For the Record

by Charlotte Huang

  I opened the menu. Beckett didn’t even look at his. “The lamb burger is the best thing.”

  “Really? Can’t say I’ve ever tried one.”

  “Probably not too many places serve them where you come from.”

  I sighed. “Detroit isn’t exactly the sticks. Anthony Bourdain did a show there.”

  “Sorry.” He tried (and failed) to suppress a laugh. “Didn’t mean to offend. New Yorkers can be, well, New York–centric. So do you get to Detroit a lot, then? You’re about an hour outside?”

  Closer to an hour and a half. And if I managed to get into the city a few times a year, that was a major achievement. “I go in enough. It’s easier now that I have friends who have cars.” Well, a friend who has a car.

  “I need to do that soon. If I ever leave New York, I’ll be stranded. Unless I move to Paris or something.”

  “Do what, now?” I gave him a perplexed look.

  He ducked his head, looking at the table. “Get my license.”

  My jaw dropped. “You mean there are teenagers who don’t get their licenses the second they turn sixteen?” Since I’d never had an active social life, I never bothered to ask or save up for a car, but I still took the test. If I needed to get somewhere, at least I could borrow my parents’ car. I couldn’t imagine being dependent on them one second longer than necessary.

  “In Manhattan, you don’t need a license. Between taxis and subways, you can get anywhere.”

  “Don’t you ever want to, I don’t know, leave Manhattan?”

  Beckett gave a crooked smile. “Sure. Sometimes we go to Brooklyn.”

  “And here I thought I was the sheltered one.”

  Beckett laughed but not in a mocking way.

  By the time our food arrived, the vibe was definitely getting more first-date-like. Not that I had anything to really compare it to. We talked about our families, high school—getting-to-know-you-type stuff.

  Not surprisingly, we had almost nothing in common. I was an only child, whereas he was the youngest of three. I went to a typical suburban high school; he’d gone to an elite boarding school. My parents were born and raised in the Detroit area; his dad was a native New Yorker, and his mom was British. I’d worked at a health food café run by an angry hippie; Beckett had been a famous rock star since he was sixteen. And he’d rowed crew competitively, which explained those insanely cut arms.

  When we finished comparing notes, I felt small, inadequate, like I’d never catch up. But then he asked the million-dollar question. “How’d you get into music?”

  Turns out we’d both been forced to take piano at a young age. He attended a famous conservatory on weekends and that’s where he discovered guitar. “I stayed with piano and even learned to love it, but they still haven’t been able to pry the guitar out of my hands.” I smiled, loving the image of a ten-year-old Beckett sleeping with his guitar. “Do you still play?” he asked.

  “Of course. Music was my only hobby, and there’s not much going on in the suburbs.”

  “I thought everyone got drunk and hooked up.”

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  He laughed. “What about singing? When did that start?”

  “There was no real start. It’s just always been part of the way I enjoy music.”

  “You never sang with a band or in chorus?” I shook my head, leaning in for a sip of lemonade. “Huh. I’m surprised, but I’m also not surprised. Your voice has that wild, untrained quality that a lot of great rock singers have. You also don’t oversing, which sometimes people with a lot of training do. It’s like they have all this skill, why not use it? It’s too busy for a stripped-down band like Melbourne. But you harmonize like you grew up singing in a gospel choir.”

  I was ridiculously pleased that he’d said that. The first real experience I’d had singing with other people was on Pop Star, and that was only when we did those chaotic full-group numbers.

  “Have you ever written songs?” Beckett asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Never even tried? Lyrics? Nothing?”

  I shook my head. “Did Hollis?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  “She wrote all our lyrics until this last record. Pem and I wrote those together.” Beckett’s statement hung in the air as I processed that it wasn’t just Hollis’s singing I was competing with. “You make much more sense in a rock band than you did on the reality show. I can totally see why you didn’t win,” Beckett said, almost like he was thinking out loud.

