by Luana Ferraz
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“What?” He seems to come back down from wherever his mind was.
“You’re too quiet. I’m worried,” I say, and he rolls his eyes.
“I’m just tired,” he says. “I’ve been sleeping on the couch for days now.”
Now, I roll my eyes. It’s not my fault that he ruined his bedroom floor.
“We should go mingle,” he continues. I frown.
“If you want to get rid of me, just say so,” I complain.
“Okay,” he says in a serious tone. “Get lost.”
I laugh and don’t move.
“Or come with me talk to people.”
Then I walk away to sit alone on a chair. From there, I watch as he walks back to the lobby and actually goes talk to people. I’m a little offended that he wants to talk to someone other than me. When I see him walking towards Tristan, who is leaning against a wall all by himself, the feeling intensifies. He’s been spending a lot of time with Tristan. And it’s only been two days.
I sigh and take my phone out of my jacket pocket, deciding to distract myself with social media. Just because I can’t make new friends it doesn’t mean Pete shouldn’t. I can’t resent him for that.
I open Instagram and go through my feed, mindlessly liking all the photos. A few minutes later, someone sits on the chair in front of me. I look up to see Tyler—in my twin leather jacket and those hideous sunglasses. I’m not sure if he’s looking at me and I don’t want to make small talk, so I only smile and nod. He smiles and nods back. Then, he also gets his phone out and starts fumbling with it.
I get back to my mindless scrolling, but I can’t concentrate now. Much like last night, I’m too aware of his presence. I keep moving my thumb, though, because I don’t want him to notice he’s disrupting my peace. Why didn’t he go sit somewhere else? All the couches and armchairs are empty.
“Ty!” a female voice gets both of our attention. “I’m on my way, babes.”
Tyler gets up and lets the woman hug him—a very tight, personal hug. When she lets go, I recognize her. It’s Anna Kusek, the model. I think she is the only British person in the top 10 celebrities with the most followers on Instagram? I follow her. She’s gorgeous. Even in person.
“Let me know when you’re back around these parts, will you?” she asks in a flirty tone, poking his chin with a finger.
“Will do,” Tyler answers with a smile.
Then, her eyes fall on me. Oh, no. She’s gonna speak to me.
“Hey,” she points one long, manicured finger my way, “you’re the girl who opened the concert last night, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I say dryly. I think I’m expected to say something else because both of them just stare at me in silence for a while, but since I don’t know what, I say nothing.
“Great concert,” she says, finally. “And I like your style.”
“Thanks,” I say and, again, it’s all that I say.
“Okay,” she says slowly, in that way people use to close an interaction with a weirdo. I can’t blame her. “Bye, then.”
She turns once more to Tyler, winking, and walks away. Then he turns to me. I feel judged again.
“Didn’t you meet her yesterday?” he asks. “She was backstage last night.”
“And now she’s here,” I reply. He pauses in the middle of sitting back down and his head jerks up. Smooth, Becky, very smooth. In an attempt to remedy my indiscretion, I add, “I didn’t stay for long.”
Backstage was crammed last night, full of celebrities and fans alike. Since they were all there to see the Hackley boys, I kept pestering Pete to leave until he gave in and we went home.
“I noticed,” he replies. I don’t believe him. I doubt he even remembered I existed after the concert. “I didn’t, either.”
Of course not. Well, to be fair, if I had Anna Kusek willing to spend the night with me, I wouldn’t want to waste time hanging out. Except, I normally don’t want to waste time hanging out, anyway—hot model or not.
I keep staring, expecting him to go back to his phone, but he doesn’t. He keeps staring back. Is he waiting for me to do it first? Or to continue the conversation? Which one should I choose?
“I didn’t know you had so many friends on this side of the pond.” I opt for conversation since I know I won’t be able to concentrate on my phone.
“Oh, I wouldn’t call them friends,” he says.
“How would you call them, then?”
He remains silent for a while, thinking. I wish he’d take off the glasses so I could read him better.
“Occasional supporters,” he says, at last, making me snort.
“Is that an American term?” I joke.
“I don’t know. How would you call them here?” he asks and I swear he’s fighting a smirk.
I take my time thinking, as he did. Then, I say, “Friends.”
Now he smiles, wide and bright. It’s satisfying. And I hate to notice that.
“Alright, guys,” Neil starts calling from the reception desk. “Let’s get going?”
***
It’s the biggest and widest bus I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It has a shiny golden exterior, blackened out windows, air-con and there’s a part in the back that expands, making an actual room inside of it.
The interior is every bit as glamorous as the exterior. Shiny wood and black leather everywhere. There are three different ambients, in addition to a corridor with 12 bunks. It’s hard to hide my astonishment and I let out a ‘bloody hell’ every time I turn around.
After everyone chooses their beds—I end up with the top one closest to the back room —, some of the boys get right to sleep. I don’t want to sleep, so I amble to the back room, where Tristan is already setting up the videogame. I don’t want to play videogame, either, so I go to the kitchen—which is possibly bigger than my flat’s kitchen—where I find a pot of coffee brewing. Neil is there, talking on the phone to someone about our next show. He motions to the pot, asking with his free hand if I’d like some. I accept it and sit down on one of the booths. Yes, there are booths and tables—as in more than one.
