For the Record

by Charlotte Huang

  “Thank you for this opportunity!” Mandy was saying to Sam. “You won’t regret it. Oops, that one’s mine!” She hurried to the baggage carousel. “I’m waiting for two more,” she said when she rejoined us.

  Sam glanced at me, and I knew I’d probably screwed up by not telling Mandy about the limited storage space on the bus. Honestly, it hadn’t occurred to me that selling merch might require a full wardrobe. She only ever wore T-shirts and jeans at home, so I had no idea what could be in those suitcases.

  Once Mandy had all her bags, Sam shepherded us out of the airport and into an SUV that idled by the sidewalk. “This is Nadine. She’s a runner for the venue. If you need anything while you’re there, you can ask her.”

  Nadine smiled at us in her rearview mirror.

  “Are we going right to the venue?” I asked. Downtime normally made me feel antsy, but right now I was extra anxious to get to work, where my role was clearly defined. Otherwise, it was too easy to feel like a trespasser.

  “We don’t rehearse until three. I thought we’d get lunch, check in to the hotel.” Sam looked down at his phone, tapping away.

  “Is everyone else here already?”

  “Yup.” Of course. I tried to squelch the fluttery feeling in my chest. I might not have been their first choice, but the record label wanted me here, I reminded myself.

  We pulled up to the Hyatt, a brick building with red awnings on the lower windows. Mandy grabbed my arm. “This is so exciting! Maybe Nadine can take us out after rehearsal. Pittsburgh isn’t as ugly as I thought.”

  Being from the outskirts of Detroit, I never badmouthed other cities. “We don’t have to be all prima donna about it. I’m sure there are buses.”

  Mandy turned to look at me, serious as a heart attack. She placed both hands on my shoulders. “You’re allowed to ask Nadine for a ride. This tour would not be happening without you.”

  I nodded, hoping for her sake that she knew the difference between me asking and her asking.

  Our room wasn’t ready, so Sam sent us into the restaurant. We waited at a table set for twelve. “Who else is coming?” Mandy whispered.

  I shrugged. I combed my hands through my hair, wishing I’d had time to put on lip gloss or at least check a mirror. But I didn’t want to look like I was trying to impress anybody.

  The band arrived ahead of Sam. While they made their way to our table, my heart stopped beating for a couple of seconds, as it always did when I first saw them. Live. In person.

  We murmured hellos and introductions. They were all wearing a variation of the same uniform: jeans, sneakers, T-shirt. Only Pem deviated slightly. Over his T-shirt, he wore a baseball jacket with cream-colored leather sleeves and metal studs covering the chest and back. That thing had to be heavy.

  Under the table, Mandy squeezed my thigh so hard that I was sure I made some really bitchy face. Yup, they were still gorgeous. That much hadn’t changed.

  The restaurant wasn’t packed, and people started to look over. While Mandy and I had gotten no attention from the waitstaff during the entire fifteen minutes we’d been sitting there, they now started to approach. At least it saved me from having to make forced conversation with the guys. I still felt awkward around them, and Mandy hadn’t closed her mouth since they showed up.

  Beckett took the seat next to me and tossed his phone onto the table beside his plate. Pem and Malcolm sat down on the other side of him. “We’ll wait for the rest of our party,” Pem said. The waitstaff scattered like bugs.

  It was hard to believe Pem was only twenty. He had that innate confidence that bordered on arrogance. His full name was Pemberton Fuller III. My parents had been blown away when he confirmed that it was his grandfather’s name on the door of some old Wall Street law firm. I wondered what Granddaddy thought about Pem’s rock god status, not to mention his spiky blond hair and tattoos.

  More guys came in and joined the table, a parade of long hair, flat-brimmed hats, and piercings. Nobody looked like this in Lydon. These guys looked like exotic and possibly dangerous creatures. One of them, the only clean-cut member of the group, summoned a waiter. “Could I have a menu, please?”

  Pem gave him a dark look. “We’re waiting for everyone. This is the official launch of the Business of Music Tour.”

  How did I not know that the tour had a name? Seemed like kind of a bland one, if you asked me. Which, of course, nobody had.

