by Lynn Stevens
My heart sunk in my chest. It was true I didn’t know where I was going. Nashville seemed like the place to be. Miranda’s sister Carly might let me crash in her place for a few days until I could find a place. Or I could look online and hope the neighborhoods were safe. It was hard without knowing, and I knew nothing about L.A. or New York.
I wanted to sing. Problem was I didn’t know what to sing. I loved so many different types of music that settling on one seemed impossible. L.A. was a hodge podge of music, anything could happen. New York, too. Nashville was the best place to go for the country scene, but they had so much more to offer. And it was closer than L.A. or New York.
“Maybe I’ll stay,” I whispered. That was a possibility, too. Branson wasn’t bad. I could sing here, but I couldn’t sing at arenas or major theaters or anything big. Most of the acts that come to town bring their own crew and it was almost impossible to get on at an established show. I’d tried the last three years. When I was just a kid, it was easier. Once I hit puberty, the shows didn’t want a teenager. If I got a job here, it would be waiting tables and singing in church. I didn’t have a lot of hope. But that wasn’t the reason I didn’t want to leave. Dad needed me.
“You will not stay,” Iris said. She glared at me. “You’ll go to wherever. You’ll follow your dreams. Even if I have to drive you to your destination of choice myself. And that’s that.”
“She’s right,” Miranda said with a nod. “You can’t stay here. And I’ll help Iris drive since she’s the one with the car.”
I snorted at that. Miranda had a car, but it had been dad-poed after she broke curfew during prom. Her only means of transportation was her sister’s old moped. Miranda wasn’t about to be caught dead driving that thing.
“I hate the idea of leaving, but I hate the idea of not leaving more.” I dropped my fork into the bowl of uneaten lettuce and glanced around the diner. Iris’s dad owned it and her mom was head cook. It was old and in need of repairs, but it was loved by the locals. And it was ignored by the tourists. Her dad had made a mint in selling real estate around Table Rock Lake, enough to buy the diner and never earn a profit. It was their home away from home, and the kind of place I was going to miss. “I can’t sing here without being Cami Harris. Out there,” I motioned toward the parking lot and beyond, “I can be anybody else but me.”
Iris took my hand. “No, Cam, you can be you and not the person people want to see.”
The person with a crippled dad. Iris didn’t say that, but it was what she thought. It was what everyone thought.
I didn’t want to be ‘poor Cami Harris’ anymore.
Monday was nerve wracking. I could barely focus on my classes. It had been two days since my audition and my first rehearsal started at six. Just enough time to get out of school, do chores, and eat before hustling across town to the theater.
I made it home in record time, thanks to Iris’s stellar driving. How she managed to hit every green light on Manchester never ceased to amaze me.
“That you, Cam?” Dad said from his recliner as I opened the front door of our small house. His chair faced the TV and didn’t have a view of the front door.
“Yeah,” I said, even though I wondered who else it could be. “Can I get you anything?”
“Nah, I’m good.” He waved me toward his chair.
I let my backpack drop to the floor with a thump and came around to stand in front of him. Dad looked better than he did when I left. His coloring was more natural and not the pallid white from this morning. His stroke had ended everything for him. He couldn’t play his guitar, so he had to quit the cover band he’d started in high school. Worse, he had to quit his job at the plastic company. Technically, he’d went back once the doctor cleared him and they laid him off. Being partially paralyzed made it hard to run his lines. Now we lived off his disability and the money Mom made as an assistant manager at one of the local restaurant chains.
“How was school?” he asked like he had asked me every single day for thirteen years.
I smiled. This was a reason not to leave. “It was slow.”
Dad laughed, a deep chuckle in his chest until he coughed. “You excited about tonight?”
“Not excited really, but totally terrified.” I sat on the edge of the coffee table which put me eye to eye with him. “What if I’m not cut out for this?”
