Beckett’s delight as he discovered or rediscovered albums was completely endearing. I couldn’t help smiling as he piled record after record into my arms. He made a final selection, Songs of Leonard Cohen. “That’s a decent start.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to buy these digitally so I can listen to them now?”
He stared at me in horror, like I’d just dropped the f-bomb in a church. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. I can put some stuff on your iPod as a temporary fix, but trust me, it is not the same thing.”
We went to the register. I was giddy about using my shiny new credit card for the first time but didn’t want to seem any less cool than I already did.
The clerk kept darting glances at Beckett, clearly working up the nerve to ask him something. He rang me up, then handed me a plastic bag containing my very first album purchases. I have to say, it was pretty thrilling to buy music and be able to hold it in my hands.
“So I have some posters in back,” the clerk said to Beckett. “Your label sent them. Would you be willing to sign them?”
“Sure, no problem,” Beckett said.
The clerk disappeared to get the posters. He brought them out and laid them in front of us. Beckett glanced down, pen in hand. “Sorry, man, I can’t sign these.” I looked and saw that they were from Melbourne’s last tour. “Hollis isn’t our singer anymore. She is.” Beckett jutted his chin in my direction.
They both looked at me. “Oh no, it’s okay. They’re kind of vintage in a way, right? I don’t mind,” I said.
“Yeah, well, you should,” Beckett said.
“He’s right. I didn’t think about it.” Embarrassed, the clerk packed up the offending posters and shoved them under the counter.
Beckett took a business card off the counter and slipped it into his pocket. “We’ll send you some from this tour. Thanks for understanding.”
I smiled and did my best not to melt into a puddle. For the first time I felt like an actual member of Melbourne.
—
We hurried back to the club for sound check and then stopped by catering. The crew and venue employees were already eating at large round tables in the center of the room. We grabbed plates and inspected all the food warmers lined up on banquet tables against the wall.
Rather than risk a full meal, I filled a plate with fruit and cold cuts. No need to tempt fate. “Someone’s learning,” Pem said.
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” I replied.
Malcolm spoke midchew. “Hey, Rob needs you. Your mom called about getting someone into the meet and greet.”
“Seriously? She’s out of control.” I realized I’d forgotten to call my parents back. Going over my head was so like her. I hadn’t taken a bite but scraped my plate into the trash.
“It’s not a problem,” Rob said when I got to him. “You have room on the band list.”
“That’s great, but if she calls you again, ignore it.”
“I can’t disrespect your mom.”
I was getting the sense that Rob was kind of a Boy Scout. Honestly, he didn’t look like he minded taking my mother’s call, but I’d given her his number strictly for emergencies. If you gave that woman any foothold whatsoever, it wouldn’t be long before she ran your life.
The meet and greet was much the same as last night except this time I was surrounded by my parents’ middle-aged friends and their squawking kids. When they were no longer entertained by my vomiting story, I had to interrupt my bandmates to make them sign numerous articles of clothing and show posters the kids had probably torn off a wall somewhere. I felt guilty that my parents’ friends had hijacked actual fans’ time with the band.
When we got to the stage wings, I noticed that the white curtain—the one that hid us from the audience until into the first song—wasn’t up.
I turned to Pem. “Where’s the curtain?”
He exhaled sharply. “What?”
“She’s talking about the kabuki drop,” Beckett said.
Pem gave me one of his impatient looks that were becoming oh so familiar to me. “That was just for the press set. And we did it the first night for a little drama. Since it was there.”
“The kabuki drop was a reference to our last tour when we played arenas. It would be overkill in the venue sizes we’re doing on this run,” Beckett whispered. Fantastic. More evidence of how Melbourne was suffering the loss of Hollis, plus I’d used those last few moments of being hidden to get psyched up. Now what was I going to do?
We took the stage while I scrambled to find another way into the performance. I hated curveballs. Malcolm started the first song. I didn’t miss my cue, but I was mesmerized by the sea of people swaying to the beat, and not in a good way.
