The Rosewoods Rock & Roll Box Set

by Katrina Abbott

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: So?

  Message: No.

  As soon as I hit send, I slipped my phone back into my pocket and went inside the building, signing in before I started up the stairs. I was suddenly too tired for the stairs, so I did an about-face and took the elevator up to my floor. I got to my door and opened it, finding Sandy sitting on her bed with her laptop on her thighs.

  She was smiling at me. “So? How did the rest of the day go?”

  I dropped my bag on my bed, wishing I could just faceplant myself onto it, but no way would Sandy let me get off that easy. “Really good,” I said. “They’re going to be great tomorrow.”

  “I got some great video,” Sandy said. “I just wish I could have done some interviews, you know?”

  I dropped onto the bed and toed off my sneakers. “That’ll come in New York. Give them a chance to get settled. Plus, my dad told you he’s going to have to okay any interview questions through publicity first.”

  She pouted. “I know. I’m just super excited, you know?”

  With a sigh, I got back up. “I’m going to grab a quick shower and then fall into bed.”

  “You don’t want to see the video?” Sandy asked, looking so hopeful that I couldn’t bring myself to say no. I did want to see it, just, I was so tired.

  “Of course,” I said, coming over to her bed to take a spot next to her.

  As soon as I dropped a knee onto her mattress, she said, “You look wrecked. You know what? I’m still working on it, so why don’t you go take your shower and I’ll show you in the morning.”

  “You’re the best,” I muttered and took myself into the bathroom. The second I lay my phone on the counter, a message came in from Dave.

  To: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  From: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: So?

  Message: why not? You sold it so well before, you should go.

  I thought about my response as I got undressed and stepped into the shower. Did I really need to explain? It’s not like I had even considered going on tour, but the Andres thing just compounded the reasons why I wouldn’t. Though I knew Sandy would love it if I did, if only for the week she was going.

  But did I owe Dave an explanation since I’d been the one who had petitioned so hard for him to join the band? I halfheartedly lathered up my hair, realizing I was probably overthinking what was a simple explanation filled with several valid reasons: I had summer plans elsewhere. I wasn’t working for my dad. Plus the real reason that trumped everything else in my mind: I simply didn’t want to go.

  A few minutes later I emerged from the shower, dried off and wrapped my hair up in a towel before I grabbed my phone, ready to tap out a thoughtful and thorough answer, but instead, I decided to take a page from his book.

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: re: So?

  Message: Not interested.

  I received his response almost instantly.

  To: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  From: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: So?

  Message: Touché. Anyway, I’m going to do it. Tell your dad that your convincing did the trick. Especially the shameless flattery.

  I did a mental fist-pump at that, but something was nagging at me.

  To: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  From: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  Subject: Great news.

  Message: He’s going to be thrilled. Make sure you tell him about Strutts, ok? He needs to know.

  To: vanessa.capri@the-rosewood-academy.com

  From: willmont.davidson@the-westwood-academy.com

  Subject: re: Great news.

  Message: I will for sure. Thanks for everything. Better hit the sack. C U tomorrow.

  I sent back a smilie face and then hovered my finger over my contacts, about to send my dad a text but then reconsidered. I didn’t want to take away the opportunity for Dave to be the one to tell him he was officially joining Wiretap.

  The Show

  To call the next day crazy was an understatement. For starters, there was the afternoon performance of Romeo and Juliet, which meant campus was filled with parents and alumni. Not to mention staffers hell bent on making sure everyone was entertained and well fed.

  That meant people running around like headless chickens and, inevitably, a delay in getting into the gym. Then there were a few scary moments when we couldn’t find the guys’ equipment (security had locked it in a different storeroom than we’d expected) and after that, there was a power outage and a long time in the dark before we could find someone from maintenance to get it fixed. It was standard operating procedure for gigs—this sort of stuff happened all the time on tour. For us, it was normal.

  But for the guys, it was chaos. All the things going wrong compounded with their nerves over the imminent performance—their first—had them frazzled. Max didn’t say anything but stood against the wall, hands in pockets, clenching his jaw. Andres kept crossing and uncrossing his arms, pacing the length of the gym and then plopping himself down in a chair, only to get up again. Graeme kept going to the bathroom—making me think he had a nervous bladder. Darren was at least sitting, but his legs were constantly in motion, making his chair squeak which annoyed everyone (or maybe that was just me).

  I almost sent them all to the fitness room to run off some steam on the treadmills, but knew they’d get sweaty enough later on and tiring them out now was not a good idea.

  Only Dave seemed somewhat calm as he sat in a corner with his earbuds in, eyes closed as he listened to who knows what.

  Dad was fiddling with some of the equipment after a less than successful sound check and Kiki and Ginny hadn’t arrived yet to get the guys ready, so I decided it was up to me to get them calmed down.

