I drop the face and lean into the mirror, palms on the counter.
Tonight was good. Really good. Amazingly, mind-blowingly good. Jezz and Patrick and I know each other so well and have played together so long that it always feels like we’re part of one electrical circuit. But tonight, like it has more and more often, the electricity laced out of us and ran through the entire room, all the heartbeats pounding in rhythm, the crowd giving back everything we gave to them.
That feeling, that connected, electrical feeling, is the best thing in the entire world. It’s like a shot of adrenaline that goes on and on until your whole body is practically throwing off sparks, and you feel like you could run straight up the side of a building and dive up into the sky.
I hate that it ever has to end, even for those couple of seconds between songs. When I’m not playing, I’m just me. Standing there. Getting stared at by a hundred people who all know my name. That’s why I always jump into the next song as fast as possible. It’s why, even when I’m not onstage, I’d rather be playing than doing anything else.
I’d rather be the guy with the guitar.
The guy with the guitar might actually be worthy of people screaming his name. That guy would know how to deal with journalists and fans. He’d always be able to find clothes that say rock star, not garage sale poser. I’m pretty sure he’d tell any little metalhead complaining about the side effects of fame to suck it up, loser.
I mean, Last Things isn’t famous. Not really. But we’ve got the bite-sized, backwoods version of fame. Okay, is it a little weird to have girls who’ve seen you in your school gym shorts asking for your autograph, and to start recognizing your very own stalkers, the ones who hang around until the very end of the night, staring at you but never saying anything at all? Yeah. Sure. But isn’t it also worth it about a million times over?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Plus, there’s just one thing I have to remember to put everything back in perspective. They don’t love me. Even the obsessive online fans who say they do. They don’t know me. They don’t know me at all. They just love the music.
I get that. I feel exactly the same way.
I lean toward my reflection again. I put on the rock-star face. My chin rises. My jaw goes tight. Suck it up, loser.
“Anders?” Mom’s voice calls from outside the bathroom door.
If there’s anything that can immediately make you feel not like a rock star, it’s your mom calling to you through a bathroom door. I back away from the mirror. “Yeah?”
“How did it go tonight?”
“Fine,” I shout back.
“Good crowd?”
“Yeah. It was pretty full.”
“Did you play anything new?”
I guess this isn’t going to be a short interview. And there’s no point telling Mom I can’t hear her. She’ll just wait and follow me down to my bedroom. I tuck a frayed towel tight around my waist and open the door.
Mom stands in the hall, still dressed from a long day at the front desk of the Greenwood-Halmstad Hospital, in her blue sweater set and beaded necklace.
“A couple new things,” I tell her. “Mostly old stuff.”
“I’m sorry your dad and I couldn’t be there,” she says. “I had that staff meeting tonight, and it went late. Really late.” Behind the glint of her glasses, Mom’s eyes are tired. “But that should be the last one for a while.”
Mom and Dad haven’t come to a show at the Crow’s Nest in . . . I can’t remember how long, that’s how long it’s been. I know Dad hasn’t been to a show since I announced I’d be taking a year after graduation to see where this music thing leads. For Mom, it’s been almost as long. And that’s fine. It’s harder to keep up the rock-star face when your mom is in the audience, beaming up at you.
“That’s okay. It’s the Crow’s Nest.” I give her a half smile. “Not really your and Dad’s scene.”
Mom opens her mouth, mock offended. “You know we can headbang with the best of them.” She pauses. “That’s what they call it, right? Headbang?”
Now I give a whole smile. “Yes, Mom. That’s what they call it.”
Mom smiles back. “Are you hungry? I could make you something.”
“Nah, I ate. Thanks.”
“Where did you eat?”
“Crow’s Nest. They gave us sandwiches.”
Mom’s eyebrows tighten. I can tell her mind is already going to the wallet inside her old faux-leather purse, counting the cash. “Do you owe them for it?”
“No. Don’t worry about it. Ike says it’s payment.”
“Well. That’s nice.” Mom looks at me for a minute. She smiles slightly, her head tilted to one side. She looks like she’s staring at a painting, trying to figure out exactly what it’s supposed to be a picture of.
“Well,” she says again. “Good night then.”
“’Night.”
Mom reaches up and rubs my bare shoulder. I let her. Down the hall, I can hear the TV blaring the noise of a baseball game. There’s a hiss and click as Dad opens a beer can. Then Mom’s hand glides away. She turns and heads toward the living room.
