by T L Dasha
“You’re the one who took my ladder!”
“So is that what inspired your lyrics for ‘Too Close to Home?’” The interviewer remained off camera, and the shot remained fixed on our faces. These talks would be overlaid on our practice montage once the whole show came together. They asked us a number of questions, some intentionally antagonistic when they needed to feign bits of drama, others were more playful. Nothing terribly deep though.
Our practice went about as it usually does, just in a much nicer studio with much nicer instruments. They moved around, catching shots of my toes tapping to the count, emphasizing a few botched notes, and zooming in on Logan retuning his guitar. I barely had time to go home after each day’s shooting. It was basically just work and sleep and work some more.
Not that the hours were any longer than my usual frenzy of work, writing, practicing, and homework. It’s almost like I’ve been training for this moment for years.
###
The lights fell on that purple stage, and Drake Morgan introduced the first band. They played a strange combination of ska and country, going on about visiting Disneyland for the first time. It stood out in the sense that it was unusual, but I don’t know that it was in a good way. The crowd seemed to like it more than I would have expected.
But I wasn’t worried. I knew our song was perfect.
I stood next to Lance in the backstage waiting room as we waited for our turn. Not intentionally, but our sets were back to back this time.
“So what’s with the haircut? Is Dread Theory a boyband now?” I pressed, maybe, possibly, slightly antagonistically.
“If you want to get anywhere in this industry, you have to make some effort to keep up with trends. Maybe if you updated your look once every century, you might actually have a chance of being taken seriously.” Lance shot back with as much venom as his tongue could muster. Sounded like bullshit to me. He’d had his last haircut since he discovered dubstep in middle school.
“Do you even know how long a century is?” I rolled my eyes.
“It was a figure of speech.” He huffed. It took so little effort to get on his nerves. “I’m up next. I don’t have time for this.”
“That was Elle and Belle with ‘My Sister is my Mirror,’” Drake Morgan’s voice filled the room. “If you loved that song as much as I did, don’t forget to vote at the end of the show. Next up, this band blew away our judges when they auditioned right here in sunny Los Angeles. Let’s all welcome Dread Theory!”
Lance left the waiting room with Marcus and Tanner. They took to the stage, and I sat down with Logan to watch their performance.
It all started with a drum solo. Tanner held the spotlight as he laid down a slow steady beat, slowly building tension. Slow taps turned to a series of drum rolls. The rolls jumped to the cymbals, then in one powerful hit, the whole stage lit up and Lance and Marcus joined in.
~We live in the Valley of Kings.~ Lance began, speaking softly with his mouth against the microphone. ~We spend our whole lives fighting to be the best. To climb the mountain. To be loved. To be understood.~
Marcus began strumming a quick set of chords in short burst, quietly enough to set the rhythm of Lance’s voiceover without overpowering it. The audience was still in anticipation.
~We reach for the fire, not caring how badly we’ll get burned. But you can’t burn a king.~ He spoke louder and more quickly now. ~We take to the mountains. We’re going so fast. No one can stop us. No one can pass. The finish line is right there. If we can just give a little more. The demons still chasing, still clawing at our doors.”
“But the curve is approaching. I know I can take it.
SHUT UP BACK THERE.
I have to focus on the road. The road to the top. It’s right there. RIGHT THERE.~
Tanner crashed his symbol and Marcus threw his fingers into a hard rock rift. Lance shifted to a smooth melody, trading his rap for song as he moved into the chorus.
~You’ll be the king, my son. Just as I was. I won’t let my demons find you. I won’t let you run.
When we reach the peak, I’ll leave you there alone. You’ll have everything you need to carve a path of your own.
But please don’t tell me that you need me, because you know I can’t stay. I’ll rest now in that valley, until I fade away.~
Why did I have chills?
“Lance’s dad didn’t die in a street race or something, did he?” I looked over at Logan.
“No, he owns that oil company, as far as I know. Maybe just a metaphor for not being around enough?”
