by Piper Lawson
Problems come in all kinds of packages. Hers isn’t the worst, which only annoys me more.
Her thick lashes are the same near-black as her hair. Her nose is small, like she’d have trouble wearing glasses. Her bottom lip’s too big for the top one.
Under the leather jacket, she’s got curves.
Not that I’m noticing.
“I bet you’re pretty proud of yourself, huh? Let’s get something straight,” I say before she can respond. “I don't know why you're not fired. It’s probably Cross’ idea of a joke, sending you to babysit me. But until we get rescued by Navy SEALs or whoever gets dispatched to save our asses out here, you will sit right there”—I point to the shoulder—“while this inspired fucking plan of yours rolls out.”
Without waiting for an answer, I shut the doors and retreat to the back of the bus.
My Emerson goes into its case. I grab some clothes from my built-in dresser and shove them in a duffel bag.
There are pictures pinned up around my bus, and I take one down and lay it inside the top of my bag.
I glance out the window. She’s sitting on the dusty shoulder of the highway on her backpack, her computer open on her lap. Dust has collected on her faded jeans and Converse sneakers.
You never used to be such an asshole. The familiar female voice in my head comes out of nowhere.
Pain edges into my brain, and I glance down. My thumb’s bleeding again. I rip off the piece of fingernail I’ve been tearing without noticing.
I suck on the spot where it stings, crossing to open the mini-fridge and grabbing two bottles of water with my other hand. I lower the window and toss one. It hits the ground next to the girl’s knee, and she jumps.
I take a sip from mine, watching her through the half-open window. “Fuckturd.”
She looks up, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Excuse me?”
I nod toward her computer. “The internet password.”
She takes a drink of water before setting the bottle in the dust next to her. “T-U-R-D?”
“Yeah. How do they spell turd where you’re from?”
I close the window without waiting for an answer and finish packing, then pull up a reality home reno program on my iPad. Nothing distracts me before a show like seeing a bunch of contractors argue over cellulose and spray foam for insulating a garage. It’s blissful and mindless, which I need because in a couple of hours—assuming we ever make it to Pittsburgh—I’ll be spun.
I drain my water and grab another. Before a show, I can drink Lake Michigan into the Sahara. I glance out the window to see if she needs one too, but she’s gone.
“The fuck, babysitter…” I shoulder my guitar and my duffel and go outside to find a tow truck in front of us.
The man talking to the girl is scratching the back of his neck. When she looks at her phone, he looks at her chest.
He’s old enough to be her father and then some.
It’s one thing for me to give her a hard time, but she’s on my tour. I want to assume responsibility for this girl about as much as I want to adopt a special needs goldfish, but I didn’t get the choice.
I step between them, feeling her move back immediately. I jerk my head toward the bus. “Get it to Wells Fargo by five.”
If he recognizes me, he doesn’t let on. “That’s going to be hard, son.”
I pull out my wallet, peel off three hundreds, and stuff them in the chest pocket of his stained shirt, right behind his name tag. “I have confidence in you, Mac.”
A black limo pulls up, and I turn to the girl.
“Let’s go, Curious George.”
I go back to my bus to grab my duffel and, with a sigh, what’s left of Mace’s Death Star. I shouldn’t care, but I have a spare hand and he’s been building the thing all week.
I cross to the car and jerk the door open with unnecessary force. It takes me a second to realize she’s reaching for the front door.
“In the back.”
She hesitates, and I stare out the door at her.
“You coming?”
A moment later, she complies, dropping into the seat opposite.
There’s lots of room in here for her, and me, and our bags, and more. But her gaze finds the toy on the seat next to me.
“It’s Mace’s,” I explain. “He finished the Super Star Destroyer last week. It was a bitch to ship home. Bought him the Ghostbusters firehouse last year, and he never opened it. Says he’s a purist.”
“Star Wars only?”
“Apparently.”
I study her.
Up close, I notice the dust on her jeans—and on her knees, through the ripped denim. It sticks to the cracks of her Converse. Only her hair, shiny and dark and hanging past her shoulders, seems to have escaped unharmed.
“You didn’t notice how that guy was looking at you?” I comment.
Her gaze drops to her clothes. “Probably like I’ve been mining blood diamonds in the jungle.”
The quick reply has me taking another look at her.
She’s young, like me when I started in this business. Though now that she’s not on the floor at my feet, she has control of herself.
Her face is oval. Fresh skin, as though she’s never done drugs or even stayed up too late. Big brown eyes with a little green near the center. The kind of mouth PR people salivate over. If she were in this business, that mouth would spawn chatrooms and have millions of fanboys jerking off to her.
Curvy legs bump mine as she sets her backpack on the seat, and she jerks them back. Now they’re tucked up comically tight in the spacious car.
“If you’re worried I’m going to steal your virtue on the road to Pittsburgh,” I drawl, “I don’t fuck my employees.” I frown. “I also don’t fuck on back roads, but that’s a personal choice.”
She looks around for something—probably a seatbelt—then turns back to me when she comes up empty.
“I’m sorry about this morning. I shouldn’t have shouted at you. Or hit you.”
