For the Record

by Charlotte Huang

  “If you say so,” I said.

  His friends laughed and elbowed him. “We apologize for him,” one of them said. “Hey, can we get a picture with you?”

  I gave them a wary once-over. They were stupid, sure, but harmless enough. I called Beckett over to take their camera and then stood in front of them. “Say ‘I love Chelsea,’ ” Beckett said.

  They all screamed it in unison. Pork Chop inspected the picture while the others grabbed for the camera. “That’s totally going on my Instagram!”

  Beckett cracked up, getting way too much amusement from my discomfort.

  —

  Mandy had to work as soon as we got to St. Petersburg, so I didn’t hear about her night with Nathan. Beckett and I borrowed bikes from Jannus Live, where we were playing that night, and rode to Flora Wylie Park. We hadn’t worn swimsuits, but I couldn’t resist going into the ocean in my shorts and T-shirt. The water was even warmer than it had been in Miami.

  Beckett took off his shirt and dove in after me. He still had a rower’s body, with well-muscled arms and shoulders. Lauren was a very lucky girl. He was acting more lighthearted than he had in a while. “You feeling better?” I asked.

  “Yeah. We just need to pull it together. Can’t have another lame show.”

  I dove down and did a handstand. My T-shirt billowed out, making me self-conscious even though my torso was underwater. I came up for air.

  “Anyway, thanks for being cool to Lauren. I know she appreciated it,” Beckett said.

  “What are you going to do?”

  He shrugged and lay into a back float, looking up at the sky.

  —

  Our blissful day was cut short by Beckett’s writing session with Pem. When we got back to the bus, Pem was already set up with his guitar and laptop in the back lounge. “Did you work out that section?” Beckett asked.

  “I feel like I’m circling like a seabird, surface feeding,” Pem said.

  “You’ll get there,” Beckett said. I had no idea how he understood what Pem was talking about half the time. It was one of the more mystifying parts of the dysfunction. “I’ll be back.”

  “That’s good, Beckett. You and Chelsea go have fun. I’ll be here, working hard.”

  “It’ll just take a minute.” Beckett sounded like he was talking to a toddler. We ducked out, and Beckett decided it was a good time to give me advice. “The only way to change Pem’s view of you as a hired gun is to write. I’m sending you a song that we finished. Try writing the lyrics.” I gave him a skeptical look. “Nothing’s going to be perfect right out of the gate. Just experiment. This has a simple structure: verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus. I think you can handle it.”

  “So does this mean you like me?” I had no idea where I was going with this.

  Beckett smiled. “I like you fine.”

  “No way. If you’re trying to help me win Pem over, you like me more than fine.”

  He laughed and I felt happy that someone was pulling for me. I opened my email and downloaded the file. I put headphones on and clicked play. The tempo was slower, but it was still definitely a rock song. When it was over, I played it again. And again. I played it until I memorized the song. But no words came.

  —

  Jannus Live was set up like a large, open-air courtyard. A few trees grew through the floor, giving it a friendly, backyard feel. Outdoor shows naturally have a celebratory atmosphere, which I was too freaked out to appreciate that first night in Pittsburgh.

  I concentrated on the band as they started playing. Without the kabuki drop, I’d come up with this as my way to get pumped up for each show. It actually worked better. I blocked out everything and zeroed in on the building tension. The way those first bars sounded tonight told me this show would be something special. When I joined in, a floodgate opened—everyone’s pent-up stuff came crashing down, including the crowd’s.

  Group catharsis was in full effect as the audience roared lyrics while I sang as hard and loud as I could. When I turned around, my bandmates were already lost in the music. Pem was back to his usual brilliant self, which let the rest of us relax. I caught Beckett’s eye, but it was almost like he was looking through me.

  I wasn’t dumb enough to think about Beckett in any serious way. Pem had made himself perfectly clear on the intra-band fraternizing policy, plus I was in no rush to get my heart stomped on. But that didn’t stop me from enjoying the view a little too much.

