by Erin Hahn
I nod. “More likely his partners, but still. It’s his club.”
“But why?”
“I’m not sure. Cull thinks my dad didn’t know, but—”
She takes another step back. “But?”
“But I’m not that confident. Maybe Charlie didn’t know, but his partners had to. I think they did it because I refused to cooperate.”
“You?” she asks, her voice wooden. “Why do you think this is about you?”
“I don’t know. The last time I talked to the partners, I lost my temper. I threw the Loud Lizard in their faces. I was so angry, Vada. They were talking about using my song and all this global brand marketing, and I told them I wouldn’t pitch them on the podcast, and then I bragged about how the Loud Lizard had scored (Not) Warren—”
“You told them about (Not) Warren?”
“I did, but I never dreamed they would go after the band. I didn’t even know they were ready to open. I haven’t been paying much attention … I was busy with you, planning for—”
“Right,” Vada says flatly. Cold, like when she talks about her dad. “And somehow you just missed the fact that your dad’s partners were out to get Phil?”
“No,” I insist. “Not completely anyway. I knew my dad’s club was a threat to Phil. Even Phil knew it was a threat. It’s why we were planning this fund-raiser in the first place. But to be honest, I thought it was just business.” I choke out the words.
“Just business? To shut Phil down?” Vada sounds close to tears, and I want to die. “You’re as bad as Marcus, calling him a failure just because he’s soft on his employees.”
“Stop. Vada,” I plead. “That’s not what I meant at all. You know I don’t think Phil is a failure. I think he’s incredible. This wasn’t about him. This was about me and my song. That’s it. My dad’s partners were looking to exploit the song, and Christ!” I yank at my hat, accidentally ripping it from my head. “I was selfish, okay? But I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone!”
Vada shakes her head slowly, her hand combing through her hair at the roots for a moment before dropping heavily to her side. “I don’t understand how this happened.”
I open my mouth, and she holds up a hand, stilling the words in my throat. “That wasn’t—I know what you said. I get it. You threw a tantrum and revealed our cards. It was an accident, and you didn’t mean it. I know. Luke, I know. Okay?” Vada’s eyes are shining with tears, and one spills over onto her cheek. She swipes at it angrily, sniffing loudly. Her voice breaks, and my chest cracks open with it. “But it’s shitty. You know? Everything we worked for, down the drain. Everything I’ve worked for, for years, gone. Marcus wins.”
“Marcus does not—”
“He does, though. I’ve been naïve to put all my stock in Liberty Live. It’s just a show, and I’m just a kid. I was stupid for believing I could pull off something special. I’m not special. Phil’s not special. Hard work only takes you so far.” She grimaces, and her shoulders slump, defeated. “Marcus, the asshole, was right.”
“Stop. He’s not right. Not this time. Listen, I’m sorry,” I say, my voice a croak. “I’ll talk to (Not) Warren. Get the band back—”
“Jesus, Luke.” She laughs humorlessly. “It’s too late for that. We can’t outbid them. Whatever the cost, it will be way beyond our means. No, I need to talk to Ben. Maybe his bluegrass band…”
I try to step closer, and she holds her hand out. “No. I can’t think with you…” Her voice rings hollow. “Please go. You’ve done enough. I need—I need to try to fix this.” Vada closes her eyes, compiling a mental list. “Without the fund-raiser, the club will close. Maybe not right away, though. Maybe Phil can coast another summer at least. But Liberty Live will be gone. I’ll still have the blog, but not the access to shows. And Jesus, Rolling Stone…”
“Wait, what about Rolling Stone?”
Her brown eyes pierce me as if just realizing I’m still standing here. Tears roll down her cheeks in earnest now, and she swipes at them furiously. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll have to figure out another way.”
“I can help you. Please. Vada—”
“No. Seriously. You’ve done enough. Go. I need to do this alone.”
But it’s not me who leaves. It’s Vada.