  The waiter brought the menu, and Mr. Clean-Cut held him there with a light hand on his arm. “I know how you like your luncheons, Pem, but the truck’s here. I have to make sure they don’t fuck everything up.” He turned his gaze on me. “Chelsea, it’s great to meet you. I’m Rob, tour manager.” Since we were too far apart to shake hands, we waved.

  As Rob ordered, Beckett leaned toward me. “He’s Malcolm’s cousin, which is why he got the job. First two tours were a little rough, but by now he knows his stuff.”

  I nodded, hating that I felt so appreciative at being let in on the smallest bit of inside information.

  When Sam finally joined us, I relaxed a little. He was the only person here whose job description included being nice to me. Or at least civil. More menus were passed around, and we went through the rest of the introductions. The band and crew had already been together for a few tours, so the introductions were for Mandy and me.

  Remembering names on the first try wasn’t easy, but I was determined to get on good terms with everyone on the Business of Music Tour.

  We had:

  Reserved Rob: tour manager. He did look a lot like Malcolm now that I took a better look. Kind of like how Malcolm would look if he ever had to shave his head and join the Army.

  Air-Drum Aaron: drum tech. Tall, with broad shoulders and lank blond hair. Constantly drumming on things.

  Weight Watcher Winston: guitar and bass tech. I wasn’t in a position to throw stones, but he was on the heavier side.

  Krazy-Eyed Kam: monitor guy. His gaze never focused, instead darting around the room to take in everything.

  Jocular Jared: sound guy. Seemed like a really happy person with an easy, ever-present smile.

  Opulent Oscar: lighting guy. Not many guys can pull off earrings and a chain without looking like a wannabe thug.

  We got to Mandy. “I’m Mandy. I’m going to be your merch girl.”

  Malcolm guffawed. “Merch Mandy!” A couple of the guys cracked up. I looked up, startled, like he’d read my mind and heard all my nicknames. Seriously, I had to stop being such a spaz.

  “You’re an idiot,” Rob told Malcolm matter-of-factly.

  “Get it? Merch Mandy? Like Merch Man except Merch Mandy?” Malcolm slumped in his seat, fully amused with himself.

  Mandy’s body language relaxed as soon as she was sure the laughing wasn’t about her specifically. “I love it! Totally. Call me Merch Mandy. As in, I’m gonna merch the hell out of the Business of Music Tour.”

  Malcolm jabbed a finger in her direction. “Acceptable. She’s in.”

  Okay, that was more than any of them had ever said about me. I tried not to fume while we ordered.

  When our lunches arrived, the boys started shoveling food into their mouths. A low hum enveloped the table as the conversation splintered into smaller chats. “So. Overwhelmed yet? Ready to catch the first flight back to Michigan?” Poor Beckett was probably trying to make conversation, but he caught me at what I’d admit was an unbecoming moment.

  “Wouldn’t you just love that?” I muttered. “Then you could all be right about me.” As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t. If my Never Let ’Em See Me Sweat game plan fell apart this early, I was in a mess of trouble.

  Beckett held up his hands in surrender. “I’m going to take that as a yes.”

  I gave a tight nod before looking up to see that he was grinning at me. I was taken aback; Beckett was the least expressive member of Melbourne. He was calm, steady, and reasonable, but the flip side was that he came off a little cold at times. Too bad. He should grin more
often, because when he did, it was really something. I couldn’t help smiling back.

  Sam clinked his water glass with a spoon, right as Rob and some of the crew guys stood up to leave. “Hang on, hang on, I want to make a toast,” Sam said.

  Rob checked his watch (not even a retro, ironic one) and heaved a dramatic sigh.

  “Just wanted to wish everyone a kick-ass tour,” Sam said.

  Calls of “Hear, hear” resounded around the table.

  “Even though tour doesn’t officially start until the day after tomorrow, I don’t know if we’ll get the chance to do this again. We’re kind of a blended family here, and it might be tempting to give in to old feelings of loyalty or whatever. We all miss Hollis, but we should be—”

  “Sam gets a little effusive. He’s very emotional when we start tours. Just be glad he’s not drunk,” Beckett whispered so only I could hear.

