by Ashley Grace
And then the keyboard faltered, a jumble of wrong notes clashing with the rest of the instrument. Sara Sounding shoved the instrument away from her, the stand crashing to the stage and a crackle and squeal of feedback assaulting our ears. She hid her face with her hands and ran off the stage.
Trace was on his feet, running after her. The rest of the band followed—Joey Jones dropping his sticks and knocking a cymbal over in his haste, Sergio Rodriguez yanking the chord out of his bass and pitching it to the stage. Only Micah Green left with something resembling control, carefully turning his guitar's volume knob down before unplugging it.
For a few seconds after the stage emptied, the air was filled with more droning, howling feedback. And then the soundman killed the speakers, and everything went dead quiet.
A few seconds later, the murmur and chatter of hundreds of voices swelled to fill that space.
I turned to Becca, feeling sick to my stomach. She had a stunned look on her face.
"Holy shit," she said. She gasped in a breath. "Ronnie wasn't kidding. Very fucking emo."
Chapter 14
Trace
The fluorescent lights of the back hallway weren't really any brighter than the stage lights had been, but something about their sterile tone made me feel even worse. Sara was about thirty yards ahead of me, her hands still covering her face and her shoulders quaking with sobs, but I was moving faster than her. And before I even caught up, her shuffling steps faltered and she veered over toward the wall. She leaned back against it, and then slid down to the linoleum tiles with her head between her knees.
"Sara," I said as I reached her side.
I crouched down and put my hand on her shoulder. She felt like skin and bones beneath her shirt, and a little part of my mind registered shock.
"Sara, it's me, Trace."
She didn't say anything in response, didn't look up at me. She just kept sobbing, her face buried in her hands.
I heard a camera click and whirr, and looked up to see the photographer who'd been with the Rolling Stone reporter earlier at the hotel, back before Joey had shook him loose and brought the reporter up to the pre-show suite. And then I heard Joey in the hall behind me, shouting.
"Hey, Arnold! Don't be a fucking dick, man!"
He came up between the photographer and us. A second later Sergio arrived, too, crouching on Sara's other side to shield her.
The photographer tried to step around Joey, raising the camera again. And then Micah was there. He grabbed hold of the lens, jamming the camera back into the guy's face hard enough to make the guy stumble.
"Hey! Are you crazy!" the photographer shouted.
Micah's finger pressed down on the lens-release button, and the lens came off in his hand. He threw it down the hall with real force, and I heard the sound of breaking glass.
"What the hell!"
Bernstein came up to our huddle, reaching down to catch hold of Sara's arm.
"Let's step into the green room, folks," he said, helping Sara to her feet and leading her toward the door. "Not you, Arnold. You're not invited."
In the green room we got Sara settled on a loveseat, Bernstein sitting next to her, the rest of us standing around them. He held her slender hand in both of his, the thickness of his fingers and the hairiness of his knuckles making Sara's hand look like a child's in comparison.
"Micah, could you get a glass of Sara's Oolong Kombucha for me, please," Bernstein said. "Sergio, maybe a wet paper towel from the bathroom?"
That left just the two of them on the loveseat, and Joey and me standing nearby. I wondered for a moment if that was by design—Bernstein had always been a master at steering events in the direction he thought best.
"Okay, ketzileh," he said, his voice gentle. "Let's hear it. What's wrong?"
Sara's hands weren't covering her face any longer, and she'd stopped sobbing, but the tears kept running from her eyes, smearing down over her cheeks.
She shook her head a little. "You know what's wrong," she said, in a very small voice. "I miss her. And every time I see him," she darted her eyes in my direction, "it makes it worse."
I felt an awful sinking feeling in my chest, as if my heart were dropping into my stomach. I pulled in a breath and tried to focus on dull numbness, clinging to it like a security blanket.
"You're talking about Lucy," Bernstein said.
"Who else would I be talking about!" Her hand pulled against Bernstein's grip. "Who?"
"No need to get excited. I just wanted to be clear."