  17

  The band landed in LA early the next day and drove straight to the studio to prep for the video. No rest for the weary. The crew, including Mandy, would take the bus and meet us at our next show. There had been some talk of them stopping in New Orleans to celebrate the Fourth. That sounded fun but also like potential trouble. I knew Oscar and Winston would look out for Mandy if the partying got out of hand.

  At the studio, we went over storyboards and wardrobe options and watched the extras casting. Beckett reviewed the treatment for our video for Michaela, who’d come in to get us ready for the private party in Vegas. “It’s a simple concept, but that’s why we chose it. We’re supposed to be disenchanted, zombielike employees of a seedy club. After we’ve waited on the last ungrateful customer, checked the last ID, finished cleaning beer and food off the floor, and closed up for the night, we live out our dreams of being a band. And that’s when we come alive.”

  “And it’s about how music elevates us from the drudgery of life,” I said.

  “Exactly. It’s about the love of music saving people, helping them through unpleasant things,” Beckett said.

  “Maybe they should get better jobs,” Michaela said.

  Beckett thought that as the “employees,” we should retain our band personas as we left the club, “because the music transformed them.”

  Pem felt that we should revert back to our zombie-employee selves: “The point is not that music gives you a new life. It’s that it can lift you out of a dark moment and how that means something even if it’s fleeting.” He turned to Sam. “And I want the imaginary audience on stilts so they’re looming over the band, and I want a rain machine on the whole time.”

  “You’re barely even going to see any exterior when they’re in the club,” Sam pointed out.

  “Even if it’s only glimpses through the door and window, it’ll still enhance the mood,” Pem said.

  “We don’t have the budget for all that,” Sam said.

  “That seems fatalistic. Are we really trying to tell people that all music can give them is a temporary fix?” Beckett asked. “We want to affect lives, not just moments.”

  “That’s too grandiose,” Pem said.

  “And the other way sounds too bleak,” Beckett shot back.

  Next to me, Malcolm mumbled, “See why I don’t get involved in this shit?”

  Sam threw his hands up. “We need to decide. Today. When we come back in two days, we’re shooting, not talking.”

  “And the zombies, you know they’re going back to their normal lives. They may or may not get that moment back. It’s realistic and open-ended,” Pem said.

  “I get that. I think we want to say something different, something—yeah—more grandiose. Like if you live life focusing on the highs instead of the lows, you can have the exact same life but be a different person,” Beckett said.

  Malcolm leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling. “No one’s going to be writing their dissertation on our video. We’re just trying to get the song out there.” Both Pem and Beckett glared at him. Malcolm groaned. “I want a divorce.”

  “Chelsea, thoughts?” Sam asked.

  “I like the open-ended thing, but I also like the positivity idea,” I began.

  “Okay, never mind,” Pem said.

  “But wait. Wait. You know how in the ‘Thriller’ video, Michael Jackson starts out human and ends up human but then turns back to the camera and flashes his monster eyes so you know it wasn’t just a dream? Can it be something like that, where we go
back to the way we were but acknowledge that something’s not the same?”

  Pem and Beckett looked at each other. Beckett sighed. “We need an hour.”

  —

  Malcolm and I killed time in the strip mall down the road. He spent the entire time texting and tweeting, lining up “honeys” for Vegas. When we got back, Pem and Beckett were in much better moods. “We’re taking Chelsea’s suggestion and have them going back to being zombie people but then burn the club down,” Pem said.

  I squinted at him. “Wait, what? What happened to positivity?” I didn’t even have a minute to celebrate my creative contribution, because in my mind that idea was in no way related to my suggestion.

  “It is positive. Positive in an edgy way. The club where they work had them depressed, shackled to meaningless jobs. Now, even though they’re the same people, they’re sticking together to break free and move on to something better. Plus it works as a reference to the album title,” Beckett said.

