by Luana Ferraz
“So?” he asks again when we finish. I’m aware of all eyes on me.
“Let’s do one of yours now.” I get up from the piano, walking back to my guitar and refusing to say I liked it. Even though I did. I think I might have liked his vocals better than mine.
He says nothing, only walks back to his piano, and we start the process all over again. Except, now, no one storms out.
***
It takes us much less time to rearrange one of The Hacks’ songs into punk. Mostly because, unlike me, they don’t seem too precious about their music. That makes me feel a little ashamed. I also have a pretty hard time learning their lyrics, which, in comparison with Tyler ‘studying us for weeks’, is pretty shameful, too.
After only a few runs, even though I don’t feel at all prepared, everyone decides they're happy with what we got. We’re putting the plan into action during the show tonight. I freak out. I can’t play the piano. I can’t sing their song. I’m a disaster. But no one hears me out.
So, after a late lunch, and before the doors open for the show, I decide to practice a little more. Alone this time, mostly because not even Pete wants to spend one more minute playing with me. Whatever.
I decide to start with the piano, which will probably be the easiest. It’s only four chords, for Christ’s sake, I’ve had over a decade of lessons. I can do this.
Except I can’t. I keep getting it wrong, I keep rushing it along, I can’t play and sing at the same time. Ugh! Whose idea was it again?
“You take it too seriously,” Tyler’s voice causes me to hit both hands on the keys and the empty venue reverberates the ‘bang’ it makes for a long time.
I take a deep breath and don’t turn around to look at him. When the echo dissipates, I start again.
“Correct your posture,” he commands.
I do notice I’m all hunched over the piano when he says that, but for some reason, I refuse to sit up straight.
“Just relax,” he says in a softer tone and suddenly his hands are on my shoulders, which have the opposite effect of what he’s asking me to do—I jump again, squirming under his touch. “Sorry,” he mumbles, retrieving his hands. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help.” I finally turn around to glare at him, but it only makes me regret my words. He looks hurt. Like, actually hurt. Fuck. He sighs and turns around to walk away, but then I speak again, “You make me nervous.”
He stops on his tracks, but doesn’t turn around. I regret it again. But I also couldn’t stand his puppy eyes. Not that he deserves any pity, just hours ago he was criticizing my piano skills.
When he finally turns around, instead of the cocky expression I was expecting to see, he’s wearing a serious one.
“Then don’t let me,” he says simply. I don’t know what he means.
“How?” I find myself asking. He shrugs.
“Let’s find out.” He walks back towards me and around the piano. He leans over it and stares at me. “Play.”
I already hate his bossy tone. Part of me wants to resist just for the sake of antagonizing him, but I decide to do as he says. Mainly because I really need to practice.
He just stands there for several minutes, staring at my contracted face, judging. And making me nervous.
“I can’t,” I sigh after the third try.
“You play in front of hundreds of people every night,” he argues.
“Not the piano!” And not to you, I add mentally.
“Forget the piano,” he waves a hand in the air and I frown. Play, forget, can he make up his mind? “Let’s try talking while you play.”
“About what?” I ask suspiciously.
“Play!” He demands again and I roll my eyes. But start to play. “Why do you think I wouldn’t like your music?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “You don’t look like the type of person who’s into punk.”
“You don’t look like the type of person who’d believe in stereotypes,” he retorts.
“Really? Have you looked at me?” I look up again, raising my eyebrows, and he smiles. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a fan?”
“I didn’t want to inflate your ego,” he replies and it’s my turn to smile. What an asshole.
“I can’t believe Tyler Hackley has been stalking me online,” I joke.
“Not stalking, researching,” he doesn’t miss a beat. I look at him again. He doesn’t seem even a little embarrassed about being outed. I envy his confidence.
“I researched you, too,” I mock him.
“Yeah? What did you find out?” he rests his chin on one hand.
“That I don’t like your songs,” I glance at him again and his smile widens. I think I like making him smile.
