“Ah, you got me there,” he says in his gravelly voice, and cuts me a look with eyes as dark as storms, and as sharp as knives. “So what’s your angle, Niteowl?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Rooney Quills gives me a set of interview questions to ask, but I don’t get a chance to look at them before he leads both Jason and me to the booth and sits me in a plush black leather chair. His secretary comes in with two glasses of warm tea with honey and lemon. “Just ask the questions—don’t worry what they are,” she advises in a hushed voice.
“Why? Are they . . .”
She gives a tight smile. “They’re fine.” Then she nods at Jason and leaves the booth. On the other side of the soundproof glass, LD stands just behind the station manager. I’ve never been in a booth like this, where I don’t maintain the volume, where I don’t have control of every little detail of what my audience hears. It’s all up to Rooney Quills on the other side of the soundproof glass.
LD gives me a thumbs-up and mouths the Steadfast High fight song. I bite my lips not to smile and look down at the interview questions. My hands grow sweaty as I begin to read through them.
“Second-guessing yourself?” Jason asks from the other side of the booth, putting on his headphones.
We both have large black mics anchored toward us, outstretched on black extension arms. The pop filters in front of them, to catch our spit and wet consonants, has “Muse Records” emblazoned on the flimsy cloth.
“Should I be?” I ask, putting my headphones on as well, and as soon as I do the world closes around us until there’s only me, breathing. My heart in my ears. I begin to shuffle through the interview questions.
He leans into the mic. His gravelly voice rumbles, soft and bitter like on all of the records I’ve listened to, “Probably. I’m not the nice sort of person.”
“I can tell by that bruise.” I train my eyes down at the interview questions. I’m trying not to fangirl. I’m trying to keep my cool. Maybe I made the worst mistake imaginable—if I mangle this, there’ll be no salvation. I’ll be in Nebraska forever. But I thought, just until a few days ago, I’d be in Nebraska forever anyway. I thought I’d be friends with Micah forever. I thought forever was actually forever, but it never is.
The interview questions are very tame at first. Just the normal run-of-the-mill pop culture things about the drama with his bandmates on tour, and his beef with Roman. But then I flip the page and I see the other questions. About Holly Hudson’s death. About his backlash in the wake. A question asks about his sexual relations with her. About his orientation in general. About his alleged drug problem, and his mother’s death—
I knew Rooney Quills was a shark. That’s why he’s so good at what he does. But this? This is . . . this can’t be right. I’ve listened to hundreds of his shows—repeatedly. How have I never caught on before?
Jason Dallas could not have approved all of these questions. He probably hasn’t even seen them.
I flip the interview questions over again, unable to look at them anymore.
Jason Dallas must see me paling, because he leans forward to ask, “So, how about now? You’re a little thing from no-name Nebraska. They’re gonna eat you up and spit you out if this interview goes sour.”
I raise my gaze to meet his. His eyes are dark flickers of light, like Hocus Pocus’s Black Flame Candle. “Is it going to go sour?”
“That is up to you.”
From the sound booth, the station manager leans into his mic and says over our headphones, “Remember, Ingrid, just read the questions. It’s no fuss. Got it, Ingrid?”
I swallow, but don’t reply.
“Ingrid?”
Quickly switching the mic off, I lean forward across the table and whisper to Jason, “You need to be straight with me—what did you say to Roman Montgomery to get him to clock you?”
He leans forward, too. “I think you need to ask that during the interview.”
“I’m asking now.”
His gaze flickers behind me, to the sound booth, and he leans back in his chair. “I insulted the girl he likes, but really he just needed someone to hit.”
“And you just offered yourself up?”
“A victim for the slaughter,” he replies.
I know he isn’t telling me the whole truth, but he doesn’t have to—I know his tell, now, when he’s lying. He has this waver in his voice I’ve heard a thousand times from a thousand different people over the airwaves. You learn to listen for it after a while. A journalist’s ear, Grams calls it.
I guess I got one good thing from Mom.