  I’d never really thought about what Barn Burning meant, but Pem had explained that it was the title of a great short story by William Faulkner. Something about oppression and railing against authority.

  Beckett and Pem both seemed exhilarated. I’d never gotten to witness this before—the spark they so obviously felt when they were connecting creatively. I kept staring at them, and Malcolm must have thought I was about to object, because he said, “Don’t rock the boat,” out of the side of his mouth.

  Even though I thought their idea was weird and maybe even nonsensical, I was jealous that Pem and Beckett complemented each other so well in the creative process. They were lucky to have each other.

  All of a sudden, the meaning of what they’d been saying hit me with complete clarity. It was one thing to practice and perfect singing someone else’s words. That was a true craft. It was a whole other level of satisfaction to deliver something you created to an audience and feel how they were affected. That was art.

  18

  The electronics company that hired us for the private party in Vegas put us up at the Delano, which was part of Mandalay Bay. That’s where it would host the very swanky launch of its newest cell phone later that night. We each had our own suite furnished with enormous gift bags. They contained all kinds of gadgets, including their best-selling video game console and their brand-new phone. My first swag. I almost felt like a real celebrity.

  We didn’t play until ten, so there was plenty of time to kill. Malcolm invited a bunch of girls to hang by the pool, and Beckett and Pem decided to join. Shocker. That left me to go shopping solo.

  A woman at the front desk told me that the monorail that ran between some of the properties was the easiest way to get around. It was also a great way to get a quick tour of Vegas. I passed a few crazy-looking hotels—one in the shape of a pyramid, one that looked like a castle, another that was a scaled-down version of New York City. Everything was huge and colorful. I wasn’t even on street level and I was still overwhelmed.

  I got off at the end of the line and went to Saks Fifth Avenue, straight to the hip and expensive department, and introduced myself to a young saleswoman named Paris. “I’m performing at a private party tonight and I’ve been told to wear something modern and kind of sexy,” I said. I was paraphrasing. Michaela’s exact words were “Wear something hot so you get photographed a lot.”

  Paris gave me a once-over. “Performing where you eventually take your clothes off?”

  “God no.” I should have worded my request better. I hoped I hadn’t offended her with my response. Maybe she was a salesperson by day and an exotic dancer by night. “The performance is outside, late. I’d like to wear something comfortable but attention-getting. Something that I won’t feel weird hanging out in after the show.”

  “Uh-huh.” Paris looked at me like I’d ordered a dress made out of steak knives and rabbit tails. “Comfortable? That’s a priority?”

  “I mean, within reason.” I followed her around the floor while she plucked items off racks and threw them over her arm. She didn’t ask me who I was or where I was performing, so I assumed she thought I was full of it.

  Paris staggered to the dressing room under all the clothes. She arranged them in outfits and hung them on pegs, curating as she went. “Okay, I mostly went with pants for comfort. You’re going to have to invest in shoes. I mean seriously invest. And not in comfortable ones either. Now, if you go with pants, you need to be all about the boobs. You said attention-getting, right?”

  “Right.” I tried to sound confident, and reassured myself it was just for one night of pictures.

  The next thing I knew, I was trying on a billion outfits. She had me step out wearing the first few, sometimes not even taking a full second to evaluate before sending me back to change. “No. Next!”

  I tried on a pair of black harem pants, which I had no idea they still made. Paris paired it with a clingy white sleeveless shirt with a plunging V-neck. She wasn’t kidding when she said it was all about the boobs. I hadn’t worn anything like this since our press day back in Pittsburgh. I liked the way the harem pants draped over my hips and butt—less obvious than tight pants but still did the job. There was also a skinny leather tie that I decided to ignore.

  When I came out, she said, “Where’s the tie?”

  “Uh. I didn’t see one.”

  Paris stormed into the dressing room and grabbed it off the lounge chair. She expertly wrapped it around my neck, letting the knot hang low. “Half Windsor. Don’t do a full or it’ll look stupid.” She stepped back. “I need to see it with shoes. Wait here. And don’t change.”

