by Luana Ferraz
We leave the conference room and Neil leads the way to the restaurant, where we’re supposed to have lunch all together before heading to the venue a second time. As we walk across the hotel lobby, we spot Tristan and Todd chatting to a group of excited girls—fans. They’re taking pictures and signing stuff.
“Becky!” a female voice shouts. I jump around to see the fan from the night before waving and jogging towards us.
“Hello, love!” Pete smiles, pulling her to a hug. I can hear her squealing in his arms.
“Oh my God, I’m such a huge fan!” she says, turning to me for a hug, as well. I don’t like hugs. I do hug her, though.
“Thank you,” I say as she starts listing all the gigs she’s been to, as if to prove she’s not lying.
While we’re taking a picture, two more girls from the group that was chatting with The Hacks approach us. One of them hands us the first EP we ever sold, and Pete almost faints.
We sign stuff, we take pictures, we chat. It’s not because they’re ours, but our fans are so cool. I wonder if every artist thinks like that. I’ll have to ask one of the Hackley boys some time.
Pete is in the middle of discussing our setlist with them when a scream startles us. Everyone looks around in search of the source. I notice a concerning number of people running towards the lifts. Tyler is walking out of it, running a hand through his damp hair and adjusting his sunglasses. He waves to the approaching group of people, doesn’t even bother smiling, and rushes to the restaurant, whose entrance is blocked by security guards. A few of the girls still try to reach him, calling out his name, but he disappears as suddenly as he appeared.
The three girls in front of us exchange knowing glances and roll their eyes.
“Can I ask you,” one of them turns to me, “is he a douche bag?”
I glance at Pete, and he gives me one of his warning looks.
“I probably shouldn’t answer that,” I say and they laugh.
Neil declares the meet and greet over, so we say our goodbyes and they walk away.
Pete gives me the same suspicious look he did earlier after the interview. I try to shake it off and start walking towards the restaurant. I really don’t want to talk about it.
“It’s only our second day,” he says in a low voice so only I can hear it. “Please, behave.”
“I’ll try,” I say, the same promise I always make when he asks me that. He knows there’s not much I can do, I’m not usually good at controlling my tongue. I do try. But I tend to fail too often.
We walk around filling our plates with sandwiches and fruits and join the big table where the crew is seated at the back. Tristan moves his chair closer to us and he and Pete start a never-ending conversation about nothing. It always baffles me how some people can waste their breath for little-to-no information exchange.
I eat in silence, pretending I’m listening to whatever they’re saying, until I feel it—someone is watching me. I glance to the other side of the table and, sure enough, Tyler is facing our direction. Again, I can’t say if he is indeed staring because he’s still wearing those hideous sunglasses of his, and he doesn’t turn away when I catch him.
I look to the people sitting next to him—they’re in the middle of an exciting conversation. My gaze falls back on Tyler and I realize that, like me, he’s only pretending to listen. I wonder if that’s why he wears those glasses so often. Is it easier to ignore people with them? Should I try it?
“Becky.” Pete’s hand on my shoulder startles me. I turn around to find him and Tristan staring at my face.
“Sorry, what?” I ask, deciding I’ll definitely need to give sunglasses indoors a go.
“I was saying I really liked your set last night,” Tristan smiles broadly. “You have quite a voice.”
“Oh,” I'm taken aback, first because I can’t handle compliments, second because I thought they didn’t watch us.
“You guys have a rich sound for a duo,” he continues.
“Well, drums and guitar are really the spine of any song,” Pete says.
“For sure,” Tristan agrees, as he obviously would. “But have you ever considered adding some players? I think a bass line would take you guys to another level.”
“Well, we tried a few…” Pete trails off. And, once again, he is on my mind.
“I feel you,” Tristan nods. “Finding the right fit can be an arduous task.”
“Yeah, plus the fact that we’ve been together for so long. It’s hard to find a new band member that gets our dynamic,” Pete adds, giving me a silly smile. What he means is: it’s hard to find someone to put up with Becky’s shit.
“It doesn’t need to be a band member, though,” someone says behind us. Pete and I turn around to find Tyler standing there, eating a banana and eavesdropping our conversation. “You could try supporting musicians. Hire different people just for the gigs. I’m sure you can handle more than one instrument in the studio, right?”
“Sure,” Pete nods.
“You just can’t play all of them at a concert,” he says. Then, in a quieter tone, he adds, “Unfortunately.”
“It’s an idea.” Pete shrugs, glancing at me.
“We don’t have money to pay for supporting musicians,” I bring the conversation down to earth.
“Yet,” Tyler adds. We look back at him. He finishes his snack and walks away.
“He’s so weird,” I say out loud before remembering his brother is sitting right in front of me. Pete gives me a murderous look, but Tristan laughs.
“Tell me about it,” he comments.
I give Pete an apologetic smile and he shakes his head slowly.
***
Our soundcheck is short. After talking to Neil, and at his request, Pete and I add three more songs to the set. We’re still done pretty quickly, since there’s nothing much to change from the day before.
We decide to sit at the balcony to watch The Hacks run through their set. Pete is curious to see the view and sound from there. Meaning, he’s curious to see what they saw last night when they watched us from here.