I know how to crack this interview wide open. It’ll impress Rooney Quills, but how badly will it damage Jason Dallas? And that’s clearly what they want. They want to have the interview that stirs the pot, the one that brings Holly Hudson back to life for one last interview.
I glance back at Rooney Quills, my radio idol, his slicked-back graying hair coming loose and falls into his face as he tries to buzz me again, tell me to turn on my mic, that we’re going live.
Beside him, LD gives me a worried look. She mouths, “What’s wrong?”
Nothing’s wrong. I know exactly how to ace this interview. I know how to make Rooney love me. I know the questions to break Jason.
But what kind of person will I be if I do?
“Thanks,” I tell Jason, and switch the mic back on, bringing it back to my mouth. “Yeah,” I tell Rooney, “I’m ready.”
“’Bout damn time. Remember, just read through the questions. Jason, have fun. All right, here we go.” The station manager adjusts a few sliders and reaches up to a button near the top of the soundboard. “We’re live in three, two, one . . .”
Jason and I lock eyes as I flip the interview questions over. He smirks, and I mirror it. Niteowl never went by a script before, and like hell I’m going to start now.
The LIVE light blinks on between us, and our headphones fade in with the opening jingle.
WZTQ—THE SWISH
TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT
JULY 28TH
NITEOWL: Hi there, you’re listening to an hour of the Swish on WZTQ. I’m Niteowl, filling in for DJ Sims. He’ll be back in the studio tomorrow. Today, though, we have a special guest with us—the one and only Jason Dallas. Yeah, you heard right. The Jason Dallas. The myth. The legend. The stud in tight leather pants—okay, okay, he’s not wearing leather pants today, but you have on occasion, yes?
JASON DALLAS: Yes, on occasion.
NITEOWL: How do you fit into them? Do they sew you into them like they did with Sandy in Grease?
JASON DALLAS: That’s a trade secret, sorry.
NITEOWL: Oh, right, right—sorry, forgot that you’re the mysterious sort of punk rocker. Now I have a few interview questions here for you. They’re pretty lame. The first one is where were you born?
JASON DALLAS: The City of Angels.
NITEOWL: I like how you answer that—the City of Angels. For those of you listening, he leans into the mic when he says it. Locks eyes with me. He’s sporting a nice bruise, but it just adds to the mystery that is Jason Dallas. Jason Dallas the rock singer. Jason Dallas the Grammy-winning artist. Jason Dallas, the legendary Prince of Punk.
JASON DALLAS: All right, stop kissing ass.
NITEOWL: Oh, I’ll let you know when I do. You’re Jason Dallas—the Jason Dallas. But your entire life everyone else has defined you, from the media to your fellow musicians to your fans.
JASON DALLAS: They’re good fans.
NITEOWL: Present! But I—especially me, because I’m going through this sort of phase right now, and we’re close to the same age, right? You’re . . .
JASON DALLAS: Nineteen.
NITEOWL: A year older, so maybe you have it all figured out. But I don’t. I don’t even know who I am most days. A friend tells me one thing, my family wants me to be another—so my question is, who are you?
JASON DALLAS: What sort of question is that?
NITEOWL: Sorry, you want me to thro
w you a low ball?
JASON DALLAS: No, actually—you asked who I am? I’m Jason Dallas.
NITEOWL: No, no, you. Who are you?
JASON DALLAS: Let’s say I’m a fan.
NITEOWL: Of . . . ?
JASON DALLAS: Of your radio show, Niteowl.
NITEOWL: Wait . . . what?
JASON DALLAS: I’ve been a fan of it for years—and just so you know, the guy who keeps calling about the dildos? Roman Montgomery. He does that shit all the time.
NITEOWL: Wait, so Roman listens, too?
JASON DALLAS: We all did. Do, I guess. Still. When Holly was still around we’d get pissed on Saturday nights and call in. You helped me through Holly’s death.
NITEOWL: I did?
JASON DALLAS: Yeah. So I want to return the favor—if Niteowl’s Dark is listening, I’ll personally fly him to meet Ingrid. All expenses paid. You’ve got two hours. She’s a catch. I’d date her, if I were into that sort of thing. Girls, I mean.