  “Wait a minute. Are you saying you didn’t vote for me?”

  “I mean, you were clearly the best singer in your season, but you don’t have the temperament of a real singer,” he said, ignoring me. “Which I personally think is a good thing. Singers can be needy and annoying.”

  This time I didn’t ask about Hollis, even though I was dying to know if he meant her too. I’d worked hard at owning the stage when I performed and liked the way it felt to be seen up there. But mostly I didn’t like to analyze it too much. When it came to music, it was better not to think.

  “Why even go on a singing competition show?”

  “I just needed to try something new. And it got me out of Lydon.” And it got me here, didn’t it? I kept that to myself because I knew my bandmates didn’t like connecting those dots.

  We’d finished our phenomenal burgers and were now picking at our fries. “Dessert?” I asked.

  Beckett shook his head. “Not here. Popsicles.” I must have looked skeptical. “Trust me.” He signaled for the check.

  An older couple sat down beside us. “Enjoy your meal, kids?”

  “Very much, thanks,” Beckett replied.

  The man looked at the woman with a knowing smile. “When I was a youth, I went to the pizza parlor on dates. What do you two lovebirds have planned for the rest of the day?” he asked.

  “We’re going for Popsicles,” I blurted out, as if to cut Beckett off from assuring this stranger that we were not, in fact, lovebirds.

  “Then we have a show at the Ryman tonight,” Beckett said.

  “Well, son, don’t hesitate to spend your father’s money, okay? Show this young lady a nice time.” He gave a condescending smile, misunderstanding Beckett’s meaning. His repeated insinuation that Beckett and I were on a date made me feel like I had red ants crawling down my neck.

  “We both have jobs,” I said. Beckett shot me a look, but I didn’t care.

  “Is that right? You invest in the stock market? Develop a little real estate?” He grinned as the waiter slid our check between us.

  “Jim, leave them alone. They’re enjoying themselves!” his wife chided.

  “We’re musicians,” Beckett said, when it was clear that Jim wasn’t going to stop talking to us.

  Jim slapped his knee and threw his head back with a laugh. “That’s a good one. One of you better figure out how to make a real living someday.”

  I threw down some money, including a ridiculously large tip, and stood up. “Actually, he’s a rock star. He’s just too polite to say it. He’s been on magazine covers, played concerts all over the world, and probably has already made more money than you.” Even as I was speaking, I knew it was possible I’d gone to the crazy place.

  I forced myself to stroll out so it would look like a tell-off rather than a tantrum. Beckett followed right behind me. “What the heck was that?”

  “I’ve always worked—even when I was underage, I helped at my parents’ store,” I said.

  “Well, he would have been right ninety percent of the time.” Beckett started down the block. “Anyway, who cares what Jim thinks? Where are those nice Midwestern manners when you need them? You never make a peep when Malcolm and Pem get on you, but you go off on some random old guy?”

  “He was being obnoxious.” And also embarrassing the hell out of me. Squirming over the date reference was immature, but I’d never been on a real date, so playing it cool wasn’t part of my repertoire.

  “You’re going to meet
tons of people doing this job. You can’t have it out with everyone who says dumb things. Just ignore them and move on.”

  I didn’t feel like explaining that that was exactly what I had been doing for the past two years. Ignoring absolutely everyone and everything. Convincing myself that slights didn’t matter. So instead I said, “You’re right.”

  He gave me a sidelong glance. “But it is nice to see you have some fire. I was beginning to worry. Can’t be a good front person without it.”

  We stopped at a shop with a line out the door. I peeked in the picture window. It was barely big enough to hold a couple of floor freezers that doubled as counters and a few square benches. The humidity outside made Popsicles seem like a genius concept. What felt like eons later, we finally got through the door and into the air-conditioning.

  Flavors of the day were scrawled on a chalkboard. “I recommend avocado,” Beckett said. I wrinkled my nose. I had my money ready, but Beckett swatted my hand. “I’m buying.”