  I passed out bottles of water and started to tell them about our house in the Hamptons where they’d get to spend a few days before tour. I babbled incessantly about the beach, volleyball tournaments, Jet Skis, cookouts, and all the other things that no one really cared about until they actually got there, but it seemed to work. Darren stopped fidgeting so much (enough to make the squeaking stop, thank God), Andres sat down and stayed in his chair, and Max came over and took a seat, too. Once he was out of the washroom, Graeme came and took a chair also.

  Dave took his earbuds out and chugged a water, watching me with amused interest. Funny how he was the calm one, even over Andres who had experience playing to big crowds. I didn’t have a chance to think on that too much, though.

  Eventually, when I couldn’t think about anything more to add to the Hamptons travel brochure that I was obviously writing, Dave took over and went through the set list, talking about each of the songs and engaging them all in something of a pep talk. That helped them focus, which seemed to get their minds off what was going on around them.

  By the time everything was set up, and the guys had their guitars tuned up and ready to go, we only had an hour before they’d need to go into the locker room so Ginny and Kiki could work their magic.

  But after the day before, the guys were ready and an hour was more than enough for them to warm up and find their groove.

  After rehearsal, I herded them toward the locker room that we’d blocked off and commandeered as their dressing room. Dave fell to the back of the group behind Darren and came beside me. “You’re a natural, you know.”

  I frowned. “At what?”

  He nodded toward the guys in front of me. “Managing things. Managing people.”

  I shrugged. “They were a little freaked out a
fter everything. I just passed around waters and distracted everyone.”

  “You saw what needed to be done, and you did it. You didn’t freak out.”

  “There was nothing to freak out about. This stuff happens. It’s all part of it—they’ll learn after they get a few gigs under their belts.” Then I dropped my voice and added, “You’ll see.” I smiled, though pressed my lips together to hide it—the other guys weren’t supposed to know about Dave joining the band until it was official and papers had been signed. Though they had probably guessed already. Or would soon.

  He was shaking his head.

  “What?”

  “Stuff does happen, but staying calm isn’t always easy, especially with everything going on and so much on the line. It obviously comes naturally to you to ride things out. I’m guessing you get that partly from your dad and partly from experience, but you’re good at it, Vanessa.”

  I was about to argue with him, but looking up at his smiling and intent expression, I decided to take the compliment as it was intended. “Thanks.”

  He nodded. “All right, I guess I need to get into those super-special rock star jeans that look just like all my regular jeans.”

  I snorted. “But they’re not the same,” I said with great authority. “They’re special fabric that will keep you cooler, and the rips are strategic and reinforced so you won’t have any wardrobe malfunctions.”

  Darren suddenly turned around. “And they’re tighter in the crotch.”

  I nearly choked. “They are not!” I said, my face going eight thousand shades of red, probably because he might have been right.

  Darren winked at me and then grabbed the handle to the locker room. “You coming in?”

  “Um, no thanks,” I said, hanging back. Not that I thought his invitation was serious, but the last thing I needed was to see those five boys in their underwear as they got ready and changed into their concert clothes. It was bad enough I was now going to have to make a point to not look at their crotches.

  I was almost jumping out of my skin by the time Emmie and that Karl guy got up on stage to introduce the band after the dean did a spiel about the play and fundraiser.

  “Let’s go,” I muttered, never so impatient as I was in that moment.

  “I’m not going to talk for long,” Emmie said, though it was already too long to wait for the guys to come out. “Because I know we are all excited to hear this brand new band that is definitely going to be the next big thing. But I did want to mention that if it wasn’t for Vanessa Capri, we wouldn’t even have a band, so thank you to her for bringing us Wiretap.”

  That dragged my attention from the side of the stage up to where she stood at the mic. Emmie scanned the crowd and saw me, giving me a nod as I smiled at her and mouthed, you’re welcome.

  “Also, a thank you to the guy whose appendix burst, giving Westwood’s own Willmont Davidson his big break!”

  A thunder of hoots and applause broke out then, almost drowning out Emmie as she said into the microphone, “WIRETAP!” before she gestured toward the big curtain and the guys came flying out from behind it. Amid the cheers, they took their places on the stage.

  Dave, Max, and Andres grabbed their guitars and Darren took his spot at the drum kit while Graeme took his place at the mic at center stage.

  I knew they were nervous, but you’d never know it by how they smiled confidently out at the audience. I had a feeling Dad had given them a pep talk right before they came out.

  “Thank you all for having us!” Graeme said over the roar of the crowd, which started to die down as he spoke.

  Dave was playing them in to Brooklyn Girl, strumming the opening bars. “We’re so excited to be here at our first real gig. We want to thank Tony Capri for bringing us together and your own mate, Willmont Davidson for filling in while Chris is in hospital.”

  Graeme pointed at Dave, whose smile broadened as a huge cheer erupted for him, but he took it in stride, giving the audience a little preview of what was to come, making them go even crazier.

