Please, Pretty Lights (Pretty Lights #1)

by Ina Zajac

  Had she really just said that? She couldn’t take it back now. She didn’t want to. Something was loose inside her, jamming up her gears. It was like a penny thrown into the machinery of her very being.

  “How could you say that?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper. He let go of her hand and sat back in his chair. “This is nothing to be talking about now.”

  She full-on screamed and everyone jumped. She stood up and dug her fingernails into her palms. Words erupted from her mouth, too explosive to keep inside any longer.

  “You made my grief—my grief—everyone’s business. I told you again, and again, that I couldn’t bear that. Still, you did it anyway.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You told the elders to pray about me. You told them my Christmas story.”

  “I knew it would be best if people knew, so they could help.” He stood and looked over at Beth.

  “Don’t look at your mother that way, like she dropped the ball,” Via scolded. Each word she spewed at him brought her greater relief. “She was wonderful—is wonderful. I love her. But I’m not marrying her,” she said. “And I’m not marrying you, either.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said as he stood up and took a step toward her. “I won’t let you run away from your problems.” She saw the way he was looking at the side of her face and took a few steps back, but it was too late.

  “Have you been in a fight? Let me see your face.” He reached for her.

  “Don’t touch me,” she screamed.

  He pulled back, but kept looking critically at her bruise.

  “It’s my life. I get to decide what to do with it,” she insisted.

  Dan put his hands up in front of his face and just shook his head while Mr. Kester shouted, “That’s enough!”

  Beth let out a faint gasp and started to cry.

  “This is part of the recovery process,” Mr. Kester affirmed, seemingly to himself. “I’d like to discuss an inpatient recovery center outside of Fall City, out in the country, it’s—”

  “Yes, of course,” Dan said. “Do I need to sign something? She’ll have to go, right? She’s in no position to refuse.”

  “No, that is not happening,” Via said as she tried to downshift her voice into something close to normal. “I told you, I am not using. I already have a treatment program in place at home. I’ve already talked to my doctor. I’ve found a counselor on my own, a hypnotherapist.”

  “Hypnosis? You can’t be serious,” Dan said.

  “Yes Dan, and I’ll use acupuncture and healing crystals and voodoo dolls if I want to.”

  “No, that’s crazy. I’m home now and I’m going to help you get through Christmas.”

  “It’s not about getting through Christmas,” she said. “For a long time, I thought it was, but it’s so much more than that. I don’t want to just get through anything. I want to live.”

  “Honey, please be reasonable,” Dan said, just above a whisper. “This isn’t you.”

  His tenderness, his stricken expression, reminded her of the Dan she’d first met. The one who had wanted to take care of her. She was the one who had changed the rules of the game. He wasn’t the bad guy. He was just the wrong guy.

  “I know this is hard for you,” she said. “But it just has to happen this way. I have to please myself now. I can’t live your life—”

  Dan was talking over her. “Should they do some sort of psychological evaluation, too? You know her father had mental health issues.”

  “No,” she tried to say, but it came out like a whisper. Everything slowed way down. She knew this moment. She had lived it a thousand times in nightmares. It was the moment she had feared her whole life.

  “This is for your own good,” Dan said. “Just a few days in the country, so you can rest. You need to rest.”

  “No!” She tried to make a break for the door, but he was there.

  “We should pray over her,” Dan told the others as he held her tight. “The enemy is at work here.”

  She heard Grandma Daney in her head, “You know who you are. Listen.”

  “No, Dan!” she screamed. “Namaste, Dan! Namaste!”

  CHAPTER 44

  MATT

  MATT PULLED BACK the heavy red curtain, and peered past both bars and all the way back toward the chandeliers fanning the back wall. He knew the chances of actually spotting her were next to nothing, but he was compelled to try. Had they still been together he would have had her backstage. He scanned the faces of the girls lining the back right and back left railings but could barely make out their faces at all.

  Headlining the Showbox had been their dream for years. It was right in the middle of everything, just across the street from The Market. It was the ideal party venue—there was plenty of room, and two thirds of the way back, a half-flight of stairs led up to another level with seating that wrapped around each side of the theater. There were bars lining the side walls and another in the very back.