NITEOWL: If you were . . . oh. Oh.
JASON DALLAS: I’m in the mood for a good romance. How about you?
Chapter Thirty-Four
The moment the LIVE light goes dark above us, I can still feel my heart in my throat. Jason Dallas takes off his headphones and pushes his mic away. He looks at me with those flickering black eyes and then lowers them to the interview sheet.
“My treat,” he says, winking, “for not asking the questions everyone wanted.”
“But you . . . but it . . . ,” I blunder as he slides back his roller chair and leaves the room. His publicity agent rushes to his side, grabs him by the shoulders, and shakes him one good time. She’s furious, I can tell, but then her face crumbles and she hugs him like friends do, and he brings his arms up briefly to return the hug, burrowing his face into her shoulder.
He’s gay. There were always rumors, but I didn’t think he’d ever say it. His entertainment agency tried to squash those rumors over and over again.
But he just gave his agency a middle finger, didn’t he?
LD squeezes past Jason and his publicity agent, and hurries into the studio. “That was amazing!” she cries. “You were amazing! You were everything. Everything and more.”
“Yeah,” I reply, still stunned. “An all-expenses paid trip for Dark.”
“Yeah—you might actually get to meet him after all!”
“But . . . what if he . . . if he doesn’t . . .”
“Hey, he could call in two hours.”
“He could,” I reply, but I’m not sure he will. My stomach is rolling with all the nerves and sickness. I might meet Dark and I just got an interview no one else could. I just got an answer.
I just—
“You were supposed to stick to the interview!” Rooney Quills barks, marching into the studio behind LD. I scramble to my feet. I’m not going to die sitting down. “You had them right there! In front of you! And you go off script! I don’t know what they teach you in Nebraska but . . .”
He stops in front of me and puts his hands on his hips, glaring at me with gray eyes that remind me of cold cuts left in the freezer too long. “I . . . um. . .” I swallow the knot in my throat. “I didn’t like those questions. They were lowballs.”
“Of course they were!”
“I couldn’t ask them. They were terrible.”
He tilts his head. “You run a radio show, you said?”
“Yeah, a midnight call-in.”
“Going to college?”
“No.”
“Shame.” He looks down at his shoes, and then back at me. “You need a job?”
My mouth falls open. “What?”
“I got an internship spot open, didn’t know if you heard. I’m looking to fill it. What do you say? You wouldn’t be pulling that shit again”—he nods to the mic, and the interview questions flipped down—“but you got a good head on your shoulders, and you got a good eye for content. I can see that. And I like it. So, what do you say?”
“I . . . ah . . .” I purse my lips, remembering the interview. “Can I think on it?”
“Think on it!” He seems floored. I’m sure people haven’t said no to him in a long, long time. His gray eyebrows scrunch together like caterpillars kissing, and then he breaks out into a laugh. “All right! All right. Think on it. You have until tomorrow—then it’s going to the guy with the beard,” he adds, not waiting for me to come to a decision, then leaves the sound booth. When he’s gone, LD and I exchange a silent look before we both clamp onto each other’s hands and scream for bloody, unconditional, blessed-be joy.
I got the internship. I got it!
By being me.
Chapter Thirty-Five
LD booked us a room in Hotel Douris down in lower Manhattan. It’s an old but charming hotel, fifteen stories tall, the color of cream and peach. When we check in, the hotelier actually takes my duffel bag off my shoulder. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m walking on cloud nine or if this hotel really is beautiful, but everything shines like we’re inside the sun. I suck in a breath, staring up and up and up at the ornate ceilings and the ivy carved into the trim. Murals of cupids and demons stretch across the expanse like a mirror into another, unmoving world. The ceiling reminds me how love ballads sound, sweet and swaying.
The bellhop leads us to a room on the fourteenth floor and sets my bag on the bed, hurrying over to the window to draw back the curtains. The lights from the street come in through the window and give the room a soft glow. LD turns on a lamp on the bedside table.