“Everything seems to be in order,” he says when he hangs up. Then I regret accepting the coffee because now I’ll have to make small talk with him. “How do you like your coffee?”
“With plenty of sugar, please,” I say and he raises his eyebrows, as if surprised by my request.
“Sometimes I feel I’m the last person on Earth who still consumes sugar,” he chuckles, putting a mug in front of me and sitting on the opposite booth.
“Well, you’ve just found a fellow rebel,” I say and he chuckles again.
“So, are you comfortable?” he asks.
“Sure! This bus is bigger than my flat,” I say, and it’s no exaggeration.
“No, I mean, being the only girl around,” he clarifies, but it only gets me confused. When he sees my frown, he continues, “I only thought of asking you if it was okay to get one single bus after I had done it.”
“It’s fine. I’m used to being the only girl around,” I admit. Sad, but true.
“I can imagine. You know, they’re implementing this new program in the label now to have more women working in leadership positions,” he informs me.
I nod, not sure why he’s telling me this.
“And also to find more female talent,” he continues and then it starts making sense.
“Good for you. Women are awesome,” is all I can think of replying. I kick myself internally, but he laughs.
“Indeed, they are. You’re a fine example of it,” he says and my blood freezes. In my vast experience of being the only girl in the room, I know this kind of remark usually stirs the conversation away from the music.
I struggle to keep quiet and wait for his next move. I can’t just start a fight with the man we’re hoping to sign us—unless I have good reason to.
“I mean it,” he searches my eyes. “The way you shred that guitar, mate…” He st
arts playing an air guitar and I release the breath I was holding in.
“Thanks,” I mumble, suddenly aware of every beat of my heart.
“How long have you been playing?” he asks.
“Guitar? I don’t know, ten years, maybe?” I can’t remember when I first picked up a guitar. I just remember I did so because I couldn’t stand playing piano anymore, and I missed the music.
“That’s a long enough time for someone so young. And I have to tell you, a woman playing guitar the way that you do will definitely stand out for a label.”
A label? Your label? I really, really want to ask. Yet, I don’t. I’m not sure he’ll have an answer for me right now. And even if he does, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it.
It looks like he wants to tell, though, since he keeps staring at me with that clear intention of saying something but unsure whether to do it or not. I’m not ready, I think. Please, don’t say it. Where’s Pete when I need him?
I just wait, staring back. I’m good at staring at people in silence.
“I knew about Alex,” he blurts out. I temporarily lose the ability to breathe. I sure wasn’t ready for this.
“H-how?” I manage to ask.
“Well, he had a bit of a reputation in the industry,” he explains.
I remember some instances where he’d talk trash about someone or someplace, only to later find out he wasn’t allowed to get even near said person or place.
“I never met him, though,” he continues when I don’t. I really have nothing to say about this subject. “Were you guys… you know…”
It takes me a moment to reply. I nod.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know about that part.” He gives me a sympathetic smile. I don’t smile back. “I’m also sorry to bring this up again, I can see how hard it is on you. But I felt like I owed you the truth. And an apology because I could have done a better job yesterday.”
That actually makes me feel better. Still, it’s weird to have someone else know about him. It kind of makes him… real. I don’t know, sometimes I think it was all a figment of my imagination. Like I made him up. I wish I had made him up.
Then it occurs to me that if he knows about this, maybe he knows about…
“Do you…” I struggle to find my voice. “Do you know about my parents?”
“No,” he shakes his head. I watch him for a while, deciding whether to believe him. I do. “Do you want to tell me?”
Tyler walks over just then, looking through the cabinets for a mug. He finds one and pours coffee in it. He turns around, leaning against the little counter. His eyes jump from Neil to me a few times.
“Did I interrupt something?” he asks.
I shake my head. Then I turn to Neil and shake my head again, answering a different question. He nods once. Got it.
Tyler sits beside Neil, in front of me. The silence lingers, hot and heavy. I can feel dark memories creeping in from the edges of my mind. I need a distraction.
“So, we had an idea,” I say suddenly. They both look at me. “We want to play a few songs together during the show.”
“Oh?” Neil’s eyebrows shoot up. He looks at Tyler, who almost choked on his coffee.
“Yeah, we kind of talked about it last night,” he says, to my relief. “Since we have mutual fans.”
“I thought of swapping songs—ending our set with one of yours and starting yours with one of mine. Of course, playing them together,” I make it up as I go. It’s a half-ass idea but I kind of like it.
Tyler nods slowly. For a moment I think he’s going to argue or decline or just give me one of those ‘yeah, we’ll see’ and then never do it. Instead, he smiles—the one from the lobby again. It looks different now that I can see his eyes. It looks better.
“I like the sound of that,” he says.
“Me, too!” Neil says excitedly. “It’s a great idea!”
“What song would you like to do?” Tyler asks.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, biting my lip. “Maybe—”
“I want She’s Not Mine,” he cuts me off. It takes me by surprise. Yet, somehow, I knew he’d want to sing that one.
“I was thinking more about Overdrive,” I say.