  I ordered a blueberry-lime one and squeezed my way outside. When Beckett came out, he handed me two Popsicles. One had a distinctly green tint to it. I gave it a suspicious look.

  “Just try.”

  I bit into it, half expecting to spit it out right away. But instead the creamy goodness slid right down my throat. I took another bite.

  We walked across the street to a small park and found a shady spot. I offered Beckett a bite of my blueberry-lime Popsicle. He wrapped his fingers around mine and leaned in for a bite. “Yum.”

  Kids played on swings and a climbing structure. They seemed not to notice the oppressive sun beating down on them. “You feel like playing a show tonight?” I asked.

  “I guess.” He leaned back on his elbows. “Or we could hide out here.”

  “I think someone might notice if we didn’t show up,” I said.

  Beckett yawned. “Pem can sing, and Winston can always jump in on guitar. We can say we fell into a Popsicle coma.”

  I imagined whiling away the day with Beckett, but he stood up and held out his hand. I let him pull me up to standing. He ordered a car on his phone, and minutes later we were on our way back to reality.

  11

  Fans were already lined up, so we asked the car to drop us in the alley leading to the backstage entrance. We walked into sound check right on time. Going through a couple of songs allowed the techs to check our mikes, in-ear monitors, and instruments. There were issues with the drum microphones, so Malcolm had to keep playing after the rest of us finished. “Fuck this,” he said. “Aaron, can you deal?”

  Pem and Beckett looked at each other. “We have time before the meet and greet,” Pem said.

  “Aaron can figure it out. I don’t need to be here.”

  Another look passed between Beckett and Pem. “Everyone else is good?” Beckett asked into his mike. From the soundboard, Jared gave a thumbs-up.

  “Why are you rushing it?” Pem asked Beckett.

  “You know it’s useless once he gets like this. At least maybe he’ll get his head right before the show,” Beckett said.

  I was observant enough to know that Malcolm wasn’t quite the stickler that the other two were, but I’d thought that was probably a good thing. His easygoing ways seemed necessary to balance the other two. Pem jumped off the stage to talk to Jared. Malcolm slipped backstage, looking vaguely annoyed. Aaron took Malcolm’s place at the drum kit and got to work.

  —

  Mandy lay down across a couple of folding chairs in the dressing room while I got ready. “Your day sounds about a thousand times better than mine.” She flung an arm dramatically across her eyes.

  “What happened? Inventory problems?”

  “I wish. Rob made me issue all the per diems, book Dave’s hotels for the next five cities, reserve your flights to LA.”

  “If you’re good, maybe he’ll make you assistant tour manager.”

  “I guess. But if he keeps me this busy, how am I supposed to see the country and find boys to flirt with?” she asked.

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” I said.

  “Easy for you to say. You’ve decided celibacy is a good thing. It’s unnatural. Speaking of which, how was being alone with Beckett? He’s so hot.”

  “Yeah. Too bad he’s off-limits.” I wasn’t sure if I said it because I really felt that or because it seemed like the thing to say.

  “Really? Otherwise you’d go for him?” Mandy sat up, excited by the turn this conversation had taken.

  “I didn’t say that. I barely know him. Plus, he’s got no shortage of female attention.” I told her about the girls in the hair salon.

  She came up to the mirror to fix her ponytail and reapply lip gloss. “Did you ask if he had a girlfriend at home?”

  “No. I have boundaries.”

  “Boring,” she droned before leaving the room.

  I took advantage of the rare moment alone to emotionally prepare for the show. Some bands had preshow rituals, but Melbourne didn’t seem to be into that stuff and I wasn’t about to suggest it. So it was up to me to figure one out for myself. “You’re going to have an amazing show. These fans have no idea what’s about to hit them.” I talked a big game, but if anyone had overheard me, I’d shrivel with embarrassment.

  —

  Even though the Ryman hadn’t been used as a church in decades, it still felt like one. The audience sat in actual pews. Stained-glass windows, soaring ceilings, and graduated seating that continued onto the high balcony gave a special, hallowed feeling to performing there.

