Keep Me in the Dark

by Ashe, Karina

“You should just let me take it for you,” he advises. “I’m not changing my mind, and if you put up more of a fight we’re going to make everyone late.”

  Anna beams as I reluctantly walk to the door. “You two have fun!”

  Yeah right. “I’m singing in front of a group of people. I only sing when I’m drunk. This is not going to be fun…unless David has some Peppermint Schnapps in the car?”

  He holds the door open for me. “I’m pretty sure I’d fail as a roadie if I let you get drunk before you go on stage.”

  I snort. “Where world are you living in? That’s not failure, that’s what roadies are for. Well, that and making sure I there’s a good looking guy waiting for me in my trailer.”

  He rushes down the top three stairs so we’re walking side-by-side. “No trailer. Just Professor Cade’s stinky love bug. But I can find one for you if you don’t mind getting busy on top of four other people.”

  I think of the backseat that even one person can barely cram themselves into and groan.

  I hear Dolly laugh. “That wouldn’t stop me!”

  I look over my shoulder to see my three friends huddled together at the top of the staircase. “Hey, what are you guys doing there?”

  “Saying goodbye,” Anna defends. “You didn’t even say goodbye to us.”

  “Yeah, she was blindsided with thoughts of booze,” Cassie murmurs.

  “I can hear that!” I yell, not slowing my pace.

  “I know you can hear it. That’s why I said it,” Cassie replies.

  I grab David’s hand. “Whatever. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Have fun you too!” Anna yells.

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Dolly adds.

  I don’t hear the rest of it because we’re finally outside.

  “You okay?” David asks. “I know this wasn’t exactly something you were looking forward to doing…”

  Understatement of the year.

  “…But I think you’ll do a wonderful job,” he finishes.

  The left corner of my mouth curls up. “Thanks.”

  The two of us walk through the gate. “I’m not just saying that,” he says.

  “I know. That was a heartfelt thanks.”

  He give me a small smile as he opens the back of the car. “I hope you have a good time tonight.”

  “Me too,” I say. It’s the truth. For the first time in a long time, I’m excited. I’m ready for something new, and I feel like I might find it tonight.

  I step forward. The microphone hits my lips. I always think the woven netting of microphones should be soft, so it never fails to surprise me how hard they are.

  I look up. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light. People sit in the crowd, coughing and speaking quietly to one another. Others stand near the back of the room by the refreshments. They have some really good cheese and crackers back there—the best cheese and crackers I’ve ever had, and probably ever will have—along with grapes so plump and sweet that they resemble artisan pastries more than fruit.

  To my left, Katie raises her bow. She pauses just before setting it to the strings of her violin, glancing at me. I can’t put this off any longer. I sit, adjusting the microphone so I can sing and play my cello at the same time. After a few more moments, I nod and she starts to play.

  The other girls and I follow shortly after. I focus on the music, rocking back and forth slightly as my arms sway.

  It’s almost time to sing.

  I close my eyes, relax my throat, take a deep breath, and begin to sing.

  My voice isn’t the kind that would get me far in the conservatory. It’s too low, for one thing. It would resemble a cello more than a human voice if it wasn’t so breathy and husky. I used to joke that I could get my points across better with my cello than my voice because it’s clearer and I have more control over it.

  My voice is an indie voice. It’s reminiscent of the voices of hundreds of struggling musicians all over the city, sitting in front of their guitar in a smoky bar as a harsh spotlight shines down on them, making their face look older, their hair look stringier, as they suck in smoke and sing with all their heart even though no one cares.

  My voice wavers, but I keep going. I don’t know why I’m thinking of such things. It makes me feel so alone that I can barely bring myself to sing one more note—like I’m sinking into a sea of dreams that will never come true, surrounded by people who will keep trying until they’re all dried up.

  When you’re young it’s easy to talk about making it big. Each night you can go out there and imagine that the right someone is in the crowd who will take notice of you. But that’s not how it really is. That person isn’t there, or if they are, there’s nothing about you that moves them, or maybe there is but you’re not marketable somehow, you’re too soft or too hard and they don’t think people will be able to relate to you even though you pour your soul into your voice, so they glance elsewhere.

  I don’t want to be that strange, little girl with the low, husky voice, selling her soul for less than what she’d get in the slummiest part of town for her body each night. I don’t want to give myself to someone who will never love me back. But what should I do when I’ve already given him my heart?

  I feel like I’ve been slapped. Why do my thoughts always go back to him?

  Stop thinking about it. You’re going to get so distracted that you’ll lose your place. He’s gone. It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s time to move on.

  I repeat that and focus on the song. Even though I’m singing an octave lower than the previous lead, I struggle to hit the notes. My voice cracks a bit, sounds raspy, desperate. I lose my place a few times. I’m sitting too close to the microphone. My breathing is too heavy.

  Thank god it’s almost over.

  It feels like we started hours ago even though I know it couldn’t be more than thirty minutes. The violin and the viola quiet and soon it’s only my cello, the last note of the song, drawing out as I whisper my final lines.

  I finish.

  Silence. Just silence.

  I take a deep breath, then another, the silence only broken by my heartbeat. Heat flares across my cheeks. I can’t look up.

