropped my arms and let the moment sink in as my heart raced and my head spun from the thrill of being on stage again. Bowing, I spun on my heel as applause erupted from behind me. People whistled and hollered. Some shouted my name.

  Derek immediately stepped forward. His hands fisted by his side as anger flashed in his eyes. “What was that, Sam? You didn’t follow the plan.”

  I stared at him and opened my mouth to apologize, but the cheers grew louder and I realized something: I had set myself free, and I had no reason to be sorry. “I’m done listening to you. To all of you. I’m not going to be just some pawn in your warped plan for gaining notoriety. I’m not a freak show,” I said, nodding to the poster of me. “I’m done.”

  Derek’s forehead knotted. “What do you mean, you’re done?”

  “Exactly that. I’m done with all of it this time. Not just us anymore. The band, everything…”

  “What a joke,” Ron said.

  Derek began to protest, but I held up my hand in the way they had shown me—my sign-off for our performance—then kissed my fingers and left the stage. I barely made my exit when I smacked something solid. Stumbling back, I blinked and glanced up. Laird reached down, cupped my face in his hands, and kissed me. Really, kissed me.

  The crowd roared, and I vaguely heard Derek shouting behind me.

  I stepped back from Laird, my head spinning from the kiss, and grinned. But before I could say anything, someone dug their fingers into my shoulder and turned me around.

  A red-faced Derek stood in front of me. “What exactly do you think you’re doing? You want this tool instead of me?” he asked, nodding t
oward Laird, but his gaze never left me.

  From behind me, Laird shifted to my side so he faced Derek. He slapped a hand on his chest and shoved him back into the stage. Derek’s arms flailed as he lost his balance. He stumbled back but regained his footing before he fell. The crowd went silent, and as I glanced around the room, I realized all eyes were on them, the confrontation, drawing their attention.

  Baring his teeth, Derek darted toward Laird who stood ready to pounce, before Carl stepped between them. He grabbed Derek’s shirt and snarled. “Unless you want to pay me for over three hundred cover charges, I’d say your band better put on a show,” Carl said.

  “Tell her that!” Derek pointed at me, his spiky hair glowing blue under the lights.

  Carl shook his head, “No. I booked the band My Reality. From what I recall, the last few months, you’ve been a four-member band. You’d better get playing. At ten bucks a pop, three hundred covers is a lot of money.”

  Derek scowled while Ron ran his mouth in the background.

  “Let’s get outta here,” Laird whispered in my ear.

  I shuddered as his breath tickled my neck. Goosebumps spread over my arms as we exited the stage together and pushed our way through the crowd. People groped at my hand, shaking it in congratulations, while others patted me on the back when I passed. Some smacked Laird, saying, “Way to go, man!” It took us several minutes, but we finally reached Tad who vibrated with excitement.