“It kind of makes me want to give him a hug.”
“I kind of do, too.”
“It’s good...”
“Yeah…”
My confidence shouldn’t have been wavering as much as it was. I felt completely outclassed, and I hadn’t even thrown down my gauntlet yet. They finished to well-earned applause, and Logan helped me to my feet.
“His story is different, not better.” Logan whispered to me under his breath.
“Right.” I nodded. I can’t question myself now.
We walked by Lance on the way out. I tried to ignore his smug expression. We took our positions, and it was all eyes on us.
We played an upbeat song in a pop rock style, talking about our parent’s divorce and remarriage. The audience laughed along, as we pulled them back to the top of the rollercoaster ride after Dread Theory had sent them down such an intense fall. I all but completely forgot about the “Valley of the Kings” as I fought Logan’s guitar with my keyboard, alternating solos and dueling soliloquies. The crowd’s reception seemed just as strong, but still- would people remember the songs that made them smile as much as the ones that made them cry?
My optimistic message felt shallow by comparison. Maybe there was a lot more to Lance Gold than I knew.
###
Jay McClintock
I opened an email from Jonathan with the finished recording of the elimination round on my laptop, and leaned back in the plush leather of my office chair.
“Before we get to who has the least votes, I think it’s important to give props to our most successful performers of last week.” Drake Morgan held a handful of envelopes in his hand. The bands all stood in a crescent behind him, illuminated by white lights. “Last round’s winner will not only walk away with pride and accomplishment, but they’ll receive ten thousand dollars and will be safe from elimination.”
I located Fighting Chance in the row of bands. I could tell just by the way Roland was standing that he wasn’t feeling confident in his chances. Silly. His song represented him perfectly. Anyone could see that. His life didn’t have to be a tragedy to be worth listening to. I would prefer that it isn’t…
Drake rattled off a list of largely forgettable band names, and the spotlight darkened over each spot as they left the stage. The mid-pack. Six bands remained. Fighting Chance was still on stage. So was Dread Theory.
The spotlight shuffled between all six bands like a spinning roulette, then landed on Roland and his companion.
“In third place, Fighting Chance! You put a smile on all of the judge’s faces, and apparently on America’s as well. You’re safe this round!”
The spotlight went dark, and the roulette picked out the second place band.
“In second, Heart Rock has also captured the hearts of our audience.” A pair of young ladies and their shaggy haired drummer jumped up and down.
“And this week’s winner took us down a darker road.” The roulette began again. Slowly ticking past each band twice before landing on Dread Theory. Not shocking. If some level of dominance wasn’t established early on, no one would believe they were worthy of the crown. As much as I hated to admit it, their performance deserved the accolades. They would have had to fake their failure more than they had to fake this victory.
The studio audience cheered, and Drake made his way over to Lance with the microphone.
“As far as childhood memories go, that one was chillin
g to the bone. Can you tell us a bit more about what inspired ‘The Valley of the Kings?’”
Lance took hold of the microphone and looked into the camera.
“Well Drake, we all had a lot of stories we could have told. Some were happy, some were sad, some were easy and some were hard. But I didn’t want to take an easy route. This competition is about putting yourself out there in ways you’re afraid to be seen. That’s what music is, right?”
“Absolutely. And that vulnerability really resonated with all of us.”
“Thank you, Drake. Anyway, ‘The Valley of the Kings’ is about that fear and that sacrifice that our parents made before us. My mother and my father were both working demanding jobs my whole life, but they did it so I could be here today, living out my dream and changing people’s lives.” Applause broke out. Lance waited until the audience finished before he continued. “My path will be different from my father’s, but I can only hope I’ll make him proud of the man he created.”
Perfect bullshit. Lance had mastered the art of using just the right number of words to say absolutely nothing. I stood up and turned to glance out the window of my 29th floor office. The recording continued to play in the background, beginning the elimination ceremony as I looked down at the city below me. I was so far above it all…
###
Seventeen Years Ago
Two staccato knocks at the door, loud enough to be heard over the guitar solo in my headphones, knocked me out of my trance. I’m sure mom will get it.
