This Is What It Feels Like

by Rebecca Barrow

  Inside: microphones, cables, mic stands, mixer, more cables. Almost everything they needed to record.

  Because that’s what Jules had said to her in a series of texts earlier this morning. That Dia had a plan—of course she does, Hanna had thought, when doesn’t she know exactly what she’s going to make everybody do?—and Hanna needed to dig out their equipment because they were going to record, just like they used to.

  And when Jules had said that, Hanna had thought about it for a split second before texting back, We can use my garage. Just like they used to.

  “Molly, come get this stuff!” She passed the mic stands down the ladder to Molly, and carried the rest down herself. When they had everything, she grabbed her laptop and brought it down to the garage, ready to set up.

  Hanna cleared out the broken bicycle parts and other things that her dad claimed he was going to fix one day. Molly was less helping and more directing, sitting on a cardboard box outside the open garage door. “I can’t believe you said yes,” she said, kicking her feet in a pair of their dad’s too-big work boots. “Was it what I said?”

  “Little bit,” Hanna said, leaning the mic stands against the wall where they blended in with a load of old shelving, where her parents definitely wouldn’t notice them. “Mostly—I know I’d hate myself later for saying no. Not doing something.”

  “So, what exactly do you do when you practice?” Molly said. “How do you write songs? How do you know if it’s a good song or not?”

  Hanna dumped a plastic crate of photographs on top of a paint can. “Molly, could you actually help me instead of asking me pointless questions?”

  Molly hopped off her box. “Will you show me how to play?” Her eyes were hidden behind pink, heart-shaped sunglasses. “Only a little.”

  “Sure,” Hanna said. “But I need you to do me a favor.”

  Molly nodded. “Don’t tell Mom and Dad.”

  Hanna stared at Molly. “How did you know I was going to say that?”

  “Because you’re predictable, Hanna.” Molly lowered her sunglasses. “I’m kidding. What else were you going to say? I won’t say anything to them.”

  “It’s not a secret,” Hanna said. “I’m going to tell them.” How would the conversation go? Hey, I’m in a band again. Yeah, I know, last time didn’t go so good, what with the raging alcohol problem and losing my friends and the stomach pumping and all the rest, but this time’s going to be different! How? It just is. Trust me. Oh, you don’t trust me, that’s the problem! Okay, well . . . trust me anyway?

  “My lips are sealed,” Molly said.

  “Thanks,” Hanna said. “Now help me set this up.”

  Together they built the kit, Hanna tuning the snare and the toms, wiping layers of dust away. When they were done she ran her fingers across the crash cymbal, cool to the touch. With everything cleared away so there was enough space for them, and the drums taking pride of place, it looked like a ghost space. Ready to be haunted.

  “Okay, Molls,” Hanna said, and she looked at her sister. “Now all we have to do is play.”

  In the middle of the night Hanna stole downstairs and into the garage. She left the light off—the moon’s glow came through the two small windows in the garage wall, and that was enough for her to see by. She didn’t really need to see, anyway. Only enough to get over to her drums and find her seat behind them.

  Hanna sat and pressed her feet into the cement garage floor. Her hands wrapped around the old sticks she’d collected from the box in her closet, soothing in their familiarity, settling the pins and needles pricking her skin.

  It felt like home.

  Tomorrow Jules and Dia were coming over to play and record.

  Hanna smiled and shook her head at the same time. “What am I getting into?” she whispered to the snare, the hi-hat.

  Was she scared? Yes. But not of Dia and Jules, not really, not much. What could they do to her now that they hadn’t done already? How many other ways could they hurt her? That part was fine.

  What she was more afraid of was that she wouldn’t be able to do it.

  What if she couldn’t play anymore?

  It was pointless worrying, Hanna knew. Of course she was going to be rusty—that tended to happen when you hadn’t played your instrument in over a year. But that didn’t mean she would have completely lost it. And she wouldn’t know until she tried.

  She still remembered every single song of theirs.

  She still remembered the sound of Dia’s voice. She heard it in her dreams, sometimes.

