by Erin Hahn
“You’re shitting me.”
“About the college money, maybe. But not about the place.”
I look at my mum. “You knew about this?”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Of course I did. So did you. We talked about this weeks ago, Lukas.”
“But, Dad, you got all mad that we wouldn’t advertise on the podcast,” I point out.
“Well, yeah, I did. But that’s not keeping us from buying the place. No offense, but a stubborn teenager isn’t enough to halt business.”
“Better a stubborn teenager than a sullen old man,” I can’t help but say.
“Watch it, youngster. I was kidding about the college money, but I’m not above holding back your allowance.”
“Dad, I have a job.”
“Right, right. The job. The ever-important bartender gig.”
I shove the Tupperware away. “I ate before I got home,” I lie. “I have homework to do.”
“Not so fast. You and your brother are coming with. This is family business. You’re both old enough to contribute and participate.”
“Dad, we’re a month out from graduation. Cullen is going to school in New York, and I’m going out west. We won’t even be here to contribute.”
“You don’t leave for several months, and anyway, I plan for this place to be around after you finish university.”
“That’s fine, Dad, but this is your thing. Just like punk bands and refurbishing pallets and writing that YA novel about aliens and teaching pottery at the community center. All very valid and amazing pursuits, but they are yours. Not Mum’s, not Cullen’s, and not mine.”
“Is this about the podcast thing? I talked to my partners. I told them you weren’t comfortable advertising while employed by Phil. It was tacky of me to ask. Son, it’s fine if you want to wait until after the Bad Apple is built to quit.”
I slam my fist down, impatient. “Who said I was quitting?”
My dad huffs out an exasperated laugh. “What’re you talking about? Of course you’ll quit. You can’t work at a competing club.”
“Then don’t compete with Phil!”
My mum fills a glass with water and hands it to me like my outburst is from dehydration. I ignore it. I appreciate how uncomfortable our fighting makes her, but I’m tired of being bulldozed by my dad for the last eighteen years. From playing music, to skateboarding, to liking the right girls. He’s always standing over my shoulder, feeding me his opinions. It’s stupid, but working at the Loud Lizard is the first decision I’ve made 100 percent on my own. I don’t want to give it up just because, once again, Charlie Greenly has a grand idea.
“You think I’m trying to replace Phil?”
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “I mean. No. I don’t think you are trying to replace Phil, but I wonder if your investors are. Think about it, Dad; there’s not enough capital in this town to fund two rock venues.”
“It’s not my fault the Loud Lizard is a failing club.”
“I realize that.”
“I’m not going to keep away out of courtesy so someone else can limp along.”
“Fine.”
My father’s sigh is long suffering, and he rakes a hand through his hair. “What would you have me do, Luke?”
“I’d have you think of someone besides yourself for once,” is all I say, and I turn for the stairs.
Minutes later, I hear the front door slam, and I watch the car back out of the driveway, my entire family inside, minus me.
* * *
The next day, during a lull at work, I knock on Phil’s office door. I wait for the muffled “Come in!” and push open the door.
He’s at his desk, just hanging up his phone when he sees me. He leans back in his chair, which gives a loud creak, his face impassive.
“I have something to tell you,” I say.
“Is it about Vada?”
I lift my eyes, surprised. “What? No. Why?”
He raises a brow over his bifocals and settles back in his chair with a creak. “No reason. So, this is about your dad’s club, then. Are you coming to offer your resignation?”
“How’d you know about the club?”
Phil gestures at his desktop. “It’s been all over the news, kid. What do you guys read on your phones all day?”
“You know, and you haven’t fired me?”
“Why the hell would I fire you? You’ve given me no reason.”
“Except my dad’s investing in a rival club that could put you out of business.”
“Correction,” Phil says, exhaling painfully. “It will definitely put me out of business. It’s honestly a shock we’ve made it this far, Luke. I would’ve gone out of business years ago, if not for the sentimentality of this town.”
“But you’re not firing me.”
“Luke. If I haven’t fired Kazi yet, I’m not about to fire you. You’re not quitting? I’d think Charlie would want his internet-famous offspring on staff.”
I grimace. “Like most things between us lately, it’s a sore subject. But no. I’m not quitting. I’m determined to go down with the ship.”
Phil lifts his dirty coffee mug and raises it in a salute.
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. There’s something to be said for going out with dignity and just closing our doors one afternoon with a sign that reads, ‘It’s been fun. Fuck the establishment.’”
“Or…” I prod with a smile.
“Or”—Phil smiles in return—“we come up with a way to limp along a bit further. Liberty Live is still set to run this summer, and it can’t if we’re closed. Vada’s been depending on it for a half a decade.”
“I remember.”
“Right, and as Vada is about to become my stepdaughter—”
“I heard. Congratulations!”
His grin widens. “Thank you; I’m a lucky bastard. But as I was saying, Vada is about to become my kid, so I would really love to keep it running one more summer.”
“You’d do that? Keep the whole thing running just for her?”
“Wouldn’t you? It’s incredible the things we do for people we love, isn’t it?”