“Nope,” he shakes his head, “it’s She’s Not Mine or nothing.”
Bossy. It suddenly makes me want to tell him ‘well, it’s nothing, then’. But I also want to hear what that one will sound like in his voice.
“Deal,” I say. “But then I get to choose any one of yours.”
“Knock yourself out,” he grins.
“What do you have in mind?” Neil asks.
Nothing. I have nothing in mind.
***
“So?” Tyler turns around, a look of triumph on his face. I want to punch him.
“I hate it,” I’m blunt, for Pete’s dismay.
“What?” Tyler and Pete ask in unison.
“It sounds awful! This piano line completely decharacterizes the song. It’s all wrong.” I rest my hands on my hips for dramatic effect.
“Isn’t that the point, though? Make it sound like their song?” Pete argues, trying to knock some sense into me.
“No,” I resist stubbornly. “The point was to make it sound pop, not bad.”
“I give up,” Tyler groans and walks off stage.
We’d been jamming for two hours trying to realize our idea. When I explained my plan to everyone else, they got excited. Neil said it was going to be a good showcase of our versatility. Pete was dying to rearrange one of their songs and put his producer’s abilities to test. Everybody was eager to work together.
Only they ignored the fact that Tyler is a self-centered diva and I’m a proud brat.
“I can’t believe you,” Pete complains, putting down the bass he’s holding.
“Just give him a few minutes, he’ll come back,” Tristan says from where he’s sitting behind the drums, completely overlooking the fact I’m the one throwing a fit. Even Todd gives him a dirty look.
“I knew this wasn’t going to work out,” I lightly strum my pink guitar.
“Then why did y’all insist on trying this out?” Todd complains and I can’t even reply. He’s right to complain. It has been two hours of soundcheck down the drain.
“Because it’s a great idea!” Tristan bites back.
“In theory,” I add, being the adorable pessimist I am.
“It will be in practice, too,” Tristan insists. “Tyler has been trying to learn this song for weeks, he won’t give up now.”
“What?” Pete and I gasp. Did he just say weeks?
“I thought he’d suggest that we do a cover, though,” Tristan continues, ignoring our shock. “This idea is definitely better.”
“But we only played this song two days ago,” Pete argues.
“But he’s been listening to your music nonstop since he found you online,” he informs and I can’t help but gasp again.
That’s what happened, then? Tyler was the one to ‘find’ us and bump whoever the label had lined up in our favor?
“I can’t fathom Tyler enjoying our style,” I admit, trying to get more out of him.
“Me neither. But I was mistaken,” Tristan chuckles. “He studied you for days and then insisted for the label to get in touch,” he continues and his choice of words doesn’t escape me. “He’s very meticulous.”
“You mean critical,” Todd corrects him, speaking my mind for me.
It takes me a while to process this. It explains why he was singing along the other day. It also explains why he’s been observing us from afar. And this idea. Why didn’t he tell me, though? God, what a psycho.
I glance at Pete and he’s looking at me with an ‘are you happy now?’ expression. I roll my eyes, because even though I am surprised, I don’t regret what I said. He was murdering our song.
I put my guitar down and walk to the piano. I sit on the stool with a sigh—I’m about to make a fool of myself. I struggle to find the chords I’m looking for, and th
en someone interrupts my efforts.
“It’s B minor,” Tyler’s voice echoes in the empty theater.
We all look up to see him perched at the balcony, eating what seems to be peanuts, and smirking. He’s been there the whole time. I glare, and the desire of punching his smug face returns full force.
I get back to the piano, purposefully avoiding the B minor. I struggle a little more, but I find the notes I wanted him to play. I don’t want the piano to lead the song, it has to just accompany the original track on the acoustic guitar.
When I’m satisfied with what I’ve done, I ask Pete to play the song on the acoustic guitar, slower than we usually do. I play along what I managed to arrange in the piano. And there it is, the pop version of our punk banger.
“It sounds nice,” Tristan nods, trying out some light beats to give the song rhythm.
Pete and Todd both play acoustic guitars, with Todd trying to find harmony for him. And I repeat the notes on the piano. It’s only four chords, but my fingers are so rusty I keep getting them wrong.
After six or seven runs, we appear to find the song. I look up to the balcony with what I hope is the exact triumphant expression Tyler had on his face before he stormed out of stage. I think I manage because he stops chewing and narrows his small eyes.
“I’m not playing that,” he declares, standing up and disappearing again.
I’m livid. I start to count to ten before I turn around, otherwise I know I’m going to say things that will be impossible to take back. But before I even finish, Tyler is back onstage.
“I’ll sing, you play,” he orders in that bossy tone of his, grabbing the microphone as he walks past me.
Before I have any chance to protest, Tristan starts a countdown and everyone starts to play. I get back to the keys, running my fingers more smoothly through them now, and brace myself for hearing Tyler singing my words.
Part of me is ready, even wishing to hate it. But Tyler doesn’t give me a reason to. He sings. And, oh boy, how he sings. I hate to admit it, but it sounds like the song was made for his voice—the gravelly in the low notes, the crying falsetto in the chorus, the pain. He knows what he’s doing, and I can’t hate him for that.