  Hanna put one foot up on the bass pedal and applied the gentlest pressure, no noise. She turned the sticks the right way around, let them settle in her grip, extensions of her hands. And then she sat like that, still.

  I am not broken.

  I am okay.

  Waiting.

  Dia

  On Wednesday morning, Dia knocked on Hanna’s front door.

  She would be lying if she said she was ready for this. But they had no choice. And she was trying not to think about everything that might be about to go wrong—to focus on what great thing they might be about to put into motion.

  “I got this,” she whispered to herself.

  Of course Jules was running late. Dia could have used some best friend armor, protection for each other as they came face-to-face with the girl they were better at avoiding.

  She knocked again, three quick raps this time, and then stepped back from the house as the garage door began to open.

  Of course.

  Dia cut across the small patch of dried-out grass and stopped on the driveway as Hanna stepped out, a hand above her eyes. “Hi,” Hanna said, simply.

  This was so surreal.

  Dia let her gaze flit across Hanna—new nose ring, same white-blond hair—and settle on the drums behind her. “Hi,” she said, an echo. “How are you?” Wow. Small talk had never been their thing, but apparently that was the best Dia could do.

  “I’m good,” Hanna said, folding her arms across her chest. “You know.” Then one corner of her mouth quirked up, and Dia could tell exactly what she was thinking.

  No, she didn’t know. How could she know? It had been so long.

  “Where’s Jules?”

  Dia shifted her amp from her left hand to her right, her guitar heavy on her back. “On her way,” Dia said. “She’ll be here soon.”

  “Good,” Hanna said, and she turned her back to Dia, ducking into the garage. “We don’t have much time.”

  Dia followed her in, and the instant hit of familiarity almost took her breath away. She tried not to let it show on her face, though. Like she tried not to let Hanna see how carefully Dia was watching her, looking for signs of . . .

  What?

  The old Hanna? The new one?

  She wanted to believe the rumors, she really did. But she’d been through a lot of shit with—because of—Hanna, and it wasn’t so easy. A sober Hanna was an image Dia had to work at to remember.

  “Setup looks good,” Dia said, to say something, and it was true. Hanna’s drums, still scratched and well loved, the mic stands placed exactly where they used to be, cables snaking over the floor. “You kept everything?”

  Hanna gave her this look as she sat behind the kit. “What, like I was going to throw out hundreds of dollars of equipment?”

  Dia shook her head. “Right.” She slipped her guitar case off her shoulders and leaned her weight on it, Hanna watching her do it. And Dia exhaled. “Okay,” she said. “I know this is weird.”

  “Weird?” Hanna said. “Not exactly what I’d call it.”

  “Strange,” Dia said. Strangers. “Whatever. And maybe if this was another time, a different situation, we might actually do the whole thing. You know, the dredging up of everything old and saying not-nice things to each other and then promising to be different.” She paused, made sure she was looking directly at Hanna when she said this next part. “But we don’t have time for that. And I’m not here to go down old paths or mak
e you do it. I’m here to play. I want to win.” She lifted her chin. “How about you?”

  Hanna rubbed her thumb over her bottom lip, narrowing her eyes at Dia. “I want to win,” she echoed. “And I agree. I’m not here to bring up old ghosts, either.”

  This Hanna definitely had hints of different, that was for sure. Dia nodded. “I think we’re on the same page.”

  Footsteps sounded outside, and then Jules was ducking under the door. “Hey,” she said, out of breath, and put her equipment down with a pained look on her face. “Sorry I’m late. I forgot how much of a pain in the ass it is carrying all this stuff around.”

  “It’s fine,” Hanna said, and her voice sounded completely different now.

  She was smiling. That was the difference.

  “Okay,” Dia said, crouching to retrieve her guitar from its slumber. “So, I have to be at day care pickup at four. It’s”—she checked her phone—“nine thirty. We have six and a half hours to pull this off.”

