by Luana Ferraz
I wander off the dressing room and into the arena. This one has the best acoustics yet. There’s no one around, so I take the opportunity to scream at the top of my lungs. The sound bounces off the walls like rubber. I walk to another corner and scream again. The same magical reflection occurs. I always wonder how they do that. How is it possible to have such great clarity in every corner of a room?
I walk up on stage and scream from there. It’s therapeutic. I wait a few minutes to see if anyone has heard it and is coming to see what has possessed me. When nobody shows up, I decide to take my chances on the piano again. I’ve been dying to have a chance at it without Harvard-expert-Tyler watching and judging me.
I sit on the leather stool and let my fingers run up and down the scale. I play the pop version of She’s Not Mine. I’m still very much rusty. My hands are stiff, like I’m banging a plank of wood on the delicate keys of the Yamaha. If I was Tyler, I’d be concerned to let me use it, too.
I try to play some of my other songs, but can’t seem to find the right notes. I try to play some of the songs I like, but they also don’t sound right. I stop and take a deep breath. I know what I have to play. I know how to make my joints warm up. But there’s still a part of me resisting.
I hold my hands up, above the keys. I can hear the first note before I hit them. Then I just give up. Fine. I’ll play it.
Clair de Lune was the first song I ever wanted to learn because it was my father’s favorite. It was the song I played the most because of the same reason. I will never forget the way he looked at me when I did. Which is exactly why I didn’t want to play it now. Or ever again.
“Interesting choice,” Tyler’s voice startles me and I stop. My heart races and I notice, embarrassed, that I’m on the verge of tears. Again.
“Good God, why do you keep doing this?”
“Doing what?” he asks, and I hear his footsteps approaching.
“Just… never mind.” I shake my head and concentrate on the keys. I don’t want to leave. But I don’t want to continue.
“You’ve had lessons.” It’s not a question. Of course he would know, he’s probably studied piano, too.
“Yeah,” I nod, turning to look at him. He looks amused.
“I’ve never had the hands for Debussy,” he says and, suddenly, he’s seated on the stool with me.
He starts playing the same song and, indeed, it doesn’t sound nearly as elegant as it should be. The thought that he might be doing that on purpose occurs to me, but I think again. It’s Tyler. He wouldn’t do that.
“You sound like an elephant playing piano,” I joke when he stops.
“You sound like my piano teacher,” he smiles. “Beethoven is my guy.”
He starts playing Für Elise.
“Ugh, such an obvious choice.” I roll my eyes.
“Oof. Tough crowd tonight.”
He then changes to the Moonlight Sonata. It’s as soft as Clair de Lune, but he’s way better at this one.
I watch his bare long fingers slowly move over the keys. It’s hard to believe these are the same hands that bang pop music every night. Well, at least he’s still doing it. At least he can still do it. I wonder what my father would think if he could see me now. What would he say about my purple hair, my loud guitar, my tight clothes. What would he say about what happened on the bus. Or on every other occasion I felt so small I could barely breathe.
“Hey.” Tyler bumps his shoulder into mine. He has stopped playing. I’m still staring at the keys. “Are you okay?”
“Yep. Yes.” I stutter, embarrassed. As if I needed one more reason for him to think I’m crazy. “Just lost in the song.”
I can feel him nodding. I can feel him staring. I can feel he has something to say.
I want to leave. I want to hide. I want to cry. But I don’t move. He doesn’t, too.
“What else you got?” he asks after some time.
I feel like the weight of the world is lifted from my shoulders. I feel like… he gets it. Even though he didn’t say anything. Even though he didn’t ask anything. I look at him again. He’s still studying my face.
“Maybe some Vivaldi?” He wiggles his eyebrows and I smile.
And we spend the next hour showing each other our knowledge of classical piano. Maybe those twelve years weren’t as useless, after all.
***
We have quite a successful concert, all things considered. Our joint set runs more smoothly tonight—we play better, and the crowd enjoys it more. I’m still surprised to see them singing my song. It’s quite a rush.
Today, Pete and I have a green card to work at the merch booth with Seth. I think it’s Neil’s way of keeping us away from Paul. I can’t complain.
“We’re almost out of EPs!” Seth informs us cheerfully. “Thank God we’ll have some days off, it’ll give Neil time to order more.”
“Our EPs?” I ask in disbelief.
“Yep, lass. Look!”
I walk to our side of the table, surveying the boxes beneath it. Sure enough, there are only a handful of EPs left. The stock of mugs and t-shirts is not too different. I still can barely believe we have merch to sell and it’s all already almost gone.
“Let’s see if we can sell them all by the end of the night,” Pete winks.
And from then on, he shouts at everyone who’s close enough to hear him, chatting them up until they buy a damn EP. I’m always stunned by how charming he is, how people warm up to him almost immediately, how he can get them to do what he wants. It’s almost like magic. Sometimes I think the universe brought us together to balance itself out.
A group of girls—clearly our fans—come over when they see we’re at the table. They buy stuff, we sign it for them and take pictures. They hang out for a bit, asking questions and making fun of The Hacks. I laugh at their accurate remarks while Pete tries to defend them.
Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, one of them asks, “Is it true that you and Tyler are having a fling?”
“A what?” My eyes almost pop out of their sockets.
“Come on,” the girls says, a little embarrassed now. “He’s a pop princess, but no one will judge you.”
“From where did you get this idea?” I snap.
She laughs nervously, apologizes and then leaves with her friends.
“Smooth,” Pete shoots me a dirty look.
“What?” I snap at him now. “Am I supposed to humor this nonsense?”
“You could just laugh it off,” he says. I snort. “I think I know where this came from.”
He gets his phone, tapping here and there with his thumb, and then hands it to me. It’s a page filled with text.
Becky watched closely as his arm muscles flexed and contracted while he ran his long, calloused fingers over the piano keys, his shiny, smooth hair falling over his face. She couldn’t help but imagine what would it feel like to have him run those same fingers over her body—
“What is this?” I turn the phone back to him, appalled and disgusted.
“I believe it’s called fanfiction,” he says, struggling to keep a straight face.
“Why the fuck are you reading fanfiction?” I demand.
“I wasn’t reading it,” he argues. “I just happened across it.”
“How?”
“I… it’s just…” he stutters, making me very suspicious. Was he looking for fanfiction? What the hell? “It’s everywhere!”
“It’s not—”
“And some of it is actually good,” he cuts me off.
“What?!”
“Listen,” he takes the phone back from me and starts to read. “The wind blew softly on her purple hair, making it fall over her big, almond eyes. The sight made Tyler chuckle. He reached over, trying to tuck her short strands behind her ear. She yelped, taken by surprised but Tyler didn’t remove his hand from her smooth hair. Their eyes locked together for a second and—”
“Stop!” I yell. I don’t want to know what comes next. “That’s disturbing!”
“It’s cute!” He pouts.
“And what’s up with all this smooth hair falling over eyes? Eek!” I fake a shudder, ignoring him.
“Your hair is pretty smooth,” he says, now only to annoy me. “I bet Tyler’s is, too.”
“Shut up,” I hiss.
“Oh, please, don’t tell me you wouldn’t let Tyler tuck your hair behind your ear,” he raises his eyebrows.
“I wouldn’t let Tyler nowhere near my hair,” I answer. If those fans knew me at all, they’d know I hate when people touch my hair.
“Hmmm…” Pete narrows his eyes. “Do you think he’d let you near his hair?”
“Pete!” I try to make him stop before Seth thinks we’re on drugs or something.
“They have really good hair.” But he doesn’t stop.
“Pete!” I try to cast a furtive glance at Seth and maybe make him understand.
“They do, look at them,” he insists, pointing to the stage.
I don’t want to look, but it’s stronger than me. I look over. They do have good hair. I’m actually quite envious of Tyler’s golden, smooth locks. Smooth! Goddammit. I’m already infected by that horrid text.
“Do you think Tristan would let you touch his hair?” I turn back to Pete, attempting to throw him off for a change.
“Honey, I know he would,” he answers confidently.
I observe him as he bobs his head to their annoying song. I know it’s true, Tristan would more than likely let Pete touch more than just his hair. Does Pete want to, though?
When The Hacks end their set, Neil gathers us backstage to say he’s booked a hotel for the night, changing our plans once again. We were originally supposed to continue the trip to Manchester tonight and spend our three days off there. I wonder if this has anything to do with me and what happened earlier in the day. Either way, I’m not going to complain—the prospect of sleeping on a real bed is more than enough to lift my spirits.
We hang out for a while, waiting for the crowd to thin out. Tristan invites everyone over to his room to, guess what? Play videogames. He keeps nagging me to show up and I end up saying I will. But I won’t. I know this is part of the job—meeting people, talking to people, being agreeable to people. It’s just not in my DNA. My thing is to perform—being on stage gives me a high nothing else does. It’s something I know in my bones I’ll never get tired of doing. Dealing with the rest of it is Pete’s thing.
Plus, without me around, Tristan will probably have a better chance of flirting with my friend.
***
I take the longest shower I’ve taken in days and put on my comfies. I lie on the bed and turn my phone off to avoid possible calls and my social media. Now I’m actually afraid of this whole theory of me and Tyler having a fling. I doubt anyone can have an affair with him, anyway. He strikes me more like the one-night-stand type of guy. I recall the bizarre scene of him groping those girls in the club—and then twerking in my dreams—and can’t help but wonder if he even makes it worth it for them.
‘Stop thinking about him’ Pete’s voice plays in my head.
I’m really not looking forward to having him visit me in my dreams again, so I try to follow this command. I close my eyes, taking a few deep breaths, enjoying the silence and the dark.
My ears are ringing. My muscles are tense. I still have too much energy from the concert running through me.
I sit up again and briefly consider going to the little gathering in Tristan’s room. I walk to the window to open it up and shiver a little with the rush of cold air that comes in. The sky is clear and there is no moon, so I can see a few stars here and there. And then I decide that’s what I need—star gazing and alcohol.