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Beckett’s joking around took the sting out of what was devolving into a Hollis Carter praise-fest. I mean, she left them stranded. Should they really have been this weepy? “I think his point is that we’re glad the bitch is gone, right?”

  Beckett snorted.

  Pem stared into his water glass, his mouth set into a thin line and his jaw tight. I guess I wasn’t the only one who was uptight about tour starting.

  5

  Mandy practically bounced the whole way over to Stage AE, high on all that handsome testosterone and exhilarated by her successful initiation. Personally, I was wilting from the heat and humidity and cranky from feeling upstaged by Mandy. The forecast called for thunderstorms. I hoped they wouldn’t screw up our first show. And that they weren’t a terrible omen.

  We approached the back entrance to the venue, an industrial-looking building with a modern front and a wrought-iron fence around the perimeter. A few ratty guys were smoking inside the parking lot gate and barely flicked their eyes to us as we walked into the building and into complete chaos. There were crates of all sizes strewn about, random boxes stuffed with cords, black plastic cases in all different shapes, monitors, amplifiers, lighting rigs, waste bins, clothing racks—everything needed to make a show happen.

  I approached a bald guy with a beer belly. “Hi. Could you please direct me to the stage?”

  He gave an exasperated sigh. “You supposed to be up there? I don’t see no credentials.” He reached for a clipboard and flipped through printed sheets. “You are in”—he consulted the clipboard again—“Kill for Sport?”

  Ew, was that an actual band name? “Uh, no. I’m in Melbourne.”

  “Yeah, I see them on here now.” He gave me another once-over. “Don’t mess with me. You’re a groupie, right?”

  “She’s the new lead singer,” Mandy interjected.

  “I’d be happy to show you my license, passport, whatever—” I heard cackling and whipped around to see Malcolm and Rob crouched behind a pillar. What the hell? “Can you guys tell him who I am?”

  “And so it begins,” Rob said, still cracking up.

  “What are you talking about?” I whirled back to Beer Belly and was startled to see him grinning.

  “Oh, man. So funny! ‘Tell them who I am!’ Damn, girl, you wasted no time gettin’ your diva on!” Malcolm high-fived Rob and left before I could respond.

  “I wasn’t saying it like that,” I muttered. Jerks.

  “Chill out. Gotta prank the newbie.” Rob slung a friendly arm around my shoulders before turning to Mandy. “Merch Mandy. Report to the production office, down that hall. Prepare for a crash course in merch management.”

  Rob led me through a labyrinth of carpeted hallways to one of the stage wings. I barely had time to register the details (dark, small, cluttered) before I found myself on a fully lit stage. I sucked in a breath. I so wasn’t ready for this.

  Malcolm settled in behind his drums, which were high up on a riser. He adjusted his drum kit, pulling his stool in closer, hitting the toms and cymbals. He stomped down on the bass drum pedal over and over again—boom, boom, boom. “Aaron!” he yelled.

  Air-Drum Aaron hurried out to confer. Malcolm erupted in a fit of swearing.

  Pem and Beckett huddled over a piece of paper, bass and guitar strapped over their respective shoulders. My hands went prickly and numb. I felt the same way I had when one of the producers of American Pop Star told me how many people would be watching our one live broadcast. At least this time no one would be sitting around trying to think up the meanest thing they could say. I mean, ideally. I shook my hands out and silently recited my mantra, which was the set list Pem had emailed to everyone last week. I’d memorized it in a fit of nerves.

  “The rain thing sucks. I really wanted to play outside,” Pem said.

  I tried not to hyperventilate while he and Beckett discussed logistics. Finally Pem turned to me. “The arrangements are the same as what we did for the showcases, but we’re changing the set list. We’ll run through it in a minute.”

  Of course. I plopped down onto the stage and wished for a paper bag to breathe into. “Is that a problem?” Beckett asked. “We got new data about our single and need to move stuff around.”

  “So you’re not just being random and cruel? Can I see it?”

  “When we’re done,” Pem said.

  I dangled my legs over the edge of the stage. One of the judges on American Pop Star told us to envision singing to a packed house before each show. “Seeing is believing,” she’d said, “even if you’re only seeing it in your mind.” I used this tip all the time.

