With the Band

by Jean Haus

  After pulling my camera out and then pushing the bag at Jill, I start moving around and snapping pictures. Romeo and the petite girl gazing at each other, forehead to forehead, with the bus looming in the background. Justin holding the tattooed girl in a tight one-armed hug while the boy clings to his other arm. Gabe being pulled into an aggressive kiss by the scantily clad blonde. And lastly, Sam staring at the ground as cigarette smoke floats in a hazy swirl around him. His brows are low. His lips flat.

  When I come near him, he looks up and scowls at me, jerking the black-and-orange striped beanie down over his curls to his eyebrows. “Keep that shit away from me,” he snarls.

  I lower the camera and try to push down my irritation. “Onstage? Can I photograph you onstage at least?” My tone is curt. Guess my irritation won out.

  “Yeah, whatever.” He drops his cigarette in a can by the door and stalks past me.

  I put the cap on the camera lens and smooth the anger from my expression. I will not let Sam get to me.

  When I sidle back over to the bus, Romeo introduces me to his girlfriend, Riley. I shake hands with Justin’s girlfriend, Allie, the woman with the tattoo sleeve. I shake hands with Gabe too, since we’re meeting officially for the first time, and I can’t help but notice that nobody introduces his girlfriend. When the last farewells recommence, Jill gives me two hugs. One from her and one from Bryce—he’s at practice. Then, finally, the band and I climb onto the bus.

  The bus is rocker-style and awesome. It’s split up so there’s one big room in the front, with a compact kitchen and two leather sofas, and a small room in the back with a wraparound sofa. In between the two rooms are closets, two sets of bunks, and a tiny bathroom. There are flat-screen TVs in the front and back, plus each bunk has its own tiny TV. Since there are only four bunks, I offer to sleep on the couch in the back when we’re on the road. All four band members—surprisingly, even Sam—offer me their bunks. But I insist. Really, it’s more private in the back anyway, even if each bunk has a curtain.

  Gary is our bus driver, a short older guy with gray hair and thick glasses. Thus far he’s been quiet and accommodating. Romeo took charge after we got on board and made sure we all stored our things neatly. Now, as the bus is rolling down the highway, all five of us are gathered in the front room. I’m next to Gabe on one of the leather couches while Romeo and Justin sit together on the couch facing us. Sam is by himself at the small kitchen booth. Romeo is reciting his list of rules aloud, reading from a notebook in his hands. Justin looks annoyed. Gabe is motionless and quiet. Sam leans his head back against the booth, covers his forehead with his beanie, and looks visibly annoyed too.

  The rules are never ending. Be respectful to Gary. No groupies on bus. (Yes!) If people are sleeping, keep it down. Clean up messes. (I’m alarmed that these two are needed.) Since the water supply is limited, shower on the bus only if necessary. Anyone can eat what’s in the fridge and cupboards, because it’s paid for with band funds. All other food is on your own. Make sure the AC is off before using the microwave or a breaker will blow. Open flame on the stovetop is not allowed while on the road.

  On and on he goes. I zone in and out, trying not to notice that Sam has started to sarcastically orchestrate Romeo’s never-ending monologue, moving two fingers in the air like a conductor. Being in the same space as Sam is making me nervous, which makes me pissed off at myself. So I breathe deeply and make myself listen to Romeo drone on about laundry. According to him, we’ll each take a turn, every week if possible. I suppose between the bus travel and hotel stays, laundry might become an issue. However, none of these four men are washing my underwear.

  Um, just no and never.

  I raise my hand as if I’m in high school. Romeo’s expression is odd, but he nods.

  “You guys are going to be far busier than me, and, well, this is your tour, so I can do the laundry.”

  Justin grins. “Sounds good. How nice of you.”

  Romeo glares at him through the dark hair falling over his forehead. “Thanks, Peyton.” He gives both Sam and Gabe a stern look. “But I’d like everyone to be aware that Peyton has a job to do, and it has nothing to do with laundry. She’s here to promote us, not take care of us.” He lowers the notebook he is holding. “Tomorrow night is our first show. First thing in the morning, we’ll go over the set.”