“Oh. You think?”
“You touched me,” she goes on as if it explains anything.
“I touched you?” I raise my hands in the air. “You’re still intact. Send word to the nuns.”
Her gaze narrows. “I was startled.”
“Yeah, me too.”
I look out the window because at this rate, it’s going to be a long fucking drive to Pittsburgh.
She pulls out her phone. If she’s updating Cross already, I’m going to flip.
I lean forward and swipe it out of her hand.
The sound of protest low in her throat almost has me looking up again, but when I realize what’s on the screen, I’m instantly preoccupied.
“You’re editing a track?” I take a moment to read the dips and valleys, the graph that music is turned into by computers when it’s dissected. “What’s this app?”
“I made it.” My gaze snaps to hers, and for the first time, I see confidence instead of uncertainty. “It uses research on how the human brain processes lyrics and music to adjust settings to maximize emotional resonance.”
“Come again?”
She shifts so she’s cross-legged, then inches closer so she can see the screen while she’s talking. “Basically, it makes music that affects people. It’s based on the assumption that music underscores lyrics. That we respond to both music and lyrics but the music is in service of the words. Words are the primary pathway. So I use this app to adjust musical arrangements to optimize the emotional resonance of the phrasing.”
I stare at her.
She’s not the first woman to do something crazy within seconds of meeting me. But she's the first to follow up with this. Whatever the hell this is.
I shake off the feeling of unease as I stretch my legs now that I have the entire space to work with. “Your assumption is wrong. The words are nothing without the music.”
Instead of backing down, her expression sharpens with interest. “What about poetry?”
I cock my head. “What about it
, babysitter?”
“It exists without music, but it touches people. Evokes a response.”
Shit, she’s committed to this idea.
Too bad I’m going to have to beat it into the ground.
“Even poetry has a meter. Besides, if words mattered so much, some of the best-known pieces of all time wouldn’t be instrumental. Van Halen’s “Eruption.” Miles Davis’ “Right Off.” And don’t get me started on Rush’s “YYZ.” The drum solo alone could level armies.” I tap it out on my thigh with my free hand, and she listens.
When I finish, her attention flicks to the phone in my other hand, and I raise a brow. “You want it?”
The indecision on her face is comic gold, as if the idea of getting within a foot of me is horrifying.
Finally she leans forward, carefully plucking it from my hand and tucking it into the dusty backpack on the seat next to her.
I reach into my bag and pull out a chocolate bar.
“What is that?” she asks, her eyes widening as I unwrap it.
“Snickers. You’re one of those health freaks too? Perfect.”
“No. I have a peanut allergy. I almost died when I was four.”
“So if I eat this thing in here…”
“You’ll have to carry me out.”
We stare at one another for a minute.
Two.
Finally, I buzz down the window and toss out the candy bar. She heaves a sigh of relief.
I grab a bottle of water from the bar. A piss-poor substitute for Snickers.
“Is this usually how you get to know your new employees?” she asks.
“Yes. It’s part of a five-step process. Now tell me your dreams and fears. I’ll take notes.”
Her eyes glint. “My dreams? I want to do something that matters to the world. And I’m afraid of dying of anaphylactic shock in a limo with a rock star.”
I reach for Mace’s toy sphere. It’s done enough to have shape, but some of the decorations are missing. I lift it, turning it in my hands as I look at her through the gaps. “Death scares you. That’s healthy.”
“Not dying exactly. More like making twenty thousand Pittsburgh music fans curse my immortal soul.”
Normally my first impressions are spot on. But maybe—just maybe—I was a little off on this girl.
You can’t blame me. Thousands of bright-eyed kids want to be me, to get close to me.
Now that we’re flying down the highway in the back of a limo and not in a studio, she’s not awed at all.
I set the sphere in my lap. “So, what? You’re going to tell computers what to do for the rest of your life?”
“I’m pretty good at it. It’s a solid career path.”
I’m shaking my head before she finishes.
“Going with the flow is insidious. You’ll be an animal, driven by whatever master exerts himself on you.”
“But people are animals,” she responds easily. “We live. We die. Somewhere in between, we procreate.”
“Not if the nuns have their say,” I say drily.
She levels me with a look. “Come on. Nuns are secretly fans of procreation. Even if they don’t practice it. Otherwise there’d never be any new nuns.” I swallow the laugh, but she keeps going. “Do you like animals?”
I lift two LEGO Jedi from the spots they’re plugged into, turning them in my hands so their lightsabers clash.
“Not like Kyle. I see the kid on one more SPCA commercial, I’m going to shoot myself in the head. But Shark Week’s still a classic.”
Her eyes light up. “Have you seen the documentary Planet Earth?”
“Nope.”
“It’s insane. They use a combination of cameramen plus all of this technology to shoot footage of animals in remote areas no humans would be able to get to. In one episode about jungles, there’s this jaguar that stalks the rivers and eats—”
“Whoa.” I raise a hand. “Didn't anybody tell you tour rules?”
She straightens. “I got three.”
“Rule twelve: no spoilers on tour.”
“It’s nature. You can’t spoil nature.” Then she pauses. “How many rules are there?”