“Right.” I feel my neck getting hot. “Well, this might be a mess, but I have an idea.”
* * *
Once Vada arrives an hour later, things start falling into place.
“You think you can convince them?”
She shrugs, flicking her hair over a bare shoulder. The weather is unseasonably warm today, hitting eighty for the first time since last summer, and I’m distracted by the freckles dotting her clavicle. There must be a hundred at least, and I want to press my lips to every … single …
“I think so. I just heard from them, actually. Or I heard from their PR person anyway. They were super grateful for the boost my review gave them. Said they were filling up venues all over the place after that. I figure now is a good time to ask them for a favor.”
“A ‘favor’ is putting it lightly,” Phil says. “We’re asking them to play practically for free.”
“Yeah, but Ann Arbor is a fantastic touch point. Particularly if they squeeze us in during the next three weeks. If they can do that, the college students will still be within reach and looking to burn off final exam steam. Not to mention, the podcast is hitting peak numbers, right?”
I nod. “As far as I know.”
“You think Cullen would be cool doing some advertising?”
“Yup. Even if he weren’t, he owes me.”
Vada turns to Phil. “Is this bananas? This is really short notice. Like, we can’t pull this off, can we?”
Phil nods thoughtfully. “Last minute is the best kind, sweetheart. Not enough time to get tangled in the details, and it doesn’t allow anyone to forget what’s happening. We used to pull off things like this all the time back in my day, and that was when we had to paper the town in flyers and word of mouth.”
Vada’s lips push to one side. “Well, we might s
till need to rely on word of mouth, and papering the town in lurid flyers sounds like as solid a tactic as any. If we can get (Not) Warren to sign on, I’ll even rerelease my review.”
“I can make some calls to the campus paper and see if we can get it published in print ahead of the show,” Phil offers.
Vada sinks back in her seat with a small smile. “Don’t think I don’t know what this is all about, Phil, but for the record, Liberty Live has been a tradition in this town for decades. I’m not the only one who wants to see it survive another summer.” She turns to me. “How does your dad feel about you helping with this?”
“He might not know.”
“Might not?”
“There’s a very small chance he knows and even smaller chance he’ll be happy with me.”
Vada frowns. “You don’t have to help.”
“Well—” Phil says.
“Well,” I interrupt. “Aside from the part where it’s the right thing to do, I want to help. And while I’m pretty sure papering downtown will spread the word, the podcast’s reach is a bit wider.”
Vada watches my face and must find the answer she’s looking for because she turns back to Phil. “So, that’s that. We’re off to save Liberty Live. No problem. Of course, you also have a wedding to plan for in two days.”
“And we … er”—I glance at Phil—“have that thing at school the day after that,” I add, thinking of the showcase and steadfastly ignoring the hot feeling in my face at the mention of the wedding. Our date.
“And graduation in four weeks,” Vada offers with a knowing smile.
“Right,” I say. “No problem. None of this is life altering at all.”
“At all,” Vada repeats. I can’t believe it, but she looks completely jazzed by the challenge.
Or maybe I can believe it.
Or maybe I just believe in her.
26
VADA
I get right down to business planning the Save Liberty Live concert. I haven’t forgotten what’s at stake; Rolling Stone is staring me down from my in-box. They promised to snail-mail me the formal application and program details, but I’ve been (almost) too busy to care.
First up, an amazing band.
“We can do two weekends from Sunday,” (Not) Warren’s manager, Jenn, says in an almost apologetic tone. They are almost fully booked—a catch-22 of just how sought after they’d become since my review. Sunday isn’t ideal, but I’ll take what I can get.
“Great! Put us down. Thanks so much for doing this,” I say. “I wish I could promise more funds, but as it’s a fund-raiser—”
“No problem, sweetie. You bring the crowds, and we’ll bring the swag.”
“Excellent. Crowds I can promise. We’re already on it. Thank you!”
I hang up the phone and stand up, stretching. Making a check mark on my list, I look over the rest. I still need to talk to Ben about opening for (Not) Warren. For free. Luckily, Ben is working tonight. I can catch him on the floor and convince him to play the show and then convince everyone else they want to order tacos from Enrique’s next door.
I swing open the door right as Luke is raising his hand to knock. “Hey!” I say.
“Hey back,” he says tightly.
“What’s wrong?”
Luke tilts his head. “Marcus is here.”
I start to walk, and Luke puts a hand on my shoulder. “Not for you. He doesn’t even know you’re here, Vada.”
It’s stupid how that stings to hear. “How long?”
“Thirty minutes, give or take, but he’s being pretty belligerent. Phil had to call the police.”
I deflate, and Luke tugs me back into the office. I’ve known this was coming. Phil’s let Marcus get away with far too much already.
And yet.
“He really tried, Vada. I’m sorry. But Phil asked me to come warn you so you didn’t have to see.”
“Of course.”
“I mean, it’s a place of business and—”
I hold up a hand. “You don’t have to justify it. I told Phil to do it years ago, and I know he and my mom have discussed this.” I sigh, thinking. “I have to go out there.”
“Vada, come on. You don’t need to see that.”