  Her words were met with silence, and Dia got it. “I know,” she said. “Maybe this is impossible. Maybe we are so far past dreaming it’s not even funny. But we’re talking about fifteen thousand dollars and an amazing show. So we can either give up now, or we can do the only thing we know how to. Play.”

  “We’re not giving up,” Jules said. “Would we be here if we weren’t ready for this?”

  Hanna nodded. “Improbable, maybe,” she said. “Not impossible.”

  Dia slipped her strap over her head. “Here’s what I’m thinking,” she said. “We work out which of our old material we remember best and play the shit out of it until we have it as good as we can right now. Then we’ll record a couple takes, not tons, because that always stresses us out and we get worse. And whatever we have at the end of this is what we submit. Even if it’s truly terrible, we still do it. Then . . .” She looked from Jules to Hanna and lifted one shoulder. “What happens, happens.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Jules said, taking out her matte-black bass and looking at it lovingly. “Hanna?”

  Dia looked at her, and Hanna picked up a set of sticks and squeezed them tight enough that Dia could see her knuckles turning white. “Me, too.”

  Dia pulled her lucky pick from her back pocket. “All right. What’s it going to be?”

  They spent twenty minutes pulling up old songs from the back of their brains, listing off favorites: “Maiden Me” and “Drive By” and “Holy Water,” “Honey Bee” and “Hills,” “Alimony” and “Gold Ocean.” Some got thrown out for being too old, too hard to remember, not the right sound. Eventually they were left with two: “Hills” and “Drive By.”

  “I vote for ‘Hills,’” Dia said. “We wrote it near the end. It still feels like us.” That, and people had really liked “Hills.” Elliot had really liked it.

  “I vote ‘Hills,’ too,” Hanna said, and Dia felt a flash of surprise. Hanna, agreeing with her?

  “Let’s go with that, then,” Jules said, and the vibration in her voice could have been nerves or excitement.

  Dia couldn’t tell. She couldn’t tell which she was feeling more, either.

  “Let’s just do it,” she said. “First run-through, get it out. Ready?” She looked at Jules, poised with a pick in her hand, and Hanna, with this look of concentration on her face that Dia knew so well, that she’d almost forgotten entirely.

  “So ready,” Jules said, and Hanna started a count, clicking her sticks together.

  “—two-three-four—”

  Dia

  Dia scrambled to remember the exact beginning, feeling it somewhere in her brain—there. Her fingers slid into place and she put her mouth to the mic, drew in a breath. For not having played in so long, Hanna was steady and sure, the perfect backing for Dia to latch onto. From the moment Dia picked out those first notes, she felt it.

  The glory.

  Dia sang, her voice raspy and low, the right words slipping from her tongue without her having to think too hard.

  “Ninety-eight this day

  Ninety-eight, what the news will say

  When we ran for the hills, for the hills

  Ran to get your girl away

  Got your money, made her a dress—”

  Playing was easier than talking. Talking was bitter, broken, sour, and unsure.

  She watched Jules: hip out, shoulders slouched, her mouth a snarl as she backed up Dia’s vocals. And she watched Hanna: eyes wild but intense, back straight, pounding out the best rhythms with her sticks, her hands. And they weren’t perfect, nowhere near it, but they never had been. That was almost the entire point of the thing.

  As Dia clutched her guitar (her body more used to the weight of a toddler than this, now), it felt like . . .

  Awakening.

  Like she’d been drifting through everything, closed eyes, tired mind, for so long, and now this explosion woke her so violently, so lovingly.

  Three minutes could be both an eternity and a gasp. They careened through the middle, picked up speed as they came into the last verse—

  She ain’t playing you, honey

  got your money, get her veil

  ninety on the freeway heading straight for moonrise

  —breathless, the euphoria slipping over Dia’s skin like silk.

  Look at us, she thought.

  Listen to us.

  See? They weren’t complete failures. They weren’t too fucked up to find this again.

  They had babies and drinking problems and a whole lot of locked-up sadness, but see how good they were? Look, listen.

  Wait for it.