  They hated it.

  I tell myself it doesn’t matter. We’ve already been paid. It’s not like I have any aspirations to be a professional singer. I’m not even supposed to be here. Still, it’s embarrassing to bomb in front of so many people…especially if it means we can’t get another gig. God, it couldn’t have been that bad, right?

  I should say something.

  I set down my cello, grab the mic and stand.

  “Uh…” Shit, not a great way to start. Maybe I should begin by opening my eyes? “We’re…Bruigh na Boinne, and…” I bite my tongue right before committing the cardinal sin of performing. You never apologize for your performance. You never act like something you did was accidental. Wasn’t I a professional? I had to own up to it. “Thank you for coming,” I finish quickly.

  A few people start to applaud. I drop to my knees and begin putting away my instrument as one of my band mates touches my shoulder. “They want us to bow.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I whisper. I had no desire to prolong this torture. “I was absolutely—”

  “Amazing,” she finishes.

  I look up at her beaming face. “Definitely not what they were expecting from a traditional music concert, but you rocked it. Take a bow.”

  I let go of my cello as she bullies me to my feet and the band takes a bow. I’m slow to follow suit. Stupidly, I’m looking at the crowd, and what I see puts me on edge.

  There’s awe in the people’s faces, and…something else. I feel like a specimen. I feel dissected. I revealed too much of myself tonight. I don’t know what it was exactly, but it was too much.

  My friend touches my shoulder.

  Right. I’m supposed to take a bow. I lower my head with my band mates. The crowd erupts into applause and people stand. But I’m not thi
nking of that. For some reason, I’m thinking of him. Of everything we had and didn’t have. Of losing something precious I never possessed in the first place.

  The applause reminds me of the water rippling at the fountain. I melted into the sound of his voice the first time he spoke to me. I would have followed him anywhere at that moment.

  But he turned his back to me. He didn’t want me. And now all I felt whenever I remember those things was the distance between us.

  I take a few more bows. Some people call for an encore. My band mates look at me expectantly and I shake my head. I can’t do it.

  They don’t press it. They must have seen something in my eyes—all those things I’m trying to keep secret and cannot. Sometimes I wish that I too could hide behind a mask.

  Chapter 7

  We pack our instruments and make our way to the left side of the stage. I hadn’t really noticed how small it was at first. We’re very close to the audience.

  A group of men and women meet us after we take our three steps to the floor. Their handshakes are firm, and I can’t make out their names over the chatter in the room. They congratulate us and ask how long we’ve been together and about our future plans. The other girls answer, eager for this opportunity. I hand my cello off to David and bow out. I want to get out of here. It feels like everyone’s eyes are on me and I don’t like it.

  I make a beeline for the refreshment table. There aren’t too many people there yet, and I can use a drink—and by drink I mean water. I’m still not totally used to singing that long, and especially in front of a crowd.

  A caterer stationed behind the refreshment table grins when his eyes meet mine. “Hey, that was great! I was a little worried I’d be bored when I heard it was going to be a traditional music band.”

  We get that response a lot. Many people don’t like traditional or classical music. “Um, can I have some water?”

  He grabs a cup and the pitcher. “Sure, sure. Here. Sorry about that…”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m glad you liked it.” I give him a small smile before taking a sip. “I’m just really thirsty.”

  “Yeah, for sure.”

  “And I think I need some air,” I murmur. It’s so hot in here. I can barely think.

  “There’s an exit right behind me,” the caterer says.

  I smile again. “Thank you.” I raise my glass and head out.

  The large door swings shut behind me, blocking out the majority of the sound. I shiver. It was so hot in there, but in the empty, winding center of the Guchenberg, it’s cold.

  Despite it’s fame, and the fact that I live in NYC, I haven’t spent much time in the Guchenberg. Immediately, I’m struck by the elegance of the winding, circular path along the interior walls. When I look across the hollow center of the building, I can see paintings lining the walls on the opposite side and below.

  I walk up. There’s no use in going down yet. We aren’t due to leave for another hour, and I might run into one of the true guests of this event. I rub my arms. The large Dada paintings stare back at me.

  Cassie would appreciate being here more. She knows about these sorts of things. I heard some of the guests describe the artworks as playful, but to me they look tired and subdued. The strange, brilliant blues look out of place next to all those neutral colors and earth tones. Many of the abstract shapes are outlined thickly with black. There’s something off-putting about that; it feels like they’re trying to break free. I don’t understand them and, even more strangely, it almost feels like the paintings are aware of my ignorance.

  I glance down at my water. Damn, almost empty.

  “Laura,” a voice from behind calls.

  My nerves spike. I spin around, spilling water on my dress. A familiar face gives me a little smile and I sigh. “David, I didn’t expect you to be there.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. He grabs a napkin from his pocket and hands it to me.

  “Why do you have that?” I ask as I begin to dab.

  “I don’t know. In case a pretty girl makes a mess, I guess.”

  “Pretty girls shouldn’t make messes. They make them a little less pretty,” I say.

  “I don’t think that’s true. Not my kind of pretty girl.”