“But I do. Don’t you see? I need to see this, and he needs to see me see this.”
Luke’s tone is soft. “He’s pretty drunk. I don’t even know if he’ll remember, Vada.”
“Well, I’m not,” I say blithely, heading past him for the door. I open it and turn, holding a hand out. “You coming?” What I really mean is, Please come. I don’t want to do this alone.
I know I need to face this—it has been coming for a long, long time—but I still don’t want to see it. Not really.
Luke’s face is unreadable as he joins me, but he takes my clammy hand in his warm one. We walk down the back hall together.
The scene is worse than I’d imagined, and I’ve imagined it plenty. Glass is shattered everywhere, and the place reeks with the heady fumes of alcohol. Marcus is holding a bleeding hand to his chest, surrounded by uniformed officers. The back wall is lined with patrons and curious onlookers. Phil is talking to another police officer, who’s taking notes. He looks terrible. Resigned and tired. I stare between the two men, and for a half second, I’m torn.
On one side, there’s my dad. A fucking asshole, but he’s my dad. In my head, he’s “Dad.” He might’ve ruined the title, but it’s his. I can’t change that.
On the other, my Phil. The man who gave me a job and encourages my dreams. The man who loves my mom and has somehow made us both feel like we deserve better. The man who won’t ever leave me.
Luke squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back, pressing my palm to his. When the police officers move away, I let go of his hand, giving him a reassuring smile. “I’m okay,” I mouth.
I approach Phil and stand by his side. When he feels my presence, he glances at me, his eyebrows raised in concern. Seeing I’m okay, he wraps me in a side hug. Except, instead of fortifying me, it feels like we’re holding each other up. And that’s the difference, isn’t it? All my life, I’ve been trying to grasp any and all love from my dad where I could, scraping the bottom of the barrel of his affections.
But I don’t want to fight for it anymore. And I won’t.
Marcus, if he notices me, doesn’t say a single word as they take him away.
* * *
Before bed that night, I’m lying across my comforter, earbuds in and my eyes closed. With everything that’s been happening lately, I haven’t had a ton of time to choreograph my senior showcase piece, but I decided it didn’t matter. Not really. Luke’s challenge was to create something beautiful and full of intent, despite knowing it would be listened to and judged for what it was. And holy hell, did he ever deliver. It took me three tries to listen to the song all the way through without breaking down into a hot blubbering mess of emotions.
My challenge is different, though. Mine is to put myself quite literally out there. Onstage. Feeling all zillion and a half of my feelings and making sure every single one of them can in turn be felt by the audience.
In short, I want to own that shit, and I want to share it.
Luke gave me the perfect soundtrack; it’s stark and lonely at first, but then reckless and hopeful. I tried to choreograph, I did. I wanted to produce something shiny and clean to honor his hard work. Something refined. But the feelings his song gave me weren’t any of those things, and every time I listened, I responded differently. Eventually, I realized the best choreography was no choreography at all. I would improvise. It was, after all, my favorite part of class. Unplanned and raw. That felt right. Painfully so. I don’t want to be distracted by memorizing steps; I want to be singularly focused on what this song inspires in me the moment my feet touch the cool, hard surface of the stage.
I inhale carefully on my bed, eyes still closed, letting Luke’s vocals smooth my edges and squeeze my heart just like a hundred times before. Onstage, in front of al
l those strangers, will only be one more.
27
LUKE
I pull up short at the sight of a sleek black SUV in the driveway. We aren’t a very swanky family, so sleek black SUV isn’t really in the Greenly vocabulary.
More like banged-up, forest-green Subaru. Or used-to-be-white ten-year-old Corolla. That sort of thing.
Let’s just say it’s no tragedy to commute via longboard.
I pick up my board and carry it under my arm, careful not to skim the gleaming surface of the Land Rover. When I get to the front door, it’s open to the screen, and I can hear voices inside, along with the clinking of glass and laughter. My mom is employing her tinkling hostess laugh, which is the higher, falser version of her usual deep chuckle.
The first person who sees me is Cullen, and he’s subtly shaking his head, the meaning of which should be obvious because of twin speak, but it’s not, and the screen door closes with a slam, alerting everyone to my presence. My dad peeks his head around the corner, his smile grander than I’ve seen in weeks. That alone should scare me.
“Here he is!” he booms. I prop my board with more care than it warrants and shrug off my jacket, hanging it over the banister before walking into the kitchen.
“There’s the star!” A man in a pin-striped shirt and pointed black shoes says, winking. Winking, I tell you.
Another man I’d missed reaches out his hand, and I shake it automatically. Cullen looks pained, and my instinct is to move closer to him. A united front.
“Clyde Morgan,” he says. “We were just talking about you. Did you know, as of this morning, your little audio clip has over 1.2 million listens? It’s been uploaded to Imperium.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, ignoring for the moment that someone has illegally uploaded my song onto a sharing app. “Who are you?”
He laughs, and it doesn’t meet his eyes. “My apologies. Coming off like a fangirl, am I? I’m Clyde, and that’s Steven. We co-own the Bad Apple with your father.”