  Apparently, that means this meeting is adjourned, because within seconds everyone is out of their seats. Justin and Gabe immediately head to the flat-screen TV at the front and start hooking up a gaming system. Sam goes to the fridge and pulls out three beers.

  Romeo glances at me and gestures to the back room. “You ready for interviews?”

  “Sure,” I say, standing up. I’d sort of forgotten until now that Romeo and I had talked about me interviewing each band member to get material for the first blog posts of the tour.

  Romeo nods in Sam’s direction. “He’s up first,” he says.

  I feel my stomach drop.

  Sam looks up at us with a sour expression. “Why me?”

  “Because I need to go over some things on the phone with the concert manager,” Romeo says, looking darkly at Sam.

  Without saying anything, Sam puts the beers in the fridge and marches to the back room.

  We sit on opposite sides of the low square coffee table. I’m glad to have a piece of furniture in between us. Pretending nonchalance, I get out my voice recorder, a pen, and a notebook while he stares out the tiny window above my head. Invisible tension crackles in the air. We’re both as stone-faced as a couple of rockers hiding behind sunglasses on the red carpet.

  Ugh. Do I really want to do this?

  When Romeo had initially called me, he’d explained why he wanted me to cover the tour. He’d thought a blog with professional pictures and creative posts at least every other day would keep his current fans entertained and attract new ones. Always the skeptical journalist, I’d asked why the guys in the band couldn’t handle a blog on their own. Well, for starters, he’d said sardonically, they couldn’t take their own pictures, especially onstage, and besides, they’re not professional writers. He wanted things creative but polished.

  I’d liked his answer.

  Once we’d hammered out everything—my minuscule pay, his expectations, my expectations—I told him I wanted to interview everyone before the tour began. I wanted to hear the story of how Luminescent Juliet landed on this national tour from the different perspectives of each of the band members. But instead of giving me access, Romeo had insisted on putting off the interviews until the tour kicked off. Beforehand, everyone was too busy getting ready and practicing, but once we were on the bus, there would be lots of time. Instead of doing the interviews then, I’d created the blog so eventually all I had to do was plug in my first post. And I’d generated lists of questions. Needless to say, my questions for Sam were the least thought out.

  Since I don’t want to start with anything personal, I ask, “How is it that Luminescent Juliet ended up on the Summer Tour of Rock?” I hit record on my machine and wait.

  He shoots a skeptical look, first at me, then at the tiny recording machine. He says in a flat tone, “There are basically two reasons. One, our album made it into the top one hundred on a couple of different indie charts last month, and two, the opening band pulled out of the tour. I’m not sure if we were the only band they considered as a replacement, but when they called, it took us about two seconds to say yes.”

  “Why such a quick yes?”

  “This tour is major,” he says, sitting up from his slouch. “We’d been considering putting together a small tour by ourselves. It would have involved a couple of vans and us doing all the legwork. We wouldn’t have played any big arenas or made any money, so the main point would have been to build a bigger fan base On this tour, we’ll actually make some money and have the opportunity to build a bigger fan base. It was like getting a huge present dropped in our laps.”

  “Though you’re all in college, would you sa
y that Luminescent Juliet is your first priority?”

  “We’re—wait.” He raises his eyebrows. “You’re running all the blog posts by Romeo before you put them up, right?”

  Guessing he’s not sure how honest to be, I nod reassuringly. “Absolutely. Having Romeo approve all the posts was part of our agreement.”

  “We’re playing it by ear,” says Sam, looking slightly reassured. “Band and school are both priorities right now.”

  I tap my pencil on my notebook, searching my list for a neutral question. “So what is your college major?”

  “English,” he says, an evasive tone returning to his voice. He slouches back into the couch.

  I stop myself from curling my upper lip. I’d thought for a second that he was warming up, but now it’s obvious that I was just hoping. Boy, this is going fan-super-fucking-tastic. I look down at my notebook again. Since I don’t have any more specific questions for Sam, I glance at the list I made for Gabe.

  “How long have you been playing the drums—I mean bass?”

  His gaze meets mine. “Only three years.”

  Clearing my throat, I glance down at the notebook page. “Any experience with music before that?”