The 9:30 Club was general admission only, which made the audience look like one giant, amoebic mass. I still spotted my parents’ friends because there weren’t many little kids. That brought on a fresh wave of annoyance at my mother, which I used to drive my performance. I was scared to go for the same intensity as last night, but I didn’t want my delivery to feel flat or safe either. It turned out being a little aggravated at your mother could be energizing.
When it was time for our encore, I thought I caught a grudging look of respect on Pem’s face. I hadn’t spazzed out and didn’t have to run offstage and puke my brains out. I did throw up, but at least I made it through the encore this time. Maybe that counted as progress.
I wasn’t the first in the shower, but I didn’t move from the bathroom door until it was my turn. I made it in third or fourth. Not nearly as revolting as being last.
I’d left my clean clothes in the room where I’d napped, so of course when I walked out of the bathroom in my towel, Beckett was standing there. Everything was covered, but he pointedly kept his eyes on my face, which almost made me squirmier.
“If you want food, we’re going now. Bus call’s early tonight.”
I got into my jeans and tank top, dried my hair into what I hoped was a casual, messy do, and put on some lip gloss.
—
We made it back just before bus call. Beckett and I stopped and signed for people waiting. He asked if everyone had had a good time and laughed easily with some of them. By the end, he had a pile of gifts twice as big as mine. “What do you do with all that stuff?” I asked.
“Keep it. Except for the food. It’s like trick-or-treating. Has to be factory-sealed and nonperishable.”
I made a mental note to throw away the homemade cookies I got yesterday. I think they were for Pem anyway. “But you keep everything else? The photos? The clothes? The…ceramics?”
Beckett smiled. “Especially the ceramics. Just sentimental, I guess.”
Mandy was already in her pj’s, but she and Rob huddled over a computer in the back lounge, going over the next day’s schedule for Nashville. “No, they can’t do that then. Gray Matter has a sound check. Take that out.” Rob pointed at the screen while Mandy typed. “Great. Print it.” He nodded at me, then disappeared into the front.
Mandy was clearly fried. “That’ll teach me to try and have fun during the day.”
“What’d you do?” I asked. She was already gone by the time we’d left for record shopping.
“Took a Segway tour with Oscar and Winston. We saw the Lincoln Memorial, the World War Two Memorial, and the Washington Monument.”
“Sounds like a sixth-grade field trip.”
“Totally. I even rode the Metro.”
Beckett opened the door with my iPod in his hand. “Here you go,” he said. I reached for it, but he pulled it back out of my grasp. “Remember what I said?” I laughed and nodded. “This does not replace listening to your records.”
He slid toward me on the table. He’d added all the albums I’d bought that day along with a bunch of other ones.
Mandy was staring at me. “I need to, um, ask Rob a question. Be back…later.”
“It was so nice of you to do this,” I said as the doors closed behind her.
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“My pleasure. I know no one’s said it yet, but you’re doing a good job. And you’re only going to get better,” Beckett said.
My shoulders dropped as tension left my body. I didn’t care if he was throwing me a bone; I’d been desperate for any kind of feedback. “Thank you.”
“I don’t understand ‘Parietals,’ though. It’s not outside your range. I’ve heard you hit higher notes when you’re just messing around.”
“Yeah? Maybe it’s a fluke.” I thought it best to leave it there.
“Are you feeling at home on the bus? With the crew and everything?”
“Definitely. Everyone’s really cool.” Beckett tilted his head, so I added, “Dave’s so interesting. What great stories.”
He smirked. “Who knows what he tells other bands about us?” What was there to tell? Aside from Malcolm, everyone seemed pretty PG. But maybe that hadn’t always been the case. “So do you have a boyfriend?” Beckett asked.
I blinked. Where did that come from? And then I remembered. “I’m not saying. How big’s the pool, anyway?”
He grinned. “Big.”
“Bet on Pem,” I said.
“Really?” Beckett persisted. “Talented, pretty girl like you? No boyfriend?”
“Believe it,” I said. “I learned my lesson the hard way. I once liked a guy and it ended in disaster.” I smiled and Beckett laughed. Too bad I wasn’t kidding.