  But not all of us were feeling reverent. A couple of songs into the set, Malcolm summoned Rob over, then pointed into the audience. They were clarifying gestures; then Rob disappeared. I didn’t know what that was about, but the show was so fun, I quickly forgot about it. Tonight’s crowd was really responsive and we sounded amazing. I must have covered five miles running back and forth across the stage, but I hardly felt it. When we broke for the encore, it seemed like no time had passed. Right before we began, Rob reappeared and waded into the audience where Malcolm had been pointing to talk to some girl.

  The show had gone off without a hitch, and I was practically delirious with excitement. On the reality show, I’d always rehearsed hard to get songs right and give a good performance, but we’d only had a week in between shows. I’d been working on these songs with Melbourne in some way for about nine months. To have the payoff of all those long months of practice coming together in a musically perfect show, with an amped-up crowd in a beautiful and significant venue, was unbelievably satisfying. It felt like putting in the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle, or the first time you ride a bike without training wheels, only better. I didn’t need anyone to tell me I was good tonight; I had that feeling I’d only achieved once or twice on Pop Star—that feeling of holding the audience so tightly that I could take them wherever I wanted them to go.

  On impulse, I took a running start and leaped over the barricade into the audience, sprawled out, limbs fully extended. Oddly, the fear didn’t hit until after they’d caught me. They flipped me over so that I sang to the ceiling and passed me around on hands stretched up high. With the constant threat of being dropped on my head and people’s hands jabbing me in impolite places, crowd surfing definitely wasn’t as relaxing as the name suggested. Still, the high was incomparable.

  What felt like seconds later, Rob pulled me back over the barricade and gave me a boost onto the stage, where I finished out the encore.

  When we got off, Winston high-fived me. “That was awesome! Didn’t know you had that in you.”

  I was just about to bask in the glow of his compliment when Pem stormed over. “What the fuck was that?”

  “What do you mean?” I was still smiling—that’s how confused I was. Beckett hurried toward us.

  “First of all, you looked like a flying squirrel. Second of all, we are not that band. We don’t resort to poser antics. That shit has jumped the shark.” Pem was on a roll and my humiliat
ion spiraled. Beckett hearing the whole thing and probably agreeing made it a million times worse.

  “Sorry. No one told me.” That sounded weak, but it was all I had.

  “The crowd didn’t hate it,” Beckett said. That was a ringing endorsement.

  Pem glowered at him. “Don’t. We’ve worked too hard.” He shot me one last withering glare and stalked away.

  Beckett shrugged. “With Pem, less is more.”

  “Yeah, I got that.” I don’t know what I expected him to say. I wanted him to whisk me back to my happy place of witty banter and Popsicles in the sunshine.

  The girl Malcolm had summoned and one of her giddy friends were already backstage. He was too busy flirting to participate in my drama.

  Pem had stopped to hug a cute Asian girl. She had long dark hair and thick bangs that highlighted warm brown eyes. “You made it,” he said. Good. Maybe her presence would improve his personality.

  “Of course,” she replied. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Beckett went over to them while I tried to slink by unnoticed. All I wanted was to hide out in the hotel. I didn’t break my stride, which was a feat, because I’m pretty sure I stopped breathing when Beckett swept the girl into his arms and kissed her like he was returning from a war.

  12

  With the dressing room suddenly seeming like a crappy place to be, I took a shower and went to look for Mandy at the merch table. Judging from my popularity at the meet and greets thus far, I was pretty sure I could hang out there without causing a stampede.

  Some fans came over and asked me how I liked touring and said that they really liked what I brought to the band. Before long there was a line in front of me. I signed CDs until my Sharpie ran out of ink, then stayed on to chat with people who wanted to say hi. Some of them even asked about American Pop Star, and not in a disdainful or ironic way. Maybe I was making inroads.