  “I played the guitar in another band. A garage band. Or since we lived in the middle of butt-fucking farmland, maybe you could call it a barn band.” He gives me a piercing look, his eyes narrowed. “What was the name of that band, Peyton?” he asks in a low tone.

  The pen tightens in my grip as he waits for me to answer. “Bottle Rockets,” I say in a tone as low as his.

  His gaze bores into mine. “Why are you asking me these stupid questions?”

  Though I don’t want to, I flinch. “I want a bit of background on each of the members.”

  He yanks that damn beanie down over his eyebrows, sits back, and crosses his arms. “You know my background.”

  No. Not really. I knew him for about six months, and most of that time I was infatuated with his brother, Seth.

  “Shit, Peyton, we slept together.”

  Jerked out of my thoughts, my eyes flash fire at him. “Do. Not. Ever. Bring that up again,” I force out through clenched teeth. Talking about the past with Jill was hard enough. Talking about it with Sam will never happen.

  Something blazes in his gaze but disappears too quickly for me to read it. “I think we’re done here,” I say coldly. “I’ll assume that all you want your background information to say is that you played guitar in garage band with your brother, who was the singer, before you joined Luminescent Juliet.”

  “Don’t include the part about my brother,” he says so icily that my own former cold tone seems warm and fuzzy.

  I want to know why he’s refusing to let me mention his brother, but I’m aware that he’s going to get super pissed if I ask. I’m also aware there’s no way he’s going to explain anything.

  I stand up and put my hands on my hips, then glare down my nose at him. “Great start,” I say sarcastically. “Why don’t you send someone else in?”

  His expression is level while I smile pleasantly at the asshat.

  There’s no way I’m going to let him see how much he gets to me.

  Chapter 4

  I wake up in the middle of the night, startled that the bus isn’t moving. A peek outside my window produces a view of a shadowy rest area. After tiptoeing to the bathroom and then to the fridge for a bottle of water, I realize Gary is sleeping on the couch in the main room. Stupidly, I had thought we would drive through the night. As if Gary, the middle-aged man of few words, doesn’t need to sleep. It takes me forever to fall back asleep. When I wake up in the morning, we’re rolling again.

  I tend to be an early riser. I usually have to get up at five in the morning three days a week to go make desserts at Tony’s. So it’s not surprising that all the band members are still asleep as I tiptoe past the bunk area with a notebook in hand. I find a plastic bowl—not too hard with only four cupboards—and pour cereal and milk. While eating breakfast, I make a list of what I need to accomplish prior to the concert tonight. Interviews took up most of yesterday—all the other band members were more talkative than Sam. Justin and Romeo gave me a ton of information. Both of them seemed super excited about the tour. Gabe wasn’t as open, but he was nowhere near as defensive as Sam was. After eating a ham sandwich for dinner, I’d called Jill, then Bryce before laying out a blanket and pillow on the couch.

  My first goal is to use the interviews to create bios for the band members to go with their pictures. I also want to finish the first tour post about leaving home.

  I’m still digging into my Cheerios when Sam stumbles into the kitchen area. One side of his head is springy with curls. The hair on the other side is flat and he is dressed in a faded Jimi Hendrix T-shirt and flannels. He searches in the cupboards. Froot Loops in hand, he opens the fridge.

  Clearing my throat, I push the milk to the edge of the table.

  Sam finally notices me sitting behind him and scowls. I’m not sure if the frown is because of me or because he’s not a morning person. As he collapses across from me in the booth and drops the cereal box on the table between us, I’m guessing both.

  I tug my pen from the spiral of the notebook. He stares out the window. I work on my list. He shoves in cereal.

  The uncomfortable breakfast continues, with the hum of the highway below us and cereal crunching until Sam unexpectedly asks, “How’d you sleep back there?”

  Shocked that he’s talking to me, I nearly drop my plastic spoon. “All right. You?”

  He pours another bowl of cereal. “Like shit. Those bunks are narrower than hell.”

  “The back couch wasn’t too bad, but I was startled to wake up in the middle of the night at a rest stop.”

  He finishes chewing. “Pulled into it around midnight.”