  The place was packed, but when he looked out at the eleven hundred or so people milling around, he felt so alone. The first two bands had played strong sets, so expectations were high. He looked over at the stage and saw the stage crew hard at work changing out gear and checking amps.

  Nick was beside him. “You got that Sheryl Crow down tight?”

  As if he didn’t have enough pressure deflating his will to live. He sighed. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “It’s a good song,” Nick said, taking a quick peek through the curtain himself. “Could have been so much more humiliating—‘What a Good Man’ or ‘I’m Too Sexy’ or some shit like that.”

  “I just can’t.” His head felt dense and tingly. The back of his t-shirt clung to his sweaty back.

  “You’ve got to sing the request,” Nick said. “Kidz Rock has already cashed that fifty-thousand-dollar mystery check,” Nick said. “They’re setting up a scholarship fund. Getting the kids new gear too.”

  Matt realized he should embrace the force of the universe, like Luke Skywalker. He remembered that day on the porch, when Nick had issued his warning about Via.

  “Dude, you’ve been practicing all week—you are so ready for this,” Nick said.

  There was no way out of this. He had to go out there and sing the song he had written for her, whether or not she was there to hear it. After that, he would stumble through the Sheryl Crow song. The lyrics had been haunting him all week. Was he strong enough? Was he a man? Would he ever be?

  “Just breathe,” Nick reminded him. “Think of this as just another show. No biggie.”

  They both knew otherwise. It was a huge show for Nick, who had met with the manager of Bigfoot Nasty the week before. Their drummer was going to rehab and they needed a sub for the West Coast leg of their spring tour. It would mean national exposure. Matt knew Nick would nail it tonight. No doubt, they would love him.

  Nick put a hand on Matt’s shoulder and said, “You going to be alright?”

  “I have to be alright.” He inhaled slowly in spite of the urge to hyperventilate. He thought of Via again. He had left a VIP pass for her at will call. Hopefully, she’d remember to tell them to look on the list under Y.

  Nick leaned over and took another peek through the crack between the curtains. “We’re headlining the Showbox. Crazy, right?”

  “Truth, Grohly,” Matt said. Taking another deep breath, he was starting to feel a bit better. “Hey, man, I’m sorry.”

  “For which part?” Nick asked, turning away from the curtain. “For falling in love when you were supposed to be my bass monkey? Or for going OCD-ape-shit crazy on my grandma’s house?” He gave a half-assed smile and nudged Matt with his arm.

  “Just for being a dumbass in general,” Matt told him, pulling Nick in for a solid, man hug. They rarely ever hugged, not even when they were drunk, but whether Via showed up or not, it was a huge night. They walked back to the green room where he would choke down his own issues. He would man up and reme
mber what this night could mean for Nick.

  ***

  NICK

  NICK SAT HIGH atop his drum stool and took it all in. There were four rows of VIP seating on the far right and far left, but the majority of space was open for standers, dancers, and moshers. The stage was lined with people who were already clapping and cheering. The stage lights lit the faces of those in the first few rows, and per his usual custom, he found a pretty Bambi to use as his muse. She had long black hair and was offering up a flirty smile. She was wearing a white sweater—and she was wearing it very well.

  His hands were crazy-sweaty; he rubbed them against his old cargo shorts. They were ancient, but cool and comfortable as sin. He wanted to puke, but in the best possible way. Reaching down for a fairly fresh pair of Vic Firth sticks, he had to smile. Their smooth feel excited him; they had no idea what he was about to do to them. His left foot was poised by the hi-hat pedal. His right foot set to bring life to the base drum. The red and yellow stage lights were hot against his face, while the white floor lights seemed to make his drumheads glow from within. He looked down and saw Matt and Josh plugging in. Jeremy seemed to be having trouble adjusting his mic.

  He heard Matt yell up from his mark at stage center left. “Break a leg!”