  I pictured myself singing and dancing, connecting with the crowd that would be here in two nights. I closed my eyes and imagined them singing with me. I slowed my breath and tried to feel everything—the noise, heat, the words coming out of my mouth.

  My visualization was rudely interrupted. “You should warm up. We’re going to do this for real.” Pem looked like he wished he didn’t have to spell these things out for me. I scrambled to my feet before he could start micromanaging my vocal exercises.

  I found an empty dressing room, locked the door, and started singing scales. The acoustics were actually awesome. Then I tried a couple of bars of “Parietals.” My voice strained on the higher notes. I tried again but didn’t sound any better. I’d wanted them to cut it from the show, but it was their first big hit. Everyone agreed that they’d grown as a band and moved beyond songs about hooking up in boarding school dorm rooms, but we still had to play it.

  There was a frantic knock on the door. “They want to start,” Rob said when I opened it.

  Everyone was ready to go. They watched me walk to the front of the stage. I adjusted the mike stand, my back turned to them. Suddenly, I felt hands on my shoulders, pinching and releasing. It was like being attacked by a lobster. “Same thing as the showcases. You can do it.” Pem punctuated his pep talk with a slap on my back. I smiled and hoped they couldn’t tell that I was barely holding it together.

  Behind me, Malcolm banged his sticks, starting up the first song. Thankfully it wasn’t “Parietals.”

  —

  The next morning, I got to the venue at eight for a wardrobe fitting feeling like I could have used another ten hours of sleep. Mandy was still out cold when I left.

  Rob had killed her high spirits with his extreme paranoia and anal-retentiveness. “He said, ‘Malcolm is the money guy and will rip you a new one if you’re so much as one T-shirt off.’ ” Mandy mimicked Rob’s clipped, rapid speech. “ ‘You got hired because you’re in the family. You’d never steal money out of Chelsea’s pocket, am I right? We never let people who are not family touch our money.’ I mean, for God’s sake, it’s basic math.”

  Melbourne wasn’t the type of band to do costume changes, but we each had a few outfits on rotation. The guys had jeans with either T-shirts or button-downs. Stylish but not fussy. I had a couple of dresses with fitted tops and swingy skirts, a bunch of things I could mix and match, like shorts, tuxedo-striped leggings, and some shirts, and one ver
y questionable studded denim vest.

  The woman fitting me now said, “You should wear this today. With shorts. You have great legs and amazing boobs. Sometimes, when a girl with your shape does the T-shirt and jeans look, she looks like a basketball wearing a tent.” I watched myself redden in the mirror. “This is much better. Don’t you guys think?” She spun me around to face Beckett and Pem. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

  Pem glanced over. “Yeah, cool. Get the boobs out. Half our fans think we sold out already anyway.”

  Beckett shrugged and went back to putting on his belt. “Hollis never had to get all done like that.”

  “Hollis had that dreamy, ethereal thing going for her. Chelsea’s a brick house.”

  “Thanks!” I snapped. I hopped off the tiny box I’d been standing on. “You know what? I think I will wear this.” I stomped into the hallway.

  “He meant that as a compliment,” Beckett called after me.

  I’d probably live to regret, it but right then I didn’t care. I may have had no idea what I was doing, but at least I’d look like a badass.

  Sam had hired a woman to do my makeup and hair for press day. I watched her closely and asked lots of questions. “So if I wanted to put false eyelashes on by myself…”

  “Oh, honey,” she said. “This is strictly for the professionals. Don’t try it on your own.”

  That was unfortunate. My eyes looked bluer and more luminous than normal. I tried to stop staring at my reflection like a total narcissist. But I liked what I saw. Physical transformation felt like an important part of preparing, like putting on armor. “Can we do a smoky eye? And maybe straighten my hair?”

  After another hour, I was finally ready to go.

  We took our places onstage. The guys looked at me. I waited. I didn’t expect a compliment necessarily, but maybe some glimmer of appreciation. “That stuff’s going to melt off as soon as you break a sweat,” Pem said. “It’s going to look like a septic tank exploded on your face. This is a rock stage, not a catwalk.” I sighed.