  “You nervous about the concert tonight?” I ask. I’m not sure if I keep the conversation going because he’s actually talking to me or because it’s become my habit to ask questions.

  He shrugs and scoops up more cereal. “We’ve played some big shows.”

  “When the crowd is more than five thousand?”

  “No, but I’m thinking it’s all the same if I’m up onstage.”

  My head tilts as I imagine the excitement of performing live. “I suppose.”

  The bass line from “Higher Ground” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers rings from the pocket of his flannels. He sets his spoon down and digs out the phone. He scowls at the screen and then answers, “What’s going on?”

  His gaze wanders to the window as creases form between his brows.

  “Why would you assume that? I wouldn’t do that.” He shoves his cereal away. “I haven’t forgotten you.”

  I pretend to be immersed in my list and not listening, but it’s hard to ignore the one-sided conversation. Like most waitresses, I’m good at ignoring people, especially customers arguing across plates of pasta, yet Sam’s frustrated tone catches my attention.

  “No. No. No. That’s not true.” He rubs his temple. “Are you listening to what you’re saying? What you’re suggesting?” The temple rubbing continues as he listens. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.” Sam pauses, as if suddenly remembering he’s not alone. “Just a minute.” He scoots out of the booth. “Hey, hey, you need to calm down,” he says, marching toward the back of the bus.

  I tap my pencil on the notebook, thinking that Sam has one demanding girlfriend. I wonder what she looks like, if she’s a student, and whether I’ve had any classes with her. Irritated at myself, I toss my pen down. Who cares? I certainly shouldn’t. Still, I can’t stop thinking about it. I wonder why she wasn’t there yesterday to see him off. But then again, Bryce couldn’t make it because of practice, so maybe she had prior commitments too. I glance out the window and wonder why I’m contemplating Sam’s love life.

  I don’t want to contemplate anything about Sam.

  Within the hour, Romeo holds his morning meeting. I’d hoped to get some mate
rial out of it, but the meeting is pretty boring. The guys talk about a song list until they all agree. Romeo reminds Gabe about keeping the tempo so they don’t “crash,” whatever that means. I’m guessing the implication is that he and Sam won’t be able to stay with the beat unless Gabe provides a strong lead. They spend another twenty minutes choreographing Sam’s, Romeo’s, and Justin’s onstage movements. Although not every second is accounted for, I’m surprised at how much they do plan out, even moving around to show and explain to one another what they envision.

  Lunch is another round of sandwiches. I opt for peanut butter and jelly this time, with a side of raw carrots. There’s not much junk food on the bus. I guess that’s not surprising, given all of Romeo’s research. He probably read somewhere that bands don’t perform well if they live on Cheetos and canned ravioli for six weeks.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon in the back room, working on the bios and the blog post. I look through the pictures I took yesterday and decide which ones to put up. Only one shows a girlfriend. From ages twelve to sixteen, I was in luuuve with a whole bunch of hot musicians, and I never wanted to know if the objects of my affection were in relationships. I’m guessing that filling up the posts with lovey-dovey pictures isn’t the thing to do. Especially because Luminescent Juliet is composed of four hot guys.

  I’m aware their looks are part of their appeal. Romeo with his swoop of dark hair and intense dark eyes. Justin’s gorgeous model look, complete with blond hair and tattoos. Gabe’s lean, rocker body and harsh face framed by brown shoulder-length hair. And Sam, with his sculpted profile, curls, and muscular build. They’re like a grown-up boy band that’s way past cute and into full-on sexy. Luckily, I have a great boyfriend. Though he’s good-looking too, I learned long ago that looks aren’t everything. Real communication is more important. So I’m completely immune to hot-looking guys, especially to Sam.

  Late in the afternoon, I go to the front room to show Romeo the first post, but he is on the phone, his face angry and tense. With an equally strained expression, Justin paces the length of the aisle from the kitchen to about five inches behind Gary’s seat, then back again. Gabe is attacking the couch with his drumsticks. Sam sits in the kitchen booth with his feet up and his head back, looking unfazed, reading a book. Since he’s the only person not in the middle of a freak-out, I’m guessing he’s the best one to talk to.