“What happened to the third guy?” he says and my hands hit the wrong keys again. I curse under my breath and try my hardest to not stop playing now. “Alex, right?”
“How do you know about him?” I ask in what I hope is a casual tone.
“There are some videos of you together online,” I can see him shrug from the corner of my eye.
“He died,” I say and feel his entire body react. I risk looking up again. By the surprise on his fine features, I can tell he didn’t know about this particular detail.
“I-I… I’m…” he stutters. Turns out I like him embarrassed, too. “I’m sorry.”
I look back at my hands, indicating the end of this particular conversation. I play the entire song twice more while he just watches in silence. My fingers hurt, so I stretch my hands.
“The song is about him,” he says. It’s not a question. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’d put 2 and 2 together. When I don’t answer, he continues, “I can pick a different one. I like Overdrive.”
Now I’m the one smiling. I look back at him and his concerned expression. How can he be the same person that was dragging me in front of everyone just a few hours ago?
“No need,” I say.
“You sure?” his frown deepens.
“Yep. I like how it sounds in your voice,” I say and, guess what? Regret it. Even though his frown turns into a smile. Especially when his frown turns into a smile. I feel my face getting warm, so I stand up and turn away from him. “Now I just need to learn your lyrics.”
I open the lyrics to Hey on my phone and rest it against Tristan’s drum. Then I strap on my guitar and sit on the floor. Then I glance at Tyler. He’s sitting at the piano, where I was just a minute ago, but facing me. His arms are crossed over his chest and his eyes are locked on mine.
He holds my gaze for a few seconds and then smirks.
“Do I still make you nervous?” he asks.
I roll my eyes and don’t reply. Because he does.
***
As much as I hate to admit it, Tyler was right—the fans go absolutely bonkers when they see us all together on stage.
When The Hacks joined us after Pete and I announced we were finishing off with She’s Not Mine, they cheered so loud I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. To my surprise and amusement, they sang the whole song with us. It was surreal. I also nailed the piano. Well, maybe not nailed, but nobody seemed to notice the mistakes. I do take it too seriously.
When it was my turn to sing their song, things didn’t go as seamlessly. After the first chorus, I forgot the entire second part of the song. Tyler refused to take over, but thankfully his fans were a lot kinder. They sang the bridge back to me and even when Tyler ironically asked “how good of a job was that?”, they cheered and clapped and chanted my name.
This time, Neil doesn’t let us hang out at the merch table, so we watch The Hacks’ set from the side of the stage. Although I can’t repay Tyler’s gesture and sing any of their songs, I try my best to enjoy and find one that I like. It’s no easy task, I have to admit. Most of their songs are so sugary I fear I’ll get a cavity by the end of the night. But they do have the odd-one-out, a few ones talking about life and loss, heartbreak and growing up—these are the ones I i
dentify with. As I pay attention to their lyrics, it becomes clear they have more than one writer, the same way they have more than one person taking care of their social media. It’s impossible that the same person that writes about how their soulmate is a perfect inhuman being is the same one that describes the pain of being misunderstood. I make a mental note to ask them about it later.
We’re all in a high when the concert ends, so we decide to go out to celebrate. In a club. Dancing and drinking. I’m never one to pass on a night out, but even I know this sort of activity can’t end up well. We all go, anyway, directly from the venue, because I suspect everyone knows we’re going to change our minds if we have a chance to wind down.
We end up in a pretty popular club. It’s so crowded that we have to jump off the cabs two blocks away, and walk through a corridor of paparazzi before entering. I know they’re not there for The Hacks, but they recognize and take photos of them anyway. This seems to make Todd and Tristan a little uneasy, but Tyler is as unfazed as ever.
We are greeted inside by the loudest of music and the brightest of lights. The heat of the bodies crammed together hits us in a big wave, and I’m instantly transported to a parallel universe. This is what I like about these places—nothing feels real. You get to be whoever and do whatever, nobody notices, nobody will remember. I can stand in the middle of the dance floor and scream at the top of my lungs and no one will even flinch. I know it because I have done it. More than once.