30
VADA
LUKE
YouTube: Vance Joy “Like Gold”
LUKE
YouTube: Tom Odell “I Know”
LUKE
YouTube: Twenty One Pilots “Car Radio”
LUKE
YouTube: Dramarama “Anything, Anything”
LUKE
Vada. I know you’re there. I know you can see my calls.
LUKE
Fine. Text it is. Please let me help. I need to help. I want to fix this.
VADA
YouTube: Demi Lovato “Stone Cold”
VADA
YouTube: Noah Cyrus & Labrinth “Make Me Cry”
VADA
YouTube: The Civil Wars “Poison & Wine”
VADA
YouTube: Counting Crows “Colorblind”
VADA
I’m turning off my phone now. Please stop calling.
* * *
I shut off my phone with a sob and throw it at the wall, watching the screen splinter as it skitters on the hardwood floor. Fuck. I’m going to regret that.
I listened to every single song he sent me. Twice. And the ones I sent him. Twice. I don’t have time for this bullshit. I need to be making plans, and yet.
And yet. I’m not stupid. I know what I feel for Luke transcends petty arguments. And I know he never meant for this to happen. I’m not angry so much as hurt. And my hurt isn’t all his fault, but everyone’s. Life in general’s fault. Nothing is fair. I can plan and fix and plot and schedule and dream all the fuck I want, and it will still come unraveled no matter what I do.
And I’m not completely self-centered. I realize this goes beyond Liberty Live and me. This is everything Phil has ever had. And is Phil pissed at Luke?
Nope. When I came home late last night, tearfully sharing that everything had fallen apart, he pulled me to his chest and told me to go to bed. “I’ll head in early tomorrow. See what I can come up with. It might not all be lost,” he said.
But it is. Still, if Phil isn’t giving up, I can’t either. After scrubbing my face clean of yesterday’s tears, I scrape my hair into a messy knot and throw on my Loud Lizard uniform of skinny jeans and T-shirt. Jogging down the stairs, I nearly tumble straight into my mom in her bathrobe. She passes me a cup of coffee and smiles gently.
“I know you don’t drink it, but you might need the boost. It’s mostly coconut creamer. You can take my car today. I have an overgrown garden calling my name.”
I sigh. “It’s not going to work. I can’t fix this.”
She shrugs and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “It’s not your job to fix everything, Vada.”
“But it’s my future,” I say, feeling my eyes well.
“And it’s as bright as ever, my girl. If anyone can pull something out at the last minute, it’s Phil. He’s been at it for hours already. But life’s unpredictable. Part of the ride is learning to roll with whatever comes our way. So, that’s what you’re going to do. Roll with it. Change what needs to change and make the best of what you’re handed. Think I planned to finish out my doctorate with a baby?”
“No.”
“Think I planned to fall in love with my best friend?”
I smile. “No.”
“Nope. The two best things to ever happen to me were completely unplanned.”
I let that sink in. “You make a lot of sense, Mom.”
“Good.”
“I don’t see how that will help anything today, but—”
“It might not. But it’s just one day.” She hands me a mason jar with something green inside. “Bring this with you. Phil forgot his smoothie this morning. He’s probably starving. Poor guy,” she murmurs fon
dly.
Fondly.
I bite my lip at the pang of regret behind my eyes. Luke.
“By the way, I broke my phone,” I say. “Um. Threw it against the wall. So, that’s on me, obviously. I’ll have to get a new one, but in the meantime, if you or, um, anyone else needs to get ahold of me—”
“You’re at work.”
“I’m at work,” I agree with a sigh. For better or worse, I’m going to work. But first, I have a bearded bluegrass bartender to plead with and a future to readjust.
31
LUKE
I try all night to call her. I text her a thousand times. I wasn’t sure if she read my messages until she sent songs back.
I should have taken them as a fuck-you, but I know Vada. I know her now. So, I took it as, “I’m angry but still care enough to send you agonizing yet handpicked heartbreak songs, so.”
I mean. She sent me Duritz. Duritz.