Another set of knocks, and still no sign that mom was getting anything. Ugh. Seriously? This is the best part of the song. I begrudgingly hit pause on my phone and got off the couch to answer the door.
Two men in dark suits stood before me. One was fairly non-descript. Short brown hair, tall, lean, and with thick framed glasses and a beard that hid much of his face. The other I recognized as one of my dad’s coworkers. An older man with stylish white hair and a few new wrinkles every time I saw him. My dad called him Charlie, but even though I was already thirteen, I still wasn’t supposed to address my elders by their first name.
“Hi Mr. Sommers.”
“Bastian! How has your racing been going? I heard you just got a new kart.” He looked sinister under the glow of the porch light, shadows falling over every contour of his face.
“It’s good. There are still two rounds left this year, but I’ve already tied up the championship.” Though Mr. Sommers always acted enthusiastic when he’d ask me about my racing, it always felt a little disingenuous.
“Just like your father. Speaking of which, is your dad home?”
“Ah, I don’t think so. Let me see where he’s at.” I lightly shut the door behind me, and glanced around the house. His briefcase was still on the bed, and his fishing gear was still in the closet, so he wasn’t at work and he wasn’t on the boat. There were only so many places he usually went on a Tuesday night that I knew of. I returned to the couch to grab my phone, just in time for it to start ringing. ‘Dad’ flashed across the caller ID.
“Don’t say anything. Don’t nod your head. I just need you to listen.” Dad’s voice sounded much more calm than his words were making me feel. “Leave your phone on the couch, exit out the back door as quietly as you can, get in the back seat of the Subaru, and wait. It’s all going to be okay.”
He hung up. I set down the phone and glanced toward the front door on the other side of the dining room. The curtains were mostly drawn, but I could see the glow of headlights teasing through the crack. I had no idea what any of it meant, but I wasn’t going to question my father on this. I slipped out the back door, leaving it lightly ajar so as not to make a sound, then I shifted into the garage where the Subaru was parked.
The Subaru was dad’s track and street racing car. It had a full roll cage, a turbo, upgraded suspension, full racing slicks, and it handled like a go kart on steroids. I loved riding with him when he opened it up in the mountains. I got into the back seat and waited.
It was only a few minutes before I heard the garage door open.
“There he is!” A man’s voice called in the distance. My dad’s Mercedes screeched into the spot in the garage beside me the second the door had risen enough for it to fit, then he was out of the Mercedes and into Subaru as quickly as I’ve ever seen him move. He tore out of the garage and took off toward Mulholland, two black cars giving chase behind us.
“Slow down, dad- I’m scared!”
“Soon. They won’t be able to follow us up here. Your dad’s the fastest racer there is.” Dad turned to face me in the back seat only long enough to give me a reassuring smile, then he returned his attention to the road. His tires screeched as he threw himself into the next corner, rounding the mountain. He short shifted on corner exit, faster and faster, then trailed the brakes into another bend. Ordinarily, I loved riding with my dad as he carved the intricate roadways of Mulholland Drive. But this wasn’t a joy ride.
The road straightened out for a brief stretch, and I could see headlights blaring in the rear view mirror. The rest of the black Mercedes was lost in the darkness of the night. I gripped harder on the grab handle. The light was red up ahead, but dad made no indication of slowing. He blared through the Malibu canyon intersection, narrowly avoiding a crossing SUV. The headlights persisted. But it didn’t matter. The tightest section of the canyon was approaching, No one was faster than dad on the Snake.
He threw the car back and forth into each corner, drifting around every turn as he climbed to the top. The headlights were lost behind the mountain bends, but the other driver wasn’t giving up. As we got higher and higher, another pair of headlights appeared up ahead.
“Dad! There’s another car!”
“Fuck!”