When I was younger I had all these daydreams about what I’d do for Mom and Dad when I became a huge rock star. I’d buy them a mansion and fancy cars and a speedboat and nice clothes, and they’d never have to worry about money again. Little-kid fantasies. Now I mostly think about how much money I’ll save them just by taking care of myself. Then they won’t have to pay for my guitar lessons, or the picks and strings and sheet music, or the car insurance that shot up when I got my first speeding ticket.
Mom tries to keep money stuff quiet. But Dad’s not so subtle. I know things are tight. And I know that my spending every spare minute on music instead of washing dishes at some crappy local grease pit is making Dad’s blood pressure climb even higher.
Sometimes I imagine handing him a huge check, back payment for everything he’s had to pay for in my entire life. And then all the threads of guilt that tie me here will be snapped, and I’ll get out of Greenwood for good.
I grab my clothes from the bathroom floor and head down the hall.
My room is at the opposite end of the house from Mom and Dad’s. Dad designed the house himself, before I was born, and oversaw the crew that built it. He hasn’t designed anything since. Over the last few years, he’s done less of a lot of things. Nobody’s building houses in Greenwood anymore. Our place is a long, low ranch house covered in rough wood shingles. It looks like a giant pine tree fell over and someone hollowed it out and moved in. The house is surrounded by other, actual pines. There’s a carpet of moss and pine needles on the roof, in the yard, everywhere. My room faces the woods. You can see out the window into trees that go on and on.
I shut the bedroom door quietly behind me.
There’s a growl-squeak from under my bed. A second later a little gray monster barrels out and runs into my ankles.
“Hey, Goblin.” I bend down and rub the cat between his raggedy ears. Goblin is old and deaf, with bony shoulders and snaggleteeth and breath so bad it could wilt a houseplant. He might be my favorite creature on earth. He doesn’t say meow anymore, I suppose because he can’t hear himself. Instead he says mirk and ackk and eeeooww, and a bunch of other cat words he’s invented to suit his cat moods. And he always waits under my bed for me to come home.
Rrrurk, says Goblin, butting his head against my foot. After I’ve rubbed him enough, he leaps heavily onto my bed and curls up in the blankets.
I throw the towel over the chair and pull on a fresh pair of boxer shorts. I don’t turn on the light. I’d rather hide in the dark for a while. Even when I’m alone in my room, I swear, sometimes I feel the pressure of eyes on me. In this little town, there’s always someone watching. There’s enough glow from the night sky for me to make my way around the room anyway. I could do it with my eyes closed: Twin bed. Scarred dresser covered with stickers and metal band logos drawn by hand with black Sharpie. Desk and chair. Sound system p
ieced together from garage sales and Goodwill. And, beside my bed, the guitars. My first acoustic, cheap and light as balsa wood. My new acoustic, still in its case from the show. My old ninety-dollar Epiphone Les Paul Special. And the black Ibanez electric. The most valuable, most beautiful thing I own.
Yvonne.
I sit down on the end of the bed. I’ve already played for almost five hours today: two hours of practice, warm-up, sound check, the show. But I can’t help myself. I unzip the case and pull Yvonne into my lap. I run my fingers down the strings, feeling the buzz of the wires against my fingertips.
As long as I’m playing, I can shut off the rest of my brain. I can stop thinking about what my face is doing, and about how my autograph on some girl’s arm looked like it was written by a six-year-old girl, and about all the people screaming for our set tonight, and about Dad not even looking up from the TV when I walked into the house, and about the much worse things—the things I can’t tell anyone, that I barely confess to myself. There’s nothing left but the music.
I don’t plug into the amp. I just practice the pentatonic scale, as fast as I can, up and down the fretboard. Then I practice fingerwork. First finger to second, second finger to third, third to fourth, as fast as I can. Until the tendons are screaming.
Then I lay Yvonne on the bed, climb down onto the rough dark blue carpet, and do fifty push-ups on my knuckles. The skin on the backs of my hands burns. After fifty I stretch for a minute: neck, shoulders, hands. Then I pick up the guitar again. Scales, slightly faster this time.
I’ll do this for a while. Until the last of the adrenaline from the show has finally drained away, and my whole body aches, but in a good way, like after a long run, and I can just pass out, without the rest of my brain ever turning itself back on. I’m just getting down on the floor for the next round of push-ups when there’s a tap at the window.