“What if you are?” he said gently. “Cami, I know you don’t want to leave me or your mother, but we’ve had this conversation a million times before my stroke. And that’s where some of this fear comes from. You’re going to New York or Nashville. Hell, even L.A. if that’s what you want. But you’re leaving Branson. This show will give you some experience. It will help you get where you need to go. You just have to want to get there.”
My heart broke every time he talked like this. Dad wanted me to have the dream he never had. His band was the closest to following his dreams of playing arenas and even that was gone now. “And if I go to one of those places and fail, then what?”
“Then you go to the next. And the next.” He tapped the worn arm of his recliner. “You go until you succeed. Never quit. Promise me?”
I nodded. I’d made the promise before.
“Good. He smiled, but only one side of his mouth lifted. It was creepy and it killed me to see him like this. My father was not the weakling who could hardly lift his fork. He was strong and amazing. Even if his body refused to show it. “Can you get me some water? I’m feeling dry.”
“Of course,” I said, kissing his forehead as my little brother stormed into the house. Jake threw his duffel bag on the floor and kicked his shoes off into the middle of the living room. “What’s your problem?”
“Tony Reacher, that’s my problem. He kicked the crap out of Mike Lawson and blamed me. Stupid Lawson didn’t even tell the truth and I got suspended.” Jake plopped on the couch and crossed his arms. He was in full pout mode. “A week left and I can’t take finals. That’s bullshit.”
“Watch your language, young man,” Dad chided. He glanced at me and I shrugged. Jake might have beaten up Mike Lawson or he might have told the truth. It was hard to tell. “I’ll call the school.”
“Won’t do any good,” Jake mumbled.
I stepped into the kitchen and filled Dad’s water glass while Dad called the school. It was a quick conversation. By the time I came back with his water, he had already hung up the phone.
“Well, you’re in summer school this year, Jake. And the counselor wants you to see him once a week.” Dad sighed and shifted in his seat. “Stay out of trouble. For once in your life, just stay out of trouble. You’ve got three more years of school then you can do whatever you want outside of my house.”
Jake dropped his feet onto the floor and stood. “Yeah, always my fault.”
He stormed out of the room and down the hall, slamming his door to punctuate his exit.
“He’s got your mother’s temper,” Dad said. “It’s gonna kill him one day.”
I wanted to disagree, but I couldn’t. Dad was right. Jake was scary when he was angry. I wondered if he even realized how scary he was.
CHAPTER FOUR
My throat closed before I stepped inside the theater. What if this was all a big mistake? It wasn’t like I hadn’t been there before, but this time it was different. This time, I was entering the side door as part of the show. It wasn’t like entering the small auditorium at Branson North. There was no backstage door for the crew. I marveled at the bustle of being backstage and took my time walking through the organized chaos.
The marquee announced Hank Walker’s first show as this upcoming weekend. That meant we had a week to get it right before the seats filled and the people judged.
One week.
It didn’t seem like enough time.
Pamela had emailed the new rehearsal schedule, the set list, and the music. I’d listened to the songs non-stop since I’d gotten it. I knew them, and I knew my role. Crystal/Ruth was the soprano and I was the alto
. It was fine. My range was much higher, but maybe hers wasn’t very low. So low I go. I could harmonize with a sheep if I had to.
And I had to do this show.
The security guard directed me to the dressing room instead of the stage. The hallway was dark but bustling with unseen activity. I was ten minutes early as it was. As I got closer to the stage, I heard voices.
“You need to get your head out of your ass,” a man with a gravelly voice said. Without a doubt, that was Mr. Walker.
“Oh? And the way to do that is in bumfuck Missouri?” a younger voice snapped. Something slammed against the floor. “Jesus, Dad, did you really think this through? We’re in hillbilly hell out here. They don’t even have an In and Out Burger.”
“Yeah, I thought this through, and yeah, we’re in Missouri. But we’re here because you had to get out of L.A. You know that, Dylan.” Hank’s voice wavered. “I came out of retirement just to get you out. Get you away from those people. I’d be just as happy sitting at home by the pool with my coffee than be here, but you gave me no choice.”