After taking a few steps towards the bar, I notice I’m already lost. I turn around to try to locate someone of our crew when I feel a warm hand rest on the back of my neck.
“What is your poison?” Tyler asks, making me turn around again. He’s so close I almost head-butt him.
“How old are you, 60?” I joke, but he apparently doesn’t find it funny. “Anything mixed with vodka.”
He says something that I don’t hear and walks to the bar. His tall and skinny frame seems to make way easier than I would, so I don’t follow him. I turn around again, trying to locate Pete, or anyone, but still can’t. I start to retrace my steps and get to the back of the room, but I move very slowly.
“Here,” someone screams and grabs my hand. It’s Tyler again.
He pushes me through the crowd to one side until we have enough room to stand two inches apart. He hands me a glass—one of two that he was holding with just one hand. He has big hands. And long fingers.
“Cheers?” He raises his glass to me, a question in his eyes. “That’s how you say it here, right?”
“Right.” I nod once. “Cheers!”
I take a sip of my drink, which is too sweet for my taste, and watch as Tyler downs his in three long gulps. For all I know, it could be water.
“How do you say it in America?” I ask when he’s finished.
“Cheers.” He raises his eyebrows and smirks. I feel my lips curl up and start to look around again. I need to find Pete.
“Do you dance?” he asks again to my ear. He’s close enough that I can smell the alcohol in his warm breath.
“Not really,” I shake my head, not turning around this time. “Do you see Pete?”
“The alcohol is supposed to help,” he says, making me turn back around. His smirk is still firm in place, and he adds, “With the nerves, you know.”
Oh, boy.
I look down at my glass, tapping a nervous finger against it. I do know what he means. But I can’t. Maybe if we were in a different situation, a different place, a different moment, I wouldn’t be thinking twice. We’re not, though. And I am thinking twice. I can’t.
“It’s not gonna happen,” I blurt out, looking back at him.
His crooked smile disappears with this. He frowns, kind of confused at first, but then in understanding. I have a feeling I misinterpreted his intentions, but now it’s too late. Why is he so hard to read? He’s cocky and aggressive one minute, and sweet and attentive the next. And then we have this whole weird situation we’re in—what kind of relationship are we supposed to have? Is he my boss in a way? Can we be friends? Is it okay for me to flirt with him in a night club?
He opens his mouth to say something but gives up before any sound escapes it. He looks away, seemingly frustrated, and when he looks back, it’s not nice Tyler anymore.
“I’m gonna go get another,” he says, raising his empty glass and walking away.
I watch as he slowly disappears through the crowd. I debate whether I should stay around and see if he’ll come back, or if I should go after him. I decide to follow my original plan and walk towards the back of the club. If we’re not talking, we’re not fighting—or doing other things—and I’m positive this counts as behaving. Right?
It’s with much effort that I reach the back wall. I lean beside a couple making out and finish my drink. There’s a little platform to the side where people are dancing on. I decide to get up there and see if I can find Pete.
I look directly at the dance floor since I know he likes to dance. I don’t see him, but I locate someone else, his blond head standing out under the stroboscope light. He’s dancing. It’s different than the way he moves on stage. Some girl gets close. He lets her run her hands through his silky hair. She pushes him closer, her hands disappearing down south. I can’t see what she’s doing, but I can have a pretty good idea by how Tyler’s eyes react. She smiles. He suddenly grabs her neck and ferociously devours her face. It’s kind of gross. Even at a distance, I can see their tongues move in an unsynchronized motion.
A second girl approaches them from behind, embracing him by the waist. One of his hands moves to her hair, while she kisses his neck. I’m revolted, but I can’t stop looking. And then I wonder if he knows I’d see it. And then I sigh at my arrogance. Really? Do I really think he’s doing that to get to me? I don’t even think he meant what I thought he meant. And judging by the girls he’s making out with now, I’m definitely not his type.