  Once that was done, Graeme took over again. “We’re going to start our set with what will be our first single when our album releases in a couple of weeks. It’s a special song that means a lot to me. It’s a song called Brooklyn Girl, and we are Wiretap.”

  “I want to have his babies,” Sandy said beside me, making me drag my eyes away from the band and look at her. I gave her a raised-eyebrow look, which she countered with a smirk.

  The guys were halfway through Pieces of You, the last song of their encore, and the whole room full of bodies was swaying as Graeme’s smooth voice wrapped around the audience like a warm blanket.

  Looking over the crowd, I realized Sandy would have to take a number if she wanted to offer up her uterus to the guys; many of my fellow Rosewood students (and plenty of the Westwood ones, too) were completely spellbound. A few people had danced during the fast songs, but mostly everyone watched the guys perform what turned out to be a great set. There were a few stumbles as Dad had predicted, but if anyone noticed, it sure didn’t lessen their enjoyment of the show.

  If anything, I thought it was sweet and endearing and sort of wished they could keep this shiny newness with which they were playing. They’d get better as they went on and I worried that also meant they’d lose that innocence and eagerness they had now. If only I could bottle it.

  But it was inevitable that they’d evolve and improve—there was no stopping it. And while I liked them rough around the edges, Dad wanted them polished.

  Still, while I mourned the changes to come, I was still nearly bursting with pride. For the band, of course, but especially for my dad who’d had the vision to put them together.

  It was a good sign that they’d been able to entrance the audience like they had, but as I looked back at my roommate, it was an unfortunate reality when it came to her. She was clearly smitten. What I couldn’t tell was with whom.

  “Whose babies?” I asked, trying to break the spell.

  She glanced at me and frowned but then quickly turned her gaze back to the stage, seeming upset that she’d missed even a half a second of the performance. “Are you kidding? All of them,” she said, as though it was obvious. “Except for Andres, of course,” she added. “Since he’s a douche.”

  “Nonetheless, having four guys’ babies is a physical impossibility. At least at one time.”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “Can you please let a girl have dreams?”

  “Not if it means you bearing multiple groupie love children,” I said, only half joking.

  “You are no fun, Vanessa. Please. I mean, I’d let you be their godmother.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at that ridiculous thought. “No, thanks.”

  “All right, shhhh. I need to hear the end of this song. It’s like he’s singing right to me.”

  I was going to argue with her, but as I looked toward the stage, Graeme was looking over in our direction, and for a half a second, I thought she might be right, that he was singing just to her. I gasped and looked at my roommate and then back to him, but his gaze had moved on as he skated it over the crowd. I even heard a few breathy sighs from other girls as he did. He was totally working the crowd like a pro.

  Boy did my dad know what he was doing by signing Graeme. Nonetheless, Sandy had to understand she couldn’t give in to the guys’ charms. There was no way she could go on tour with them if she was infatuated already—my dad would never allow it if he suspected she might climb into one of their bunks on the tour bus. I owed it to her to warn her that my dad was a thousand percent serious about no fraternizing on tour. Somehow she was going to have to build up an immunity to musicians.

  Although now was not the time to bring it up, as she was making googly eyes toward the stage, her hands clasped as though in prayer to the god of hot boy bands.

  Later, I told myself, and enjoyed the rest of the song, cheering along with th
e audience as the band finished their set, took their bows, and finally left the stage.

  The cheers and applause went on for a long time, but I knew the guys wouldn’t come back for another encore: they were out of songs, and the set was over.

  But then, as I was about to go around the stage to meet up with them, Dave came out on his own with his guitar.

  The crowd went nuts, kids whistling and hollering as he came up to the mic and held up his hands, his guitar slung over his shoulder.

  “Hey,” he said into the mic, effectively silencing the audience. “Thank you all so much for the really warm reception. The guys and I are so thankful for the opportunity to play for you.” He paused and dropped his eyes as the crowd waited with baited breath to see what else he would say. Finally, he looked up and out, took a breath and went on. “Although, maybe it means a little more to me on a personal level because it’s all of you—my classmates, my friends—that we’re playing for. So I wanted to do my own special thank you now, if that’s okay.”

  I snorted; like anyone would stop him?

  A cheer went up, making him smile so sweetly, it was almost heartbreaking, even to me, who was (mostly) immune to musicians’ charms. Getting all the encouragement he needed, he nodded and cleared his throat as a hush came over the sea of students as we all waited for him to begin.

  “Hey, kiddo,” I heard to my left, startling me, and turned to see my dad, grinning like crazy.

  “What’s he playing?” I asked, because this had not been part of the set plan.

  Dad shrugged. “I’m not sure. They came off the stage just now, and he asked if he could do this in lieu of another encore. Not that they had any other songs to play, but this audience definitely wants more from the band.”