I confronted my dad about it all last night, and he seemed genuinely shocked and upset. That’s all the confirmation I needed. This is my fault. I did this.
And I need to fix it.
Cullen feels terrible, moping all over the damn place, which makes everything worse. He’s reaching way back to take credit for everything, and I’m inclined to let him, even though I’d let the band name slip. Not that I want to be absolved, but if it makes him shut up about it …
I’ve tried everything. I went to my dad’s partners, but they are intent on making me suffer for my obstinacy. Which, fine. I didn’t really want to cooperate with them, but I would’ve. For her.
Cullen, Zack, and I brainstormed ways the podcast could help out, but aside from creating buzz, it’s not good for much. What good are thousands of new followers when they live in different countries and are only there for the singing?
Which brings me to my final option. One that I really don’t want to do, but it’s the only thing I have.
It’s time to be brave.
* * *
I knock on Phil’s door first thing the next morning.
“This looks familiar,” he says, and I sink into the chair across from him.
“I fucked up,” I say.
“So I heard.”
“I need to fix it.”
“I’m all ears.” Phil leans forward, his elbows on his desk as he peers over his bifocals.
I inhale heavily. Once I do this, I can’t go back. I wipe my hands on my jeans and inhale and exhale deeply again. Sweat prickles on the back of my neck.
“(Not) Warren, thanks to Vada’s blog, is bigger than anything around here. Bigger than Ben’s bluegrass shit anyway. No offense to him.”
“I agree with you.”
“Right.” I wipe my hands again. Fuck, it’s hot in here. I wouldn’t put it past Phil to be sweating me out on purpose. “Right.”
“Luke,” he says. “You look ready to hurl. Just say it.”
“If we want to make the money, and potentially beat my dad’s club on opening night, we’ll need a really big act. One that can bring in numbers.”
He nods, raising a brow.
“Like internet-famous numbers.”
He sinks back in his chair with a loud whoop, startling me. He laughs and leans forward again. “Man, she’s got her hooks in you.”
I swallow back the bile and nod.
“You sure?”
“I already told Cullen. He’s out covertly papering the internet as we speak. I’d appreciate it if you could help me find a way to keep Vada away from the internet for the next thirty-six-ish hours.”
“You have enough music to make a show out of it?”
This, I’ve thought about. “Plenty.”
“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “You can still back out.”
“I’m doing it. One night, and one night only, Luke Greenly, son of British punk star and lead singer of the Bad Apples, Charlie Greenly, will perform his viral hit at the Loud Lizard.”
“You looked a little pale when you said that.” He hands me his trash bin just in time for me to puke my guts out in it. Twice.
He grimaces. “You gonna get a hold on that?”
“Better put a bucket on the stage,” I say, wiping my mouth.
“This is a good thing you’re doing, Luke. I won’t forget it.”
“You’d better not. I need you to market the shit out of it. But remember, don’t tell Vada. I already talked to Ben. He’s going to play it cool with her, so she won’t know. I can’t … I’m not ready for her to know.”
“She’s going to be there. She’ll find out eventually.”
“I know. I’m … I know.”
* * *
The Saturday of the show, I’m at the club before it opens. Early. Really early. To practice. The show will be in Liberty Square, but I needed a private place to practice my set.
My mother-loving set of all the ridiculous …
I’m cuing up when the door opens, cutting me off. The daylight filters in, and my breath catches.
“Dad,” I say. The mic in front of my face amplifies it. “Shouldn’t you be at your club? Opening night and all.”
He shakes his head. “I quit.”
“What?”
He shrugs, looking sheepish and much younger. “Not my scene, it turns out. I didn’t love how they were doing business. Not to mention, your mum threatened to cut me off, if you know what I mean, so I took my part and walked. They’re still opening tonight. I only owned a third, so it won’t sink them, but—”
“What are you doing here?”
“Your brother told me you were here, and I thought, well.” He runs his hand through his short blond hair. “I wasn’t always a lead singer, you know. I started off playing guitar. Thought maybe you could use some backup.”