9
“Keep it down!” someone hissed from one of the bunks.
I bent down to see what it was I’d just tripped over in the aisle. Again. It was a pair of large sneakers. Why were boys such slobs? Rob insisted that keeping the bus temperature at minus-ten degrees prevented germs from spreading. Even with a hoodie and Uggs, my thighs broke out in goose bumps.
Through the tinted windows, the morning looked bright and clear. “I want to cover more ground while there’s no traffic. You don’t have to stop, do you?” Dave asked.
“No way, man. I’m a pro.” I was glad I hadn’t had to make any embarrassing requests yet.
I filled a bowl with bottled water and popped it in the microwave. Seemed like I’d be eating a lot of oatmeal this summer. I rifled through the cabinet but didn’t see my oatmeal anywhere. The shelves were stuffed with packets of turkey jerky, cups of instant ramen noodles, and tubes of what looked to be Asian gummy candies.
The lower cabinets housed chips, crackers, and cereal. I pulled out a box of Lucky Charms. I probably hadn’t eaten them since I was twelve, but whatever, I was hungry. Malcolm was scrawled across it in black Sharpie. He wouldn’t miss one bowl, I reasoned, though knowing him he probably weighed the box after each meal. I pulled out a carton of milk, which Malcolm had also labeled. Apparently when you live on a bus with ten other people, you write your name on everything.
The bowl went down so quickly that I poured another. I got rid of the evidence, washing my bowl and spoon and hiding the empty milk carton under other recycling.
After watching Real Housewives for two hours, I was still the only one awake. I was officially bored enough to call my parents.
“Honey! How are the shows going?” my mother asked. “I’ve been so busy at the store, but Sharon Stanslow said that her kids adored the show. She said to thank you again for introducing them to all the guys at the meet and greet.”
“About that. Don’t call Rob for those things. Call me.”
“Well, honey, you’re so busy—”
“Rob’s even busier, I promise.”
I felt my mother’s sigh through the phone. “Fine. We don’t have friends in Nashville or Charlotte.” She knew my tour itinerary better than I did.
“How is that possible?” I put a hand to the back of my head. The bump from cracking it on my bunk ceiling this morning had swollen up into a hard little egg.
“Girl, did you eat my Lucky Charms?” Malcolm had stumbled out into the lounge, rubbing his eyes, wearing pajama pants and no shirt. He glared at me with wild disbelief.
Crap. I’d left the box out. “Gotta go, Mom.” I hung up and tried not to stare at Malcolm’s abs. “Someone ate my oatmeal.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck. I wrote my name on that shit.” He slammed the cabinet shut.
I couldn’t tell if he was serious. “Sorry. I’ll replace your milk—”
“You drank it all?” I nodded. “Unreal. Do you know nothing about bus etiquette?”
“I thought we might be sharers, but it’s cool. I can see that we’re not.”
“Don’t eat stuff that doesn’t have your name on it! And don’t open your curtain when you get up at some ungodly hour!”
I nodded, even though I wanted to ask how I was supposed to get out of my bunk without sliding the curtain. As I watched him shovel dry Lucky Charms into his mouth looking pouty and disgruntled, I actually did feel kind of bad.
Beckett came in wearing sweats and a T-shirt. He looked adorably rumpled, his green eyes bleary and unfocused. Even thought he was fully clothed, it was weirdly intimate to see him just waking up.
He grunted at me. “Where’s that oatmeal?” he asked Malcolm. Was nobody on this bus a morning person?
“I ate it all,” Malcolm said
“You are such a hypocrite!” I cried.
“It didn’t have your name on it!” Malcolm shouted.
“If it doesn’t have a name, it’s fair game,” Beckett said.
“I get it! Okay?” These two knew how to belabor a point. Beckett peeled a couple of hard-boiled eggs and plopped them into a cup of ramen noodles. “That’s your breakfast?” I asked incredulously.
“I like to start the day off with some protein. What?” he asked, catching my horrified look. “This isn’t that far off from a traditional Chinese breakfast.”