  It was glorious, they were glorious; gleaming, bright shining goddesses making beautiful, messy sound and they reached the noisy end, the lucky pick almost slipping from Dia’s fingers as they finished. A clashing crash of minor chords and her voice rising to a final wild yell.

  Then it was over, breathlessly done, and as their noise faded, the three of them stood, watching each other. Uncertain of what had just unfolded, if it could be as simple as that, as slipping back into the skins they used to wear.

  Dia’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and she swallowed.

  Jules broke the silence. “That was—”

  She was interrupted by a small clapping and a tiny cheer from behind them.

  Dia whipped around, and there, sitting on a cracked garden chair, was Hanna’s little sister, Molly. “Oh my god,” Molly said, and her eyes were gleaming. “That was awesome!”

  “Molly!” Hanna jumped up, brandishing her sticks and crossing the few feet to her sister in a split second. “What did I say to you?”

  “You didn’t say I couldn’t watch!” Molly protested as Hanna clamped a hand on her arm. “You said don’t tell—hey!”

  “Wait,” Dia said. “Molly, did you really like it?”

  Hanna’s sister nodded. She’d looked like a little kid the last time Dia had seen her; now she looked young and hungry, one of those freshman babies ready to take the world for her own. “So good,” Molly said, wresting herself from Hanna’s grip. “Like, I’d buy your music. If I had any money.”

  Dia allowed herself to smile at that. “I thought we were pretty good, too,” she said, and looked from Hanna to Jules. “For a first try in forever.”

  “Pretty good?” Jules said, using the neck of her shirt to wipe at her cheeks. “Dia, that was fucking amazing. Didn’t you feel it?”

  Dia waited a moment before giving in to a real smile, a breathless laugh. “Yes! Oh, I felt it. Oh my god.”

  Hanna sat next to her sister. “I think we can actually do this,” she said, and though her voice sounded nervous, her eyes looked so serious. “I think we still got it.”

  Molly clapped her hands together again. “So,” she said. “What happens now?”

  Dia looked down at her pretty guitar, the new strings she’d ordered and stayed up way too late putting on last night, the dent where she’d dropped it out of the back of Ciara’s van in the parking lot of a Wendy’s. So much histo
ry. And now they were making their future. “Now,” Dia said, “we get to work.”

  Jules

  They slowed down a little, went over the song in sections, picking out the errors and correcting them, tightening up the loose parts. Then they played it again and again, over and over, bursts of noise followed by short quiet, until Jules’s hands were cramping and her back aching.

  It felt good, though.

  “That’s enough,” Dia said after a couple of hours. “We need to record.”

  Hanna pushed sweaty hair out of her eyes and got up. “Let me get it set up,” she said. “We’ll do one practice take, check it’s working okay before we start for real.”

  Dia waited a beat and then nodded once. “Okay.”

  Jules didn’t say anything, but watched their interaction with barely hidden curiosity. They were all being guarded, on their best behavior. But Hanna was pushing back a little—testing, Jules thought. It reminded Jules of the old Hanna. Except now, instead of blurting out thoughtless words, she seemed to know exactly what she was saying.

  She caught Dia’s eye, seeing the same wonder in her gaze. Is she sober, for real? Maybe right now she is. But when we leave, will she stay that way? Is this all a cover? Can we trust her?

  Dia lifted her shoulders and turned away, and Jules looked back to Hanna. She was tired of not trusting her. And she wanted to believe the best. So for now, for as long as possible, she would.

  Jules sank into a crouch, rubbing the backs of her tired legs. “I think we might actually—”

  “Don’t say it,” Dia cut her off. “Not until it’s done. Okay?”

  Jules rolled her eyes. “Okay, superstitious. I’ll shut up.”

  They spent a while setting up more mics, testing levels. Jules looked at the walls—no insulation—and frowned. If they had money, they could have hired a space somewhere. Other bands would be doing that. It reminded her exactly how unprepared they were. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t pull this off.

  “It’s ready,” Hanna said, setting her laptop on top of a box labeled “Grandma’s House” before going back to her drums. “Try once through?”