I notice he’s distracted, though. He has his phone on his hand and turns on the screen every few seconds. I also notice his girlfriend wasn’t at the concert last night. She hasn’t been around for a while, actually.
“Lindsey?” I ask.
“Yep,” he says, shoving the phone into his pocket now. “She can’t make it.”
“Bummer. Maybe next weekend?” I watch as he tries to hide a sigh.
“Maybe,” he smiles. I’m about to ask if everything is okay when we’re interrupted.
“Hey, guys!” Tristan sits in front of us. Is their soundcheck over already? “Do you have plans for this afternoon?”
“Not really,” Pete answers, glancing at me. I shrug.
“Some of the guys want to go sightseeing,” he comments. Good riddance, I answer, but only in my head.
“Not really our thing,” is what I say out loud. Not that I don’t like sightseeing, I just don’t want to spend the rest of the day socializing with them. And if Pete agrees to it, I’ll have to go.
“Okay, well, you’re welcome to stop by my dressing room,” he offers as if he’s talking about the Buckingham Palace. “I usually hold videogame championships before the gigs, you know, to pass the time. Do you play videogames?”
“No,” I answer. Probably too quickly, judging by the way they both look at me.
“I do,” Pete smiles, trying to balance my bluntness.
“Cool,” Tristan smiles back. It almost makes me change my mind. “Well, you’re invited.”
As he walks away, I glance at Pete, who’s actually checking him out. I frown, ready to make fun of him when he notices I was looking. But when he turns to me, he only shrugs.
“He has a great ass,” he remarks, no shame in his voice.
“You’re disgusting.” I shake my head in fake disapproval. I can’t say I didn’t notice his ass. Or his arms. “Not Tyler, then?”
“S
hut up,” he says and promptly gets up.
“Are you accepting his invite?” I mock him.
“Yes,” he answers sharply. “And can you at least try?”
“To play videogame?” I frown.
“To be nice!” he clarifies. “We’re going to spend two weeks with these guys. Please, behave.”
“I am trying,” I argue. I swear I wasn’t intentionally rude. Not this time.
“Try harder.” He raises his eyebrows.
I roll my eyes but follow him to The Hacks dressing room. I manage to sit with them for an entire hour before deciding I better get away if I’m not to punch someone.
I sit alone in my cupboard for a while, do some warm-ups and wait for showtime. When they start to open the gates, I decide to sneak to the side of the stage and observe people coming in. I like doing that, I like to feel the excitement that emanates from each one. It’s such a fantastic concept that such different, unique people, who perhaps have nothing else in common, choose to share one night of innocent bliss together. For just a couple of hours, nothing else matters—not their jobs, not their beliefs, not their fears. Just the music. Just the moment.
So I watch them as they get ready for that weird communion, filling the room, making everything warmer and noisier. There are people in groups, there are people alone, dressed up for the occasion or comfortable as if they were at home, of all colors, sizes and shapes. Not one is the same as the other. But their eyes all glisten alike.
“Someone you know?” a voice too close to my ear startles me. I jump and kick one of the guitar cases, making it fall down with a loud thump. Luckily, there are enough people in the crowd to drown the commotion. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I grunt, rearranging the cases and cursing the bruise I’m sure will appear later on my shin.
“So?” Tyler raises his eyebrows when I finally look at him.
“So what?” I bark. Then I remember Pete asking me to behave.
“Do you have friends in the crowd tonight?” he asks, apparently ignoring my manners.
“No,” I shake my head. Not tonight, not ever. I turn my face back to the crowd to realize they have already doubled. “It’s filling up fast,” I comment, trying to make small talk.
But Tyler doesn’t reply. He just stands there, behind me, silently watching the crowd with me. Or silently watching me watch the crowd, as I catch him staring at the back of my head when I turn around again. I frown, but he doesn’t even flinch. Which makes me think about all the times he seems to be staring through his sunglasses—maybe he is.
“What are you doing down here?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual and not accusatory.
“Hiding,” he says. I chuckle, thinking it’s a joke. But, actually, I don’t think it is. “What about you?”
“Watching,” I look back out. The rumble is loud enough now that we have to talk out loud to hear each other.
“We seem to have some fans in common,” he comments. “Some of them were singing your songs last night. And at the hotel this morning.”
“Yeah,” I nod, looking back at him. I remember his swift escape from said fans. I decide not to mention it. Instead, I try to think of something nice to say about it, but all that comes out is “who would have thought?”
His mouth slowly curls up into a smile. I’m relieved he doesn’t seem offended. This counts as behaving, right?
“We should play something together,” he suggests after a minute. “They would go crazy.”
“We should,” I nod slowly, actually liking the idea. “I have to learn one of your songs first, though.”
“Or we could learn one of yours,” he says and I can’t help the disbelief in my eyes. “I liked the one that girl requested yesterday, what is it called?”
“She’s Not Mine,” I say. Of course that’s the one he would like.
“I could tell you a million things about her, you’d never know if they’re all lies, because in the end, in the end she’s not mine,” he sings softly and my eyes widen.