I step down and decide to make my way to the exit. I’ll text Pete and ask him to meet me outside when he’s ready to go.
Somehow, the place seems to be even more crowded now. I make my way slowly, trying not to step on anyone’s toes.
“Becky!” I hear Pete's voice to my left, but the only thing I can see is his tattoed hand waving in the air.
I try to turn towards him but the crowd is too thick. It’s like everyone is pulling in the opposite direction I want to go.
“Becky!” Pete calls again, his hand closer.
He’s the one to get to me. His eyes are wild, which makes me preoccupied. He seizes my hand and starts pulling me. Hard. I want to shout for him to calm down, but then I look to the dance floor again.
It’s mayhem. There are security guards rudely shoving people aside, trying to get to someone. Is someone ill? Is someone hurt? What happened?
I cling to Pete’s arm as if my life depends on it—which it probably does—and he steadily guides me to the exit. When we’re almost out, I turn around again. Now I can see Tyler being dragged out by three of the security guards. I can’t locate the other boys and can’t help the overwhelming feeling of concern.
Once outside, Neil comes up from nowhere and shoves us both inside a cab, where Paul and Todd are already waiting. We immediately drive off and I turn around to try and see something.
“That was… crazy!” Pete exclaims.
“Could be worse,” Todd says in a seemingly calm tone that makes me turn around again.
“How often does this happen?” Pete asks, voicing my curiosity.
“At least once per tour,” Paul chuckles. “We still have five shows, right? I trust this will happen at least once more.”
“Once?” Todd frowns. “I’ll bet on three.”
“That’s really pessimistic,” Paul remarks.
“Yeah, but you know Tyler,” Todd continues.
“Okay, I’ll raise mine to twice,” Paul says after giving the matter some thought. “Do you wanna bet?” he then addresses Pete and I, who had been watching t
he interaction with our mouths gaping open.
“I don’t feel I have the necessary knowledge to do that,” Pete says nonchalantly, and they both laugh.
They then start telling some of the horrific situations Tyler has put them in, some of which remind me of a lot of things I’ve done, and I stop listening. I feel uncomfortable. I feel I’m intruding. I feel he wouldn’t like them to share these things, as much as I wouldn’t like Pete talking about my past mistakes with so little regard. Like I wouldn’t care. Or not caring if I would care. And then I start panicking. Would he ever do that? Has he ever done that?
We arrive back at the venue, where our bus is parked waiting for us. I let Paul and Todd hop on first, holding Pete back.
“Would you ever do that?” I ask bluntly.
“Do what?” he frowns.
“Bet. On me being an asshole.”
“Of course not, are you even serious?” His eyes widen and the genuine shock of his expression makes me relax. “Mostly because I’d have no one to bet against me,” he adds and I punch his shoulder.
“Idiot.”
“I’d never do that to you, Becks.” He squeezes my hand, which is still holding his in a death grip. “That’s just plain cruel.”
“I know, right?” I agree and can’t help but wonder if that’s part of the reason why Tyler is an asshole sometimes. I can’t help but wonder who might be his Pete, or whether he even has a friend like that. I hope he does.
“Stop thinking about him,” Pete interrupts my thoughts.
“Who?” I widen my eyes, trying to sound surprised. In vain, of course.
“I know you, Rebecca. Too well.”
But I can’t stop thinking about him.
DAY FOUR
I’m back at the club. The music is loud and people around me are dancing, their bodies whacking and pushing me. I try to walk away, but I can’t move. Every time I try to take a step, someone gets in the way. I’m getting frustrated, trying to shout for people to make way, but nobody listens. I turn to the other side, and see him—Tyler. He’s really close, but he doesn’t see me. Suddenly, two faceless girls approach him and they start to make out like I witnessed earlier. Only, this time, they take it further and start undressing. To my surprise, nobody seems bothered by it.