  I hated to say it, but Paris was right about the tie.

  I sat on the lounge chair and checked my phone for Mandy’s latest text.

  Me: How was Nathan?

  Mand: Dorky but adorbs :)

  Me: ?

  Mand: No. Too weird.

  I didn’t know what she meant by “too weird,” but it seemed like a longer conversation than I had time for.

  Paris reappeared with boxes. As she opened them, I was sure she’d meant to bring these to a drag queen in the next dressing room. The first box contained a pair of white peep-toe stilettos with a hidden platform and gold spikes all over them. Yikes. “Just humor me,” she said.

  I put them on. They weren’t remotely comfortable but added a definite pop to the outfit. Surprisingly, I liked the overall effect. “Do you stand onstage? Or sit?” Paris asked.

  “I stand. And jump. And sometimes even run,” I said.

  “That’s not going to work, then.”

  She pulled out another pair. A black pair of high-heeled booties with a web of straps crisscrossed all over the front. They weren’t as eye-catching as the other two, but they were cool. “I can live with it,” she said. “They reference the tie. Only you need a better bra.”

  I wasn’t sure if she was just trying to upsell me, but honestly I didn’t care. She asked my bra size, took off again, and returned with a bunch of nude bras. She made me try each of them on under the white shirt until we found one that pushed me up and out ridiculously far. “Good,” she said. “Now, you’re going to think I’m crazy, and I don’t know if it’s within your budget, but I’d get the boots for the show and the shoes with the spikes for hanging out after.”

  She spent more time with me in the cosmetics department and even showed me how to do my hair. I was so grateful, I told her to text me later if she wanted to get into the party. She lit up. “You’re in Melbourne? Oh my God, I’d love to! Do you think they’ll give out free phones?”

  “Probably,” I said, even though I had no idea.

  All I could think about was how I’d spent more money on clothes in one shot than I’d previously spent in an entire year.

  —

  By the time I got back, Malcolm was out cold, poolside, snoring with a bevy of beauties surrounding him. I mean, come on.

  Pem and Beckett were still hanging out too. Pem had his nose in a magazine, but Beckett was b
eing social. They’d gotten a cabana, and the staff was doing its best to keep people away, but they were definitely attracting interest.

  I was stopped on my way into the cabana. “Is she good to come in?” one of the staff asked Beckett.

  “I guess,” Beckett sighed, before cracking up.

  The staff member hesitated, but I barged in. “Thanks,” I snapped.

  “Did you buy us anything?” Beckett asked.

  “No.” I slipped out of my shorts and T-shirt.

  I walked back out of the cabana and down the steps of the nearest pool. It was empty because the Lazy River and wave pool were so popular. I sat on the lower steps, getting cool, watching the blur of action around me.

  Workers set up the stage in the center on a platform that covered one of the pools. The stage itself was complete, but they were in the process of putting up a screen in the back and adjusting the few spotlights in the front. It was a smaller stage than we were used to, and I wondered if I could get away with wearing the ridiculous shoes the whole time. I felt a tingle of excitement about the party.

  A shadow fell over me, giving welcome relief from the late afternoon sun. I looked up as Beckett slid into the water beside me. “Did you take care of the wardrobe issue?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “I think Michaela would approve.”

  He laughed. “Can’t wait to see it.”

  Something about the way he said it flustered me. After a minute I said, “Lazy River?”

  Beckett pulled two inner tubes out of a pile and handed me one. We waited for a break in floating traffic and then waded down the steps into the river. I lay across my inner tube with my butt in the middle. Beckett stretched across his on his stomach. I closed my eyes, letting the current take me for a ride.

  Every now and then, other floaters jostled me, but I didn’t open my eyes. Then freezing-cold water doused me, making me squeal and sit up on my elbows. I opened my eyes and turned to see that I’d just passed under a bridge with a waterfall. Beckett was laughing at me from the other side of the river—the one without the downpour.