A jerk of the wheel and the tires lost their grip on the pavement. The sound of gravel barraging our Subaru rang through the cab. There was no guard rail. No safety net. We tumbled over the edge, through trees and bushes, careening into the valley below.
###
“Now that we’ve learned a little bit about who our competitors were as children, it’s time to learn about the moment they became adults.” Drake’s nasally voice ripped me out of my memory. For once, it was a welcome interruption. “Love, music, and intimacy have always gone hand in hand, so for next week’s challenge, our bands will be turning their first love into a song.”
I rolled my eyes as I turned back to my desk and shut my laptop to cut the playback. How contrived. Half the contestants were barely in their twenties. How many of them have even experienced love yet?
Absentmindedly, I pulled out my phone and located Roland’s number. My thumb hoovered over the message icon as I tried to process what exactly I was planning to do with it.
He just came in third in the first round, and whether he knew it or not, he lost to my lyrics. It was only natural that I’d contact him. What kind of winner would I be if I didn’t rub it in?
-If second place is the first loser, what does that make third place?- I hit send.
-… :( - He replied almost instantly. A few more seconds went by, then my phone vibrated again. -Wait a second- is this Jay?!?!?!-
My expression flattened.
-No.- Goddammit. Why did I do that? Now he has my number.
-Third place on Battle of the Bands, first place on Jay McClintock’s priority list. I think that’s a solid average.- Was it possible for a text to be grinning? Annoying.
-Ugh. How do I unsend a text message?-
-Too late. I’ve already absorbed your feelings.-
-Maybe you’ll be able to extract some talent from those feelings while you’re at it.-
-Mean. Is that any way to talk to your star pupil?-
I nearly dropped my phone when I realized I had mistakenly replied to a poorly timed text from Brad, asking about his recording schedule. I fumbled for an apology and sent him my availability.
-Thanks, Jay Jay! You’ll have to tell me all about who you were flirting with later.- Brad texted
back with what I can imagine was an exaggerated winking face. -Should be good fodder for Heroes of Heartbreak.-
I didn’t respond, not wanting to goad him on further. His next album was going to be covering a range of ways relationships die, some violent, some subtle, some tragic. I’m not sure how I felt about the fact that he automatically made that association with my perceived flirtations.
Is that what they were? Flirtations? I wanted to call those allegations ridiculous, but the way Roland seemed to effortlessly lighten my mood made him worth the attention. His voice was worth the attention. His writing would catch up. Maybe.
I pulled up my messages with Roland again, and I typed into the text box.
-Are you working tonight?-
The message in progress animation appeared below my text, but he didn’t respond for several minutes. I could just picture the way he was blushing, panicking, over analyzing, deleting and retyping his response again and again. Every minute of silence dripping with a nervous uncertainty. He couldn’t even hold a text conversation without giving himself away.
Adorable. My phone buzzed again.
-Not tonight.-
-Not tonight, what?-
-I’m hanging out with Logan tonight. We’re celebrating our win. I’m not working, but I’m not free.-
… Did I just get… rejected?
I paced over to my window and leaned against it, staring at that last reply. A grin slipped onto my lips. I suppose this was my fault. Clearly losing to my last song hadn’t crushed him hard enough. So it’s a game then.
Chapter 7
Roland Finley
“Hey hey hey- phone away, Roland. This is a celebration!” Logan elbowed me from the barstool one over. “Who are you texting so much, anyway?” He leaned over to look over my shoulder, one eyebrow cocked and a mischievous grin on his face. I quickly closed out my messenger app, and shoved the phone in my pocket.
“Your mom, who else?” I played it off, hoping my burning cheeks didn’t give me away.
“Oooh, I see what you did there.” Logan returned to his drink. Fortunately, he was already far enough into the well vodka to not prod further. I didn’t know how to explain my relationship with Jay yet, and it was probably for the best that I didn’t go flaunting that acquaintance around. The last thing I wanted to do was create more trouble for him.