"Yes, I'm talking about Lucy! I'm talking about my sister, who died of an overdose in Trace's arms! My baby sister, who serves as the inspiration for all of these miserable, depressing new songs we're playing. I'm talking about Lucy!"
A fresh wail spilled out of her throat, her eyes squeezing shut and tears racing down her face. I felt the sorrow in that wail, beneath my blanket of numbness. It seemed to echo inside of me.
Bernstein patted her hand, still holding it between both of his.
"I know you miss her," he said. "You're not the only one who does. Lucy's death has hurt all of us."
Sergio came back with a wet paper towel. Bernstein took it, nodding his head in thanks. Gently, he wiped her face, talking while he did it.
"Lucy's death was a tragedy," he said. "But dwelling on tragedy doesn't cure it. It just prolongs it."
He put a finger under her chin, lifted her face to look in her eyes.
"You know Lucy wouldn't have wanted this. You know it, Sara. She wouldn't have wanted you or Trace or any of us to dwell on sorrow in her name. She loved the band. She loved the music you guys make."
Micah came back to the loveseat, handing a full glass to Sara. She took the glass and sipped from it.
"And tonight, tonight you guys were there," Bernstein said. "You sounded tighter and stronger and purer than you've sounded in years."
He looked up at us.
"Isn't that right, Joey?"
"Well, yeah!" Joey said. "We were kicking ass out there!"
"You were kicking ass out there. I felt it. Everybody here in this building tonight felt it. It was one of those nights when the music just possesses the band, when you're channeling pure emotion for the crowd. Lucy would have loved it."
Sara squeezed her eyes shut once more. But Bernstein didn't back away from it. He carried on, willing us to face it.
"Lucy's life ended, and too soon. But dwelling on her death, and letting it kill the band—that's the last thing she'd want.”
He turned back to Sara, his hand on her shoulder, his face near hers, looking into her eyes.
"I'm not asking you to forget about Lucy, but I am asking you, I'm begging you, to not forget about the band."
Chapter 15
Anne
"Did you see the way Trace was looking at you?" Becca said. "He was totally checking you out!"
I felt a rush of excitement. "Do you think so? Really?"
"Totally! From the very first song. And on all the other songs too, or at least on the sexier ones. It's like he was singing directly to you!"
"No way."
"Yes way! Yes-freaking-way! I told you, you look super hot. Girl, you owe me big time!"
I felt the blush creeping up across my cheeks and the front of my neck—embarrassment, but excitement too. I hadn't been imagining it. Trace really had been looking at me.
But then I looked up at the empty stage, the keyboard stand still lying on its side, the keyboard itself upside down. The lights were still on bright, and that just made it look even emptier.
"Well," I said, "even if he was checking me out—and I'm not saying that he was—but even if he was," I gestured up toward the empty stage, "I guess it's all over now."
"Uh uh," Becca said. "No way. It is not over." Her face grew hard, a determined look coming into her expression. "Belletrists are coming back. They still haven't played 'Sexcat,' which is my very favorite song. And after all the googly eyes that Trace was giving you, he doesn't get to
just disappear like a fucking cock-tease, even if he is the big-sexy-famous tortured artist."
She crossed her arms in front of her chest, nodding her head as if she felt firm in her decision.
"They're gonna get back up on that stage. And after that, they're gonna take us with them for the after-party. They have to."
I shook my head. "Becca, I've got to hand it to you: you're optimism is awe-inspiring. But even though I think it'd be rad if the fantasy you're describing somehow became reality, I can't see any way it's going to happen. I mean, the way they left the stage made it seem like they won't be back on it anytime soon."
Her face went thoughtful, her eyebrows pinching down. A moment later, the corner of her mouth quirked up in a mischievous grin, her eyes flashing.
"Anne, look around and tell me what you see."
I looked at the people standing near me. People all around were chattering to each other, their voices fast and animated, the murmur of conversation filling the air. The initial shock of the band's abrupt departure seemed to be wearing off, and an elated excitement was taking its place.
"They look excited," I said cautiously.