“A lot.”
“Does the fact that you don’t want me to spoil it mean you’re going to watch it?”
I shoot her a smirk. “I’m Jax Jamieson, babysitter. I don’t have time to watch documentaries.”
I plug the Jedi back onto their spots and set the toy next to me. Then I close my eyes, tapping a finger along the armrest.
Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap.
Eventually, I pry open one eyelid to see her still watching me.
“Netflix or Hulu?”
4
Haley
They say don’t meet your heroes.
For a moment this afternoon, I’d thought mine was going to leave me to die by the side of the road.
So, we didn’t get off to the best start. But when I caught him looking at the track on my phone, it was like the judgement fell away and a light went on. He studied the dips and valleys, the frequencies that together made the sounds.
When Jax’s eyes closed, I tried to write an email to let Professor Carter know about my internship. We only have a few weeks left to finalize my Spark competition submission, and we’ll have to do it by email.
I couldn’t focus, and it wasn’t the motion of the spacious car cruising down the interstate or the growling of my stomach after realizing I hadn’t had lunch today.
It was because I was being a girl.
Sneaking looks at Jax.
How a guy pulls off looking manly while holding a LEGO set, I’ll never know.
Serena would’ve winked if she’d been in the car.
When Jax and I roll into Pittsburgh, he’s swept away for interviews by a determined Nina, leaving me to find the elusive Jerry.
The empty arena is a cavernous testament to technology and scale and the demands of mankind to be entertained.
The sound booth is at the back and midway up the rows of seats. It has a killer view of the stage. Even with twenty thousand people, it will. That thought sends chills running through me.
I stand behind the board. It’s a mix of old and new. Mechanical and digital. A wall of computer screens interfaces with the switches and dials.
I feel even more out of my element than before.
“Billy Joel.”
I jump at the raspy voice behind me. Its owner’s hunched shoulders make him look even older, and shorter, than he really is. The man is stocky, wearing a faded black T-shirt and black jeans. His face is faded too and lined. But the blue eyes set between the creases are clear.
“The first concert I did here. Billy Joel.”
“It must have been incredible. I’m Haley. You must be Jerry.”
His nod is more like a bob. His hands look like crumpled paper. Rough on the surface, fragile underneath.
“You’re my new assistant.” He says it with a dry chuckle. I wait for him to strip me down, tell me I’m not needed or wanted, but all he does is scratch a patch of silver hair on his head. “You ever used a board like this?”
“No. I mostly use a DAW. Started on Logic, moved to Ableton.”
He makes a face. “Digital. This handles more than a hundred tracks. Twelve for drums alone.”
My gaze runs over the board. For the first time since this morning, I feel something flirting with my consciousness.
Comprehension. Just out of reach but nearer than it’s been during this crazy day.
“No backup tracks?”
“Everything is live. Every drum beat, every guitar riff comes from that stage and through here.” He reaches out to tap the board, his red plaid shirt following the movement.
He tells me a series of numbers for the guitars, mic, bass, which I commit to memory.
“What about the opening act?” I ask.
“What about them?”
“I met five musicians on the bus. We have Lita”—I point at the board—“her guitaris
t, bassist, drums. Where’re her keys?”
Jerry shifts over to make room, then talks me through the specs sheet of the equipment we’re using. Frequency response, SPL output, dispersion.
I know all the terms, but I’ve never seen the equal of this equipment. I try to absorb all of it, my brain firing on every cylinder.
Part of me wonders if I should make notes, but I’m more of a visual person, so I try to soak up every piece of the desk that looks like it could fly the Enterprise.
Not the Kirk version. Definitely the Picard one.
Maybe even Archer.
“Help me with those cords, will you?”
I reach over to where he’s pointing and start removing zip ties from the equipment. “So how do you know how to get the right sound in a venue? Is it based solely on the specs, or do you talk to other sound engineers?”
I pull up a window on my phone to look for venue info, but he holds up a hand. “I’ve mixed thirty shows in Wells Fargo.”
I lower the phone, slow.
Jerry shifts back against the low wall that separates the booth from the surrounding seats, his arms folding over his thick chest. For a second I wonder if he’s forgotten about me. But he says, “I have an idea. Watch tonight from up there.” He points at the stage.
“Backstage?”
“To know what’s working, you need to see the audience. That’s your job tonight—to watch.”
Shit. I think I might be having a cardiac arrest.
I’m too young to die of a heart attack. But then, it’s too much to ask me to internalize the excitement of watching a Jax Jamieson show from backstage.
On stage, the roadies are setting up, along with the lighting techs and the guitar and keyboard techs. It’s orchestrated chaos. Some of it will be for the opening act, but most of it’s for the main event.
The next hour flies by in last-minute fixes before I’m pushed backstage as the fans fill the space.
All of it transfixes me. The setup is completed with a jerky efficiency, but it might as well be the finest ballet.
Lita’s band plays first, and I’m hypnotized. She’s really damn good. I watch her get her final applause and unplug her guitar.
Once the curtain falls, the crew takes over. Unplugging and plugging cords. Rearranging equipment.