“Anything else for you, madam?” he asks LD.
“Madam! Aren’t you polite.”
“I can call you Miss, if you’d like,” he replies. He’s tall and lanky, with a head full of golden curls.
She returns a smile. “Sorry, but you aren’t my type.”
The bellboy blushes. “Ah, um—if that’s all, Miss . . .”
“I think we’re good—actually, one thing.” She stops him before he can leave and slips him a bill. I think it’s a fifty. “Maybe a bottle of champagne?”
The bellhop grins, nods, and leaves.
I quirk an eyebrow at LD. “Why LD, I didn’t think you were so sly.”
“Well one of us needs to be crazy, and I don’t think it’ll be you!” she says, and laughs, twirls around, and falls back onto the bed, arms outstretched. I stare out of the window, down at the streets and the passing people. So many people—so many more than I’ve ever seen before.
“Let’s stay here forever,” LD says after a moment, staring up at the smooth ceiling. “Let’s never go home.”
“What’ll we do here?”
“We’ll get jobs. Make a life. Start living—like in all those songs, we’ll make it in New York City.”
I watch the busy streets below our window. Streets where no one knows me. Where I can get lost, and where no one will ever call me bovine names again. “I like the sound of those kinds of songs.”
“Ha!” she scoffs, and rolls over. “If only our lives were songs.”
“You’d be the type of song everyone would sing along to,” I reply, turning back to her.
She stares at the dark TV, her eyes unreadable. “You think?”
“I think so.”
After a few minutes, someone knocks. LD sits up, and like shrugging out of a moth-eaten coat, her face is bright and worry-free again. She gives me a look of mock surprise, pushes herself off the bed, and makes a show of answering the door. “Hark! Now who doth be rapping our chamber d—”
She opens the door, and her words stick into her throat.
A guy, harried, with windswept hair and sweat glistening on his brow, shoves his glasses back onto his face before producing an envelope from his black satchel. “Is there an Ingrid North here?” he huffs. “I’m supposed to give this to Ingrid North—”
“I’m here,” I reply as LD snatches the envelope and begins opening it. I peer around her to get a look at what’s inside. “Who’s it from?”
“Jason Dalla
s,” he replies.
Inside the envelope are two front-row tickets to his concert tonight, along with the note, “It seems it wasn’t a good romance after all. My condolences, from my blackheart to yours.”
My throat constricts. So Dark never called. He could’ve never known. It was just a two-hour window. Besides, who would be crazy enough to admit it on public radio? And not only that, but who would be crazy enough to call? To get on a plane and leave?
I am disappointed, but not because Dark didn’t call. I’m disappointed that all of the good romances seem to end with the girl getting her man. Where are the romances where a girl gets her best friend?
I flick the tickets up and show them to LD.
“I don’t have anywhere to be tonight,” she says, “if you’re planning on taking a friend.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Madison Square Garden.
The concert venue to end all concert venues. The cream of the crop. The heaven in music hell. The last place on earth I ever thought I’d be. At the concert of the year—maybe even the decade. The concert that was supposed to be Roman Holiday’s first Madison Square gig, but turned into Jason Dallas’s, too.
By the time LD and I hail a cab to get over there, BLACKHEARTS and Holidayers (Roman Holiday fans) alike are rubbing elbows just to get inside. You can practically feel the ghost of Holly Hudson in the crowd like a heavy blanket. It was no secret that this was her dream venue. I didn’t even know the girl—or like her music—and I still feel bad.
LD and I worm past half-drunk college frat boys with mini-bottles stuffed in their cargo shorts and teens with “BLACKHEARTED” T-shirts on and smeared eyeliner. Two types of people I never thought I’d see together, like Micah and Heather, to be honest. Oil and water. Vinegar and butter. They rub elbows and mix and mingle like seasonings in a stew that bubbles with the tune to Jason Dallas’s “Shotgun Heartache.”
I have such a death grip on my ticket that when we finally get to the hallway that lets out into the floor seats, the usher has to smooth mine out against the wall just to scan it.
We Own the Night Page 18