"They're more than excited. They're turned on! The Belletrists just got them all hot and bothered, and then ditched out, leaving them hanging. The crowd's got a serious case of blue balls, and if they don't get to shoot their load, they're gonna flip out!"
Suddenly Becca's eyes looked huge, and her smile even huger.
"You're cooking up some crazy idea, aren't you?" I said.
"Crazy like a mother-fucking fox!" she replied. "Here, I'm gonna crouch down, and you climb up on my shoulders. And then you gotta flash your tits to the crowd."
"What? No!"
"C'mon, Anne! This crowd is jonesing for action. All we gotta do is channel that energy the right way, get them cheering, and maybe we can get the band to come back on stage for an encore."
"First of all," I said, "there's no way you're going to be able to hold me. I probably weigh like thirty pounds more than you do. And secondly, how is showing my boobs supposed to help anything? It's mostly a bunch of women in here, you know."
"Anne, everybody likes tits! Even uptight bitches like these."
The passive-aggressive Amazon scowled over at us.
"Well, maybe not everybody," Becca said. She pursed her lips, thinking, and then smiled again. "Here, I got another idea. Come closer."
Before I could reply, she'd grabbed hold of my shoulder with one hand, and the barrier with the other. Using me as a brace, she got her feet on top of the barrier. For a moment she crouched there like an awkward cat on a narrow fence, and then—with one hand digging into my shoulder—she raised up into a half crouch, her feet and legs wobbling like crazy.
"Oh, crap." I said, trying to brace her legs.
Becca looked back at the crowd behind us, her eyes wide and wild. "YEAHHHH!" she screamed. "YEAHHHH, BELLETRISTS!"
A few voices in the crowd responded—mostly men, cheering and yelling. The bouncer we'd met before—Kevin—rolled his eyes and started coming our way.
"BELLETRISTS!" Becca screamed again. "BELLETRISTS!"
A half a dozen voices cheered, a few of them yelling "Belletrists" too.
Kevin was almost on us, his hands reaching up to catch hold of Becca. She glanced back at him, and then she leapt forward onto the crowd. Her crotch caught me in the face, the impact nearly knocking me over, but the Amazons were pressed so tightly around me that I didn't have the space to fall.
"BELL-LUH-TRISTS!" Becca screamed, crawling over people's heads and shoulders, moving away from Kevin and trying to stay up above the crowd. "BELL-LUH-TRISTS! BELL-LUH-TRISTS! BELL-LUH-TRISTS!"
Except for me and the women who were supporting the bulk of her squirming body, plenty of other people nearby took up the chant, joining their voices to hers.
"BELL-LUH-TRISTS! BELL-LUH-TRISTS! BELL-LUH-TRISTS!"
A couple of seconds later, the crowd parted and Becca plunged down through the gap, disappearing from sight. But even after she'd disappeared, the chant continued, growing louder as more people took it up.
Kevin shook his head. He turned and walk back to his previous position, directly in front of Trace's mike stand.
And the crowd kept getting louder.
And louder.
And louder.
It's like it was feeding on its own energy, growing stronger with every repetition of the chant. All around me, people started going crazy. They held their arms overhead, their fists pumping the air. Within minutes, hundreds of voices had taken up the chant, shouting in unison until the very air seemed to pulse.
"BELL-LUH-TRISTS! BELL-LUH-TRISTS! BELL-LUH-TRISTS!"
One of the Amazons yelped and jumped sideways, and then Becca popped up next to me, like a groundhog jumping out of its burrow.
"Check it out!" she said, holding her hands in front of her, palms up. "I found a half a pack of gum, an unopened condom, and like three dollars in change." She picked up the foil packet, scrutinizing it. "Look, it doesn't expire for two more years. Still good!"
All around us, the crowd was reaching fever pitch, louder than a hurricane. I looked at Becca, feeling almost speechless.
"What?" she said.
"This is incredible. You got the whole crowd going, just like you said you would."
"Well, yeah. I told you they were all hot and bothered, didn't I."
"You did, but I guess I didn't really believe you."