“I gave you no choice?” A sharp laugh smacked the air. “That’s bullshit, Dad. I was fine.”
“Fine?” Hank’s calm tone disappeared. “Getting high on Sunset is fine? Getting arrested for possession is fine? Getting arrested for assaulting a cop is fine? You’re fucking throwing away your life, son.”
“Projecting your own bad image on me? I got arrested once two years ago. How many times did you get busted on Sunset? How many possessions do you have on your record? Or public intoxication or soliciting a prostitute,” Dylan snapped. “Don’t push your shit on me.”
“You need to grow up, boy. I can’t bail you out all the time,” Hank growled.
“Like you’ve ever bailed me out.”
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stage, moving closer to where I hid behind the curtain. I turned to run down the hall. The curtain tangled around my ankles, and I went down. There was barely enough time to brace myself before I hit the hard floor beneath me. My hands slapped against the wood, the echo devoured by the velvet curtain. But it was still loud enough for anyone walking off the stage.
“How much did you hear, eavesdropper?” Dylan asked. The venom in his voice pierced me.
I rolled onto my side and sat up. “Enough,” I admitted, brushing my hands over my jeans. “But it’s none of my business.”
He offered his hand and pulled me to my feet. “It’s not.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to ...” It wasn’t true so why lie. Once I heard them talking, I was frozen. “I just couldn’t make myself move forward.”
Dylan smirked and I got my first real look at Hank’s son. His eyes were an unnatural ocean green even in the dim lights of backstage. “That’s at least honest.”
I shrugged. “Dad always told me to be honest, because most people aren’t. It will get me farther than lying.”
“Not sure if that’s true.” He held out his hand again. “I’m Dylan, by the way.”
“I know,” I said as I slipped my fingers along his rough skin. The rest of his hand was soft, but his fingertips had the callouses of a guitar player.
“Ah, so my reputation does precede me?” He laughed, but there wasn’t any humor in it.
“Not really,” I said quickly. My face heated. “I mean, I overheard Mr. Walker call you Dylan. And he said you insisted on me being in the band. Other than that, I don’t know anything about your... indiscretions.”
He belly-laughed. “My indiscretions? That’s funny.”
“Well, it’s true. I didn’t Google you.” I wrung my hands together. “My dad probably knows. He’s a huge fan of Mr. Walker’s. He started a cover band in high school and he...” I shook my head. “Anyway, Dad’s more up to date on all things Hank Walker than I am.”
Something dark flashed across his eyes, but he hid it as fast as he let it out. “Nice to meet you, Cameron. Get ready for rehearsal. One thing you may not know about my father that you should is he’s a perfectionist. If you’re not perfect, you might as well give up.”
Dylan pushed past me and strolled toward the dressing room. He shoved his hands into his pockets. A few seconds later whistling rode the air toward me. I knew the tune instantly, Hank Walker’s hit “Perfect Son”, a song about trying to be everything your parents want you to be and failing.
It wasn’t on the set list, but it was one I knew well. It was Dad’s favorite, and by default, one of mine too.
Daddy’s belt left marks,
But those faded.
Daddy’s words left scars
That deepened.
Perfect son, perfect boy,
Never explain
Never complain.
Just be the perfect son.
There was no such thing, as Hank sang. But maybe Dylan didn’t know that. Maybe Dylan wasn’t given the option to be flawed. Maybe it was none of my business.
I followed him to the dressing room, not sure if I should say anything else and knowing I wanted to talk to him again. I opted to keep my distance. It wasn’t my place to be his friend. I was just here to sing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rehearsals were brutal. Mr. Walker snapped at every little detail from our shoes (apparently flip-flops weren’t appropriate for the stage) to our clothes (neither were shorts). Pamela gave me a dress code for the rest of the rehearsals. It was ridiculous and had nothing to do with my voice.
They ran longer than planned too. But that didn’t really surprise me. We had a week before our first show and it felt like we needed a month. I didn’t have time for anything other than school. Sleep didn’t matter either.