I grab a few of the bottles from the minibar and walk out of the room. I round the building and climb the fire escape ladder to the roof. The floor is filthy, but I don’t mind. I walk to the edge and sit with my legs dangling out. I feel like a child again. I can’t even begin to count how many times I did this back home. Sitting on the roof and telling my dreams to the stars was my favorite thing to do. There were a lot more back then, though. Stars and dreams. Over time, they just faded away. One by one, they were slowly quenched. I can’t remember which ones were lost. I can’t tell if I care. Which is probably the worst part of it all.
“Are you gonna jump?” a hoarse voice startles me and I almost do fall.
“Fucking hell!” I shout.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Tyler adds and sits beside me on the edge of the roof. Uninvited. He points to my mini bottles forming a line of liquid happiness and asks, “May I?”
“No,” I say. He frowns, but a small smile plays on his lips. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” he returns the question, shamelessly taking notice of what I’m wearing.
“I asked first,” I argue childishly.
“I saw you. I thought you were going to jump,” he says.
“You didn’t think I was going to jump,” I roll my eyes.
“But I did see you,” he says as his smile brightens. I notice this is happening more often. I don’t smile back. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking at the stars,” I say, looking back up.
“What stars?” he snorts and follows my gaze up to the sky.
I open one of the bottles, taking a sip and trying to remember the names of the constellations. When I was a kid, my dad would quiz me about them. I could point them out even in clouded nights. Now they escape me. Like everything else.
“I count a total of three,” Tyler speaks again.
“When your eyes adjust to the dark you’ll see more,” I say, taking another sip from my bottle. It’s all it takes to finish its contents.
Neither of us speaks for a long time, sitting in silence and dangling our feet in the air. It is surprisingly comfortable. Of all the people to be in silence with, who knew Tyler would make it so enjoyable. Granted, he’s far more enjoyable with his mouth shut anyway.
“I can see more now,” he breaks the silence. I look at him—he is really looking at the sky. I don’t know why, but that makes me smile. He looks back at me and catches me staring. “What?”
Despite my best judgment, I motion towards the bottles. He narrows his eyes suspiciously, but takes one. After opening, he hands it to me and then opens another. We clink it together before drinking.
“Why are you not at the party?” I ask, already feeling the alcohol work in my blood.
“I don’t really like parties,” he answers, holding my stare.
“Really? It didn’t look like it the other night in the club,” I continue. I bite my tongue a little, but it’s too late.
“That’s not really a party. Parties, originally, involve social engagement. In clubs there’s rarely any interaction. I can barely hear my own thoughts,” he explains.
“That’s what I like about clubs,” I confess. He turns to me with a confused look, so I clarify, “That I can’t hear my own thoughts.”
“Why are you not at the party?” he asks.
“I don’t really like parties,” I repeat his words and grin. He grins back, slow and wide. And then stares at my lips.
Fuck. What am I doing? I look away, trying to think of a way to get out of the roof.
“Or any social interaction,” Tyler adds.
“You’re observant,” I comment.
“I told you, I see you,” he says and my stomach sinks, even though it’s a lousy pick-up line.
I decide to ignore him. If I keep my mouth shut and my eyes on the sky, I’ll be fine. So that’s what I do.
To my surprise—or disappointment, I can’t tell—he doesn’t say another word. We stay in the roof until we finish drinking all the bottles and then he helps me down the stairs so I don’t fall on my face. We walk together down the corridor to our rooms and when we part ways, he just mumbles a weak ‘good night’.
I lie back down on my bed, full of confusion. Maybe I’m reading him all wrong. M
aybe he’s not interested at all. Am I, though? Should I?
Stop thinking about him.
No can do, now. I think I found my distraction.
DAY FIVE
I start my first day off with a bath. Yes, there’s a bathtub in the room and I take full advantage of it. I wish I had had the spirit to have bought a bath bomb, but as soon as I lower my aching body down into the steaming hot water, I decide it doesn’t matter—it’s going to be relaxing either way.
I rest my phone on the floor beside me, ignoring all the notifications I have, and watch baking contest videos until the water gets cold. I take a shower and for the first time in days think about the clothes I’m going to wear. The cold is picking up, so I put on thick woolen tights beneath my black jeans shorts and my favorite gray hoodie. I ditch my usual boots for sneakers today, since I’m planning to go out and explore the city.
I spend twenty minutes blow-drying my hair to shape my curls, and then maybe the same amount of time doing my make-up. Again, for the first time in days, I’m satisfied with the result.
I like having time to get ready. Not that I care that much about how I look, it’s just that the time I spend layering stuff on my face and customizing my outfits relaxes me. Whenever I’m too concentrated trying to make my eyeliner even or knitting the perfect skull on a t-shirt I don’t have time to think of anything else. I don’t have time to be nervous. And I like not being nervous. I like the sense of being in control, that whatever the day throws my way, I’ll be able to deal with it. It’s not true most of the time. I still like the feeling, though.
Before getting out, I finally pick up my phone from the bathroom floor where I left it. Among the notifications, there are several texts from Pete.
‘BECKY! I need to talk to you’
‘Sorry, good morning, sunshine. How are you feeling this fine morning?’
‘PICK UP YOUR PHONE!’
‘I’m banging at your door, how can you still be asleep?’