"Well you oughta start believing me, Anne!" She punched my shoulder. "Hey, listen. When the band asks us to come back to the hotel with them, you can have Trace, but I got dibs on the drummer. Okay? The guy's a total beast! Like, manimal style, am-I-right! You know he's gonna be wild in the sack."
For a moment the thought of Ronnie flashed into my head, and how upset he might be if he found out that Becca went home with the band after he'd been the one to get her in the show. But, honestly, the thought only lasted a second, and then it was swept away by the excitement I felt at the prospect of Becca's newest prediction coming true.
"You really think they're gonna ask us? Really?"
"What did I just tell you!" She punched me again. "Everybody knows all these rock bands are into groupies. It's, like, the main reason people get into bands in the first place." Her face went thoughtful again. "Speaking of which, here, take this." She stuffed the condom down the front of my top, the foil cold against the side of my boob. "You can have that one. I've already got a couple."
"Eww, gross!" My hands went to my bra, trying to pull the condom out.
"Relax! It's brand new, not dirty or anything. I checked it out."
I had the condom pinched in my fingers, trying to touch it as little as possible.
"You don't know who's it is! You don't know where it's been!"
"Relax! Relax already! Here, if you don't want it I'll trade you." She pulled a few foil packets out of her own bra, looking at them under the dim light. "What kind do you want? I got a French tickler, or this one is crème-brulee flavored. This one's ribbed. This one's colored black, if you wanna go with the Goth theme, though it might look kind of weird on Trace's schlong since he's so pasty white." Her eyes went distant, as if she was seeing the image in her mind. "Dunno. Could be hot."
"Geez, Becca. How many condoms did you think you were gonna need?"
"Well, you can never be too prepared. Ah, this is the one for you! Durex Ultra Thin, with extra lube. It's the perfect condom for getting your cherry popped. Here, on second thought, you better take two. If you're too sore the first time, take a break, have a drink, maybe get him to lick your pussy or something, and try again."
"Becca!"
"What? Don't think he's a muff diver? Maybe you're right, but I heard all these singers are sort of orally inclined."
My face blazed with embarrassment, but I couldn't think of anything to say. I reached out and took the condoms.
"Attagirl, Anne. Listen to your dear friend Becca. Tonight is gonna be a nigh
t you never forget. You're about to bang Trace LeBeau!"
And even though I knew it was crazy, I was starting to believe her.
Chapter 16
Trace
Sara's eyes were squeezed shut, and another tear came slipping down her cheek. But a moment later she pulled in a deep breath, and let it out. She opened her big eyes and looked up at me.
Behind me, the door to the hallway burst open, and Sergio's cousin Angel came in.
"Are you guys all right?" he said. "It's getting pretty crazy out there."
Coming in through the open door, we heard it. Hundreds of voices joined together as one, screaming at the top of their lungs from the concert hall.
"BELL-LUH-TRISTS! BELL-LUH-TRISTS! BELL-LUH-TRISTS!"
"If you guys don't get back out there," Angel said, "that crowd might tear this whole place apart!"
I looked from Angel to Sergio, over to Micah and then back to Joey. I could see the energy building in them, the excitement. And despite the pills, I felt it too, flaring deep within me.
But when I looked back at Sara, I saw hesitation.
"If you don't want to go back up there, we won't," I said.
She pressed her lips to a thin line, shaking her head back and forth. "I don't want to be the one to keep the band from playing. Bernstein's right—Lucy wouldn't have wanted that. But it's just…"
I watched her blue eyes, and suddenly I thought I understood.
"How about if we don't play any more of the new stuff tonight. Let's just give them what they want, finish off with the rest of our hits."
A look of relief came into her eyes, and she nodded.
"Okay," she said. "Let's do it."
"Right on!" Joey shouted, smacking me on the back.
And when I looked back at Bernstein, I thought I saw a hint of relief in his face, too.
-
Back in the hallway, as we made our way to the stage, Joey pulled me to the side.
"You've got your girl, right?" he said.
"What?"
"Your girl. You've got your girl. Before we got in the limo, you promised me that you'd keep your eyes open, see if any girls looked interested in coming back to the hotel with you."