Malcolm nodded. “Throw some dried fish and some pork in there and I might even eat it.” I must have shuddered, because they both shot me chiding looks. “Wake up, Dorothy. You’re not in Kansas anymore.”
I didn’t bother to argue. Who knew my unsophistication would show up even over breakfast choices? “Can’t wait to try,” I said. Beckett held out his Styrofoam cup, offering. I shook my head. “I’ll wait for the real thing.” Baby steps.
“Now, what have we learned today?” Malcolm asked, looking a bit less grouchy now that he’d eaten.
“The bus hasn’t even parked yet. Kind of early for lessons,” Beckett said.
“She’s starting out behind the eight ball,” Malcolm said. “We all know how not to piss each other off.”
“Yeah, sometimes that knowledge is wasted, but fair point. What have you got?” Beckett asked. They looked at me expectantly.
“One, learn how to apparate so I don’t have to open the bunk curtain. Two, don’t trip even if people leave their size-twenty-five shoes in the middle of the aisle. And three, don’t eat things that don’t have my name on them,” I recited.
Beckett gave me a thumbs-up. “Except, did you just make up a word?”
“Apparate. It’s from Harry Potter, which means it’s an official part of the English language,” I said. “Look it up.”
“Good God,” Malcolm muttered.
10
When we arrived in Nashville, Rob asked Mandy to help with some administrative jobs, and no one else wanted to sightsee. Eventually Beckett caved and agreed to go with me. “Let’s go to 12 South,” he said. “It’s a little taste of Brooklyn below the Mason-Dixon Line.”
People stared at us as we walked down the few blocks that made up the neighborhood. At first I thought they recognized Beckett, but then I realized it was how he was dressed—flat-billed Yankees cap, low-slung jeans, and crazy-bright sneakers. He was also really tall. Next to him I felt like a walking Gap sales rack.
We stopped into a coffeehouse that looked like a converted bungalow and got drinks to go. Two things stood out about the people: abundant facial hair and thick, nerdy glasses. Where I was from, not many people rocked this look, which also featured some kind of plaid shirt and e
xpensive denim. I referred to it as “hickster chic.” We poked around a vintage clothing shop and smelled really expensive candles at a store that sold both housewares and jeans. A couple there told the shopkeeper that they’d done an apartment swap for the summer with their place in Brooklyn. Beckett gave me a conspiratorial grin. “See?”
He stopped in front of a hair salon. “Can we go in here? I need some stuff.”
The reception staff promptly fawned all over him. One of the girls said she was going to the show tonight and was so excited to tell her girlfriends that Beckett Moore had stopped into the salon. He assured everyone he’d be hanging out after the show. I’m not going to lie: it was nauseating.
He then proceeded to pick out an unreal number of hair products. I’m not talking just shampoo and conditioner. There was gel, wax, grooming cream—stuff I’d never purchased and had no idea how to use.
Beckett signed a few autographs and posed for pictures, and we left. The girls stood in the doorway, beaming and tapping on their phones as we made our way down the sidewalk. “So are we not going to talk about what just happened?” I asked.
His brow furrowed. “Fans? That stuff happens. It’s going to happen to you soon enough.”
“Not that. I’m talking about the absurd amount of product you just bought.”
Beckett smiled, looking embarrassed. “It’s a long tour. And Pem steals my stuff.” He rambled off some other defensive-sounding reasons and I started laughing. “All right, just wait until we go someplace with weird water. Don’t come begging,” he said.
“You just don’t strike me as the fussy type.”
“Yeah, well, it sounds bad when you say it like that. But this doesn’t happen by accident.” He took off his hat and ran his hands through his perfectly piecey dark hair.
“I know. I saw you this morning.”
Beckett gave me a playful shove, which made me laugh harder.
We crossed the street and went into Burger Up. It was all glass, steel-gray beams, and wood. We were on the early side for lunch, but all the tables were taken. Rather than wait, we took seats across from each other at the communal table. At least having other people at the table kept it from feeling like a date.
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