  He heard his grandmother’s soothing voice in his head, “They will love you, Nickolaus.”

  He raised his sticks high in front of his face and waited for the guys to look up for the count off. Breathe, he reminded himself, as he brought his sticks together: one-two-three-four.

  They were starting off with Blur’s “Song 2”—always a crowd pleaser. Keeping time with his trusty hi-hat, he summoned the almighty beat. All of the toms and cymbals would be getting his attention tonight. The Bigfoot Nasty guys had been cool. No need to try too hard. Matt was in good form and sounded smooth and relaxed. Josh wasn’t too drunk and his amp wasn’t too loud. Jeremy’s voice was a tad screechy, but that was typical. Nick threw himself into his drum kit and figured that if they sounded half as good through the house speakers as they did on his monitor, they were golden. He held his sticks lightly and let them rebound on their own against the snare. He looked out at the rolling motion of the crowd. Their movement—the reflection of his own groove—was mesmerizing. He got lost in the moment. And then, just like that, it was over.

  He pulled his arms up and closed his eyes as they were enveloped by the sounds of applause. It felt orgasmic. The crowd was kind. He took in the sweet sounds of approval. Pretty Bambi was still screaming for him. He figured she would be in love with him now, at least as long as he was onstage. All was well; he wished he could freeze time. But he knew they wouldn’t clap forever. They would be expecting him to lay down a new beat, one that would lead Matt into another groove. There was always another groove; he hoped there would always be another groove.

  Matt’s eyes were asking, “We good?”

  Nick gave his friend a fuck-yeah smile. Damn, it was hotter than balls. He was sweating through his black Soundgarden t-shirt but he didn’t have time to take it off. He needed to set up “Welcome to Paradise.” They had been playing Green Day since high school and he loved getting into Tré Cool mode; it felt like home. It was one of those songs that gave the bassist a chance to show off a little. Nick peered back into the VIP section, where he picked out Via, standing in the second row behind his Bambi, but at the very end. God, Matt was going to be so happy.

  After walking up to the front of the stage for his solo, Matt stopped between Jeremy’s wedge monitor and a house speaker. Girls screamed for him to come closer to the edge and he did. The stage was plenty high. They would never be able to leave their fingerprints on his perfect bass. And besides, his friend had grown up so much since the summer. Maybe because he’d had bigger things to worry about.

  Nick jumped back in on the snare—soft at first, letting the beat build. Next, Josh came back in, then Jeremy. Going by the reaction of the crowd, they were killing it. He issued the final strikes against his crash symbol and bowed his head in thanks. More applause and cheering—so loud that just to reward them he added in an extra drum fill with a snare roll, and then around the toms, crash, crash! What an awesome crowd.

  It was time for one of Matt’s new songs, the one he had been playing the hell out of all week. It started with a Tool-inspired bassline. He tried not to be nervous. This was exactly what he had asked Matt to do, come up with something different. Something original. But original was scary. And would the crowd dig it?

  He sat ready, sticks above the snare, waiting. It wasn’t a unison start, so he hadn’t counted in. This one would open with Matt, but he was just standing there with his head bowed like he was praying. He was taking his time—too much time. One silent second, then another. A hoot came from the back of the room, which led to more from the drunks at the side bar. Matt looked back over his shoulder, seemingly unsure.

  He gave Matt a firm you-got-this nod and was relieved to see him smile and turn to face the now rumbling crowd. Envy answered back with a deep grumble, which crawled through the house speakers, sludgy and full of soul. Relieved, Nick came in on the snare, easy at first. He would build tension. He had promised Matt that he would keep it simple, no extra fills. After two bars, Josh joined in with a mellow guitar riff—nice and easy, just like Matt wanted. It was complex, but subdued. Nick kept the beat and waited for Matt’s opening line.

  “Playing pretend, stuck in your dream world, at first that was enough for me.”

  Nick looked down and saw Via. She was wearing dark clothing, so he could only see her face and neck. She wasn’t returning his attention, seeming smitten with the awkward Romeo singing at center stage. Had Matt even noticed her yet?