“You already know the lyrics,” I can’t shake the surprise off of my voice.
“It’s a repetitive chorus,” he shrugs.
“It is,” I agree.
“Almost like…” he pauses, widening his eyes. “A pop song.”
“Don’t push it,” I frown again, fighting back a smile.
“I bet we can rearrange it as a pop song,” he continues, purposefully to annoy me.
“You mean murder it,” I stress my disapproval and he smiles again. Second time in the same conversation? Pete would be proud of me.
“Who wrote it, you or Pete?” he asks.
“Me,” I answer, bracing myself for having to talk about the subject matter of the song.
“Does she know you wrote a song about her?” he continues.
“Who?” I frown.
“The girl in the song,” he explains. Of course. The song is about a girl.
“Oh, no,” I shake my head and wonder how self-absorbed I will seem when I explain it. “The girl in the song is me.”
“Oh?” It’s his turn to frown.
“I wrote from the point of view of my boyfriend,” I say. It sounds weird to call him boyfriend. Should I mention he’s dead now? How do you gently introduce this information into a conversation?
“I see,” he nods slowly, still with a confused look on his face.
“It makes it all a little confusing, I know. But I think it’s what I like about it,” I admit. I like that people don’t get it at first. I like having it as a little secret. Well, not so secret anymore.
“Yeah,” he nods again, pensive. I have a feeling he’s reciting the lyrics in his head and taking in the new meaning. “Yeah, I like it, too,” he says, finally, and I smile in return.
The conversation ends there—he doesn’t ask any more questions about the song or my relationship. It’s a relief. We remain in silence, getting acquainted with the noise and the heat until the time for my set comes. Pete joins me hesitantly as the stage manager hands us our mics. I can see the question in his eyes: ‘What the devil is going on here?’ I smile softly while our mics are tested and he seems to take it as a good sign.
“Break a leg,” Tyler says as we step on stage, and I don’t have a chance to say thank you.
The crowd cheers, louder than the night before. I quickly spot the requesting fan from the other night, as she’s closer to the stage and waving frantically. I wave to her, give my introductions and we start.
After the first song, as I’m turning around to look at Pete, I see that Tyler is still there. He’s still standing at the side of the stage, watching, a red plastic cup in his hand. My heart suddenly jumps. I get nervous. Why is he there?
I have no time to mull over this, as Pete starts counting for the second song. I focus on the crowd, on the people who are singing along and those who are not, but are enjoying nonetheless. I try to get back into the mood and have a good time, but now Tyler’s figure is imprinted on the left side of my peripheral vision. I can see him, it doesn’t matter where I’m looking at.
We finish the second song and I decide not to pause. Now I’m eager to get this over with. I feel judged, and I don’t like it.
We run through the third and the fourth songs and, before we start the next one, Pete motions with his hands: ‘slow down’. I take a deep breath. I’m ruining it. We have only a handful of songs in our set, and I’m ruining it.
I look back at the crowd and try to ignore the ghost watching me. I lock eyes with the fan I recognized and start the riff of She’s Not Mine. Her smile broadens and a few people scream—they know what’s coming. I smile and keep looking at the small group of girls I know are our fans as I sing. They dig it.
After the first chorus, I risk a glance at the side of the stage again. I can see the whole band there now, but my eyes focus on Tyler—and his moving lips. He’s singing along. He knows the lyrics, not only the chorus. And he seems to like the song.
I try to make e
ye contact with Pete, to warn him somehow because I know he’ll die if he sees it. But he’s not paying any attention to me, he’s busy being a star. I smile with the joy that seeing his messy hair whip around brings me. Then I get back to the crowd for the last chorus.
I can’t help but look at Tyler again. He’s bobbing his head, dancing in place, and when he notices I’m looking, he starts singing louder. And the idea of playing together gets more and more appealing.
DAY THREE
We’re all up and packed quite early in the morning. Neil changed our traveling schedule at the last minute, I suppose to miss the fans. Apparently, there was a group of them waiting at The Hacks hotel last night after the concert, and there are still some of them there when we arrive to meet the band and crew in the morning. It’s early. I admire their… dedication.
The lobby door is now decorated with a security guard and we have to show our credentials to be let in. Serious business. Pete and I exchange funny glances as we walk past him, but we have no time to make fun of the situation since everyone is already around and waiting around for us.
“Morning,” Pete says as we approach Neil, who’s talking with the hotel concierge.
“Hey, you!” he smiles, taking a look at his clock. “On time! I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a while.”
“No problem,” Pete says while I snicker beside him. Not on time, then. Early. I hate being early.
“Can you please drop your bags over there?” Neil asks, pointing to a corner full of bags and backpacks.
I follow Pete as he does what we’re asked. Then I follow him back as he greets the band and crew, pretending to do the same. Then I follow him to the restaurant where we go grab a coffee. Then I stand with him awkwardly at the door, observing the rest of the sleepy people lounging around.
I start to notice how silent Pete is—it’s strange because he’s never silent. Silence makes him nervous, so he’s always quick to fill it with his voice. He’s not doing that right now, which makes me nervous.