Friday drew near and we were no closer to being a cohesive band than before we meet. Crystal, she totally preferred that over Ruth, and I didn’t seem to have issues at least. Our vocals were spot on and we harmonized well together. The last night of rehearsals was the worst. We hadn’t even gone through the entire set list once yet and he still screamed that everything was wrong.
“Jesus, Dad, chill out,” Dylan said leaning back against an amplifier. He may have looked cool and composed, but there was tension in his neck and jaw. “Or do you plan on stopping during the show to tell Mike he’s straddling his bass wrong? Or Heath that he can’t throw a drumstick during a solo?”
“My reputation’s on the line not yours,” Hank snapped. His voice echoed through the empty theater. The veins popped in his neck. “You’ve already ruined yours.”
Dylan snorted and glanced away. If Hank’s words hurt, he wasn’t about to let his father know. “Whatever, Dad. We need to go through the entire set tonight. Record it. Text us how we failed tomorrow before the show. Tomorrow can’t be our first run through in front of a sold out crowd.”
Hank’s face tightened and I expected him to blow.
“He’s right, Mr. Walker,” Pamela said, still not letting anyone else know she’s Hank’s niece. She was determined to be professional and get by on her own. “We need to do the run through. The video cameras are ready, but we can’t stop.”
“Fine,” he said, pointing at Pamela. “Go record this ramshackle performance.” He turned toward me. “Hit your damn notes.”
My eyes widened. I was hitting my notes and my marks. Of course, the dancing was just swaying in time with the music. It was all rather boring, but the feel of the stage and the sounds of each note filled me like nothing ever had before. My gaze found Dylan’s and he just shrugged. We hadn’t so much as exchanged glances since our conversation earlier in the week.
“You were a little sharp,” Crystal said loud enough for Hank to hear. He smirked and my face burned. Damned if I was sharp. She was flat and I opened my mouth to tell her just that when she added, “Maybe soften your tone a bit so you stop trying to overpower me.”
“Yeah, do that,” Hank added.
“Oh bullshit,” Dylan said, still leaning against the amp with his arms crossed over his chest. His Gibsen hung nonchalantly off his hip. It was solid black with chips
along the edges as if he’d tried to smash it but had failed. “Cameron’s hitting her notes and not trying to overpower you, Crystal. If anything, it’s the opposite. Stop trying to drown her out. Now can we just go through the damn set.”
Hank shook his head. Whether he wanted to argue with Dylan or not, I couldn’t tell. I shot my would-be savior a small smile, but he wasn’t looking at me. His focus was solely for his father, waiting for the battle he knew was inevitable. My chest deflated. Dylan hadn’t stood up for me so much as he stood against his father. I was just a pawn to make his point, to prove he was right and his father was wrong.
“Hit record, Pamela,” Hank said into the microphone with his back to the rest of us.
The lights dimmed and it felt so real suddenly. Dylan opened the set with a slow guitar riff. I’d heard it before, but never with the lights down, never with the show about to begin. The lights slowly turned up, spotlighting Dylan then Mike, Heath, us, and finally narrowing to show Hank in center stage. The band launched into a raunchy song called “Third Wheel” and I lost myself in the moment. Crystal and I harmonized and didn’t overpower each other. The band never missed a beat or a note or a mark. It was flawless.
Except for Hank Walker.
Halfway through the encore, his voice cracked and disappeared for a bar. We played on, acting as if nothing had happened. But it had and everyone in the theater had heard it.
Hank Walker lost his voice.
CHAPTER SIX
Finally Friday. Only one more week of my high school career and technically not a full week. Two and a half days then graduation. It was also day of our opening show. We played Friday and Saturday this week and the same the following weekend. Then we went to five shows a week with Mondays and Tuesdays as our off days. I was nervous. Nobody talked about Hank’s voice after we finished the run through. We played it off as perfect. But it wasn’t. He pushed us through each song again without his vocals.