  “Building a place, to get away, where nobody else could be.”

  Matt looked back again, so Nick grinned like an idiot, squinted hard, and flicked his face toward the right, giving his best Via’s-here look.

  Matt turned back toward her and then took a few steps toward center stage before he stopped. Via’s expression brightened even more. Nick could only imagine the look Matt was flashing down at her based on the one she was beaming back.

  Matt sounded even better than he had in rehearsal. The song was heavy, but tinged with silk. Josh and Jeremy backed him up, both sounding decent, thank God for that.

  “But you’ve closed your eyes, so now it’s dust, you know that it’s killing me.”

  The crowd seemed to be into it, but still, the first-time material was making Nick mega nervous. He increased the tempo for the angst-y chorus.

  “I can’t shake you, and it’s killing me.”

  The room was theirs, Nick realized. It was working. Matt’s words were like chocolate cake and the crowd was all over it. More, more. They wanted more. Of course, he knew the song was intended for an audience of one.

  “Nothing matters, unless you wake up.” Matt’s voice softened and trailed off. “Cause maybe then you’ll see.”

  Applause, applause—and then they were on to the next song. Thank God. They’d loved it. Something all new, something all their own, and it had worked. There were two more new songs later in the set. Then Matt would wrap things up with Sheryl Crow. They would announce how much they raised. They would bring the kids back on stage for an encore. It would be fucking sweet. First, the crowd would need “Santa Monica.” Jeremy started with that haunting Everclear riff the crowd always loved. Matt backed him and bolstered the vibe even more.

  He looked again for his crowd cutie but noticed something wasn’t right. Behind her, two bouncers were talking to Via and she was shaking her head. He recognized one of them as Charlie from one of Carlos’s Portland clubs. Whoa—what?

  Matt was still looking down at his fretboard, so Nick trained his eyes on the back of his head, hoping he would feel the weight of his stare. He squinted, laser-focusing his eyes on Matt until he finally turned around. Nick flicked his head toward Via’s distress. One of the bouncers had her by the arm. She was resisting, but togethe
r they must have outweighed her by four hundred pounds.

  Matt pulled his head out through his bass strap, turned around, and offered up an I’m-so-sorry look. Without hesitation Nick nodded his head and threw down a duh-go-get-your-girl head flick.

  He watched Matt drop Envy, turn around, and fall back into the crowd. “Santa Monica” was way too slow to be moshable, but the crowd caught him anyway. They weren’t putting him down though. They surfed him back around to the right and then he disappeared. Oh, shit, did they drop him? Nick looked down toward Jeremy and Josh, who had stopped playing. Both were just staring at the stage manager, standing in the wings looking frantic. What? Nick couldn’t believe those two. He couldn’t see where the bouncers had taken Via, maybe out a side door. He just kept the beat, and added a few fills. Just a little improv, a little vamping. Obliviot was spineless for the time being, but it still had its heartbeat. Josh and Jeremy seemed to be waiting for a another bassist to come bridge the great divide, so Nick decided to freestyle an extended drum solo indefinitely. If they could drag Greg from Bigfoot Nasty onstage the crowd might even think Matt’s whole stage-dive departure had been planned.

  He retreated back into his drum set, went at it hard, and felt the crowd’s energy coursing through his veins. He worked his pedals, his snare, his toms, his cymbals. He thought back to all of those hours he had played in his grandma’s basement. How many hours had he fallen asleep at night looking at that poster of Michael Shrieve from Santana? Tonight, he would make the Showbox his own little Woodstock. He went on and on: around the toms, ride, ride, back down the toms, crash, crash. He rolled the snare and looked out, at his tight-sweatered sweetie. She looked like she wanted another drum fill, so he gave it to her. She was screaming for more, so he gave her that too—crash, crash! Her love swept in and over the stage.

  He looked right at her. All the girls around her thought he was looking at them, but he was all about her. “C’mon, Bambi, check me out,” he said and then hit the crash cymbal. “You like it. You want me. You know you do.” Snare roll, down the toms, crash, crash!