  His cheeks are red as he says it. He looks to the side. I stop dabbing, suddenly aware that Dolly’s white dress is completely wet.

  “This isn’t just a big ploy to make my dress see through, is it? Is that why you startled me?” I tease, trying to take away some of the strange tension between us.

  He frowns, eyes oddly bright and…heated. “Do you really think I’d do that?”

  “I don’t know, I…” I’m suddenly oddly lightheaded. I’ve never seen David look like that at me.

  “I wouldn’t. I’d never do anything to make you feel bad. I…” he rakes his hand through his hair and looks away again. His cheeks are burning. For some reason, my heart is fluttering. It startles me. I’ve never felt this way before about my friend. Then again, I’ve never seen him act this way.

  “Are you feeling better?” David asks.

  “Yeah. Thank god it’s just water. Dolly would kill me if I stained this.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the shirt,” David whispers.

  I’m breathing heavily. “What do you mean?”

  He sighs. “You really think I wouldn’t notice how sad you’ve been this past week?”

  I almost drop my glass. I will drop it if I hold it much longer, I realize, so I set it down on the floor between us. “I’ve just been…” I don’t know what to tell him, so I trail off.

  “I asked Cassie what was up,” David said.

  I freeze.

  “She wouldn’t tell me.”

  Thank God.

  “But luckily Dolly was there and she did.”

  Shit! What the hell, Dolly?

  “Any guy that hurts you isn’t worth crying over,” David says, his voice low and husky.

  Wait a minute, just how much did Dolly tell him? “It was nothing, it was—”

  “It wasn’t nothing, not if he makes you cry like that.” David sounds angry. I don’t realize that he’s advancing and I’m retreating until I hit a small white table by the woman’s restroom.

  “David,” I whisper. Down below, I hear them cheer. Someone is giving a speech—probably the beneficiary or someone toasting him.

  His chest rises and falls quickly. There’s an intensity in his gaze I’ve never seen before. His hands trail over my wrists. “You should be cherished. You should be told how beautiful you are every day—how much you are wanted.”

  I can’t say anything. He’s close, and I’m noticing the fine sculpt of his cheekbones, the smoothness of his skin, the scent of his pine aftershave. The light hits his face, and I see his beautiful brown, warm eyes. They look straight into me, demanding that I look straight into them.

  His hands slide over mine. His fingers are strong. They’re used to playing the piano, guitar, and violin. His full lips play the clarinet. He becomes a god when he plays. There’s no one like him. And I feel like he’s aware of every little shiver in my body and every muscle tightening as if he’s about to play it.

  “What are you saying?” I can’t believe how breathless I am.

  He swallows—a sign of nervousness—but his eyes don’t leave mine and his grip tightens. He doesn’t back down even though he’s afraid. “That if you were mine, I would tell you every day of your life, as often as I could, that I wanted you. That you are beautiful. That I love you.”

  My eyes feel dry. My throat so tight. “I can’t do this, David.”

  “Can’t do what?”

  I don’t know what I can’t do all of a sudden. Even though I’m so afraid I can’t stop looking at him. He’s pinned me with his gaze. “I can’t do this,” I whisper, somehow. “I love him.”

  Something briefly flickers across his eyes. I’ve hurt him. I can tell by how his hands briefly tighten even more over my wists. “But he hu
rts you, Laura. He won’t let you in. He doesn’t support you. He won’t even let you look at his face.”

  My cheeks are hot. I can’t believe Dolly told him that much. It is so embarrassing that I gave myself to someone who won’t even…I shut my eyes. God, I don’t even want to think of it.

  “I have to go,” I say, but David doesn’t let go and I don’t try to free myself.

  “Look at me,” he says. It’s a demand. David has never demanded anything from me.

  I shut my eyes tighter. “I don’t think—”

  “Laura, look at me.”

  I do. And his eyes are warm and brown. They still look into mine as if I’m the only thing in the world. And they still want me to look back at him.

  He leans in.

  “I can’t do this,” I tell him.

  “Why?”

  “I…I…”

  He smiles slightly. “You should answer quickly, Laura.”

  “I love him.” He stops when our lips are almost touching. If he slipped, less than an inch, they would be touching.

  “So?” he asks.

  “How can you want to be with me when I’m thinking of someone else.”

  “Easy. I won’t let you think of him anymore.” His eyelids grow heavy. “It’s my fault this happened, you know. I can’t blame you for not psychically knowing what I never told you. That would be extreme arrogance and selfishness on my part.”

  “I…”

  “And stupidity,” he cuts me off. “I should have told you the moment I knew. I shouldn’t have given you any reason to ever look in any direction but mine. I knew the moment you walked into class five minutes late. Your cello case knocked against the door and you cringed as the teacher glared at you. Your cheeks flushed as you murmured sorry. Then you just stood there until the teacher told you to take your seat.

  “I don’t think I took a breath that entire time. I thought I was hallucinating when you started to walk towards me. Then I realized that my friend was sick and that the nearest empty seat was next to me. I know it’s a horrible thing to say, but I was so happy he was sick that day. I don’t even think you looked at me when you asked if you could sit there. You were too embarrassed to look at anyone. But I saw no one but you.