My throat is suddenly thick. “Dad,” I say. “It’s only one show.”
“I know,” he says quickly. “So, I’d better take advantage of the occasion.”
“I thought you might be needing a second-rate drummer, as well?” My boss is standing in a dim corner, drumsticks in his hands.
My dad crosses the room. “Good to see you, Phil. It’s been years.”
“Likewise, Charlie. The pleasure is mine, believe me.”
I’m too overwhelmed to respond, but these two aren’t ones to wait for a response. They take the stage behind me. Phil sits on a throne.
“I was wondering about the drum set,” I say.
He lifts a shoulder, slamming on the cymbal. “Haven’t had a chance to move it to Mary’s yet.”
“That’s lucky.”
“Sure is. All right, kid. Show us what to do.”
* * *
There’s been a last-minute change of plan, listeners, so spread the word far and wide. As we speak, my twin brother is in sound check. That’s right. The tortured piano-playing prodigy is singing for one night, and one night only. Tonight, he’ll be in downtown Ann Arbor at the Liberty Square stage at 8:00 p.m. sharp with special guests you’ll have to see to believe. We’re setting out to save Liberty Live and the Loud Lizard tonight, friends. I repeat, this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and I have it on good authority that if you ever found yourself curious who the lucky girl was that inspired his runaway hit … well, all will be revealed.
Tickets are twenty dollars at the gate. All for a good cause, folks. Bring your friends. This is Cullen Greenly, signing off.
32
VADA
I spent all morning prepping for the concert, moving speakers and setting up the stage, dealing with vendors and issuing orders. It’s fantastic, to be honest, and the first and possibly last time I’ll ever do it, so I soak in every moment. At least until we’re five hours prior to the start and Phil sends me home.
“You need to get some rest, kid. You’ve done all you can. All that’s left is for the band to sound check. I can handle that.”
I’m not sure, and he can tell.
“Go! I’ll call you if I need you.”
“Fine. But don’t
forget I broke my phone,” I say. I’ve been repeating it to everyone today. Even though I’ve been too busy to really miss it, I feel naked without contact with the outside world. I almost dug out my mom’s iPad last night, but I stumbled into bed instead, nearly sleeping through my (borrowed) alarm this morning. Ben’s stupid band kept me running all day yesterday. Who knew a bluegrass band could be so high maintenance? They’re playing for free, though, so I’ve been trying to play it cool.
“If you need me,” I try again, “call the landline.” I don’t remember the number to our landline, but I assume Phil does. Probably. “Maybe I should stay.”
He rolls his eyes and shoves me toward my mom’s car.
I’m far too keyed up to nap, so I beg Meg to come over, and she brings episodes of Teen Wolf to distract me.
It passes the time but doesn’t really help. It’s making me think of Luke and his DVDs. I definitely would have texted him by now were my phone not broken. Meg offers hers, so I send out a quick I’m sorry. Can we talk after this is all over? But he never responds, and it’s just as well. I’ll force him to talk to me tomorrow, if I have to.
There’s still the whole Rolling Stone thing, but I haven’t felt witty enough to write. Ben’s bluegrass band isn’t exactly going to be anything to rave about. At least not to Rolling Stone. I have to try, though. Like my mom said, make the best of what I’m given or whatever. Even if what I’m given is a bunch of hairy college juniors who smell like pine trees and don’t wear socks under their old-man shoes.
“Think it’s too early to get ready?” Meg asks.
My mom knocks on the door. “I thought we could pick up some dinner before the show. I told Phil I’d bring him takeout. It’s gonna be a long night for everyone.”
“Give me fifteen, Mrs. Josephs,” Meg says, using my mom’s new last name. My mom’s face flushes like a teenager’s, and she waves her hand in a useless way.
“Gah, that woman is starry-eyed,” I say.
Meg smiles, shuffling through her duffel bag. “I think it’s nice.”
“Me, too,” I say.