I jerk up. My heart jumps.
Someone is outside.
At first all I can see is a shape. It looks human. It’s small and short-haired, and it’s pressed right up to the glass.
Then it lifts one hand in a little fingertip wave, and I realize that it’s Frankie Lynde.
And I’m standing beside my bed, out of breath, my mouth hanging open, in nothing but my ratty boxer shorts.
Jesus Christ.
I grab a pair of jeans from the laundry pile, yanking them up over my damp skin as I stumble toward the window.
She’s seen me like this before. Shirtless, out of breath. The memory makes my frozen heart start to thud again.
Rock-star face. Rock-star face.
I shake my hair out of my eyes and shove the window open. A rush of cool, damp air pours into the room.
Mrk? says Goblin from over my shoulder.
My window is just high enough that Frankie needed to stand on something to look inside. She’s rolled a stump over from the firepit out back. In the moonlight her hair is sleek and her skin is silvery gold and perfect.
Everything about her is perfect.
“Hey,” she says. She smiles.
My heart trips, but I keep my face still. “Hey.”
“How’s it going in there?”
“Fine. How’s it going out there?”
“Also fine. Although Sasha spilled some iced green tea on Mason’s phone, and now he might have to kill her. Or get a new phone. Whatever’s easier.”
In the background I can hear a shriek. “Stop it, Mason! That won’t bring your phone back from the dead!” There’s crunching, steps running through pine needles. Somebody laughs.
“Who else is out there?”
“Just me and Sasha and Mason and Gwynn. We might drive around for a while. The moon’s so bright.”
Of course Frankie isn’t alone. She’s never alone. That’s the kind of girl Frankie is: the kind who’s surrounded by people who love her every minute of every day.
Frankie is fun. She’s cool. She’s also the most beautiful human being I’ve ever seen in real life. If it weren’t for the music, a girl like Frankie Lynde wouldn’t even give me two seconds of her attention. She notices me for the same reason everybody else does, and I know it.
I’m not whining. I’m not. But I’m also not going to pretend something’s real when I know that if my guitar suddenly disappeared, Frankie Lynde would disappear, too.
“We were all at the show,” Frankie says. “Did you see us?”
Did I see them? I can’t remember. While I play, I focus on one face after another until all of them melt into one blurry gray face, and nothing sticks in my mind at all.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Well, we were there. And you were great.” Frankie smiles again. “So. Want to come out with us?” She raises one eyebrow. “I suppose you’d have to put a shirt on.”
I shift my weight so that a little more of my chest will be hidden behind the window frame, trying to look as casual as possible. Then I think about what she’s asking. Driving around town with Frankie’s friends, having to keep up the rock-star act all night. I can barely keep it up right now. I’d rather be alone with Yvonne and the music.
“I don’t think so,” I tell her. “I’m down for the night.”
Frankie doesn’t beg. She probably doesn’t know how. She just gives a little sigh. It’s as close as she ever gets to seeming disappointed. Her eyes flick to my bare chest, just for a second. I’m not sure if she’s pleased, or if she’s only less than disgusted, but she doesn’t look disappointed anymore.
“Okay,” she says. “Well—have a good night in there.”
“Have a good night out there.”
She hesitates for a second, like she’s waiting for me to say something else, or to change my mind and climb out the window after her. But my feet might as well be glued to the worn blue carpet.
Another beat, and Frankie is jumping down from the stump, running off toward the trees, disappearing. I hear more footsteps in the pine needles. More laughter.
Frankie’s laugh is like music.
It’s a cliché, but I mean it. Her laugh is sound perfectly arranged in time. It’s too perfect to be effortless, but it sounds effortless anyway.
Somewhere in the distance, there’s an engine, and then the woods fade to quiet again.
I shut the window.
I sit back down on the end of the bed. Goblin crawls across the blankets and flops down next to me with a little grunt, his curving spine pressed against my back. I haven’t even picked up Yvonne again when it hits me.
A chord. A line of melody. Another chord.
It comes like a punch, just like always. Air knocked out of my lungs; thoughts scattered. There’s nothing left but the spot where the fist struck.
I grab the notebook and pencil from the bedside table and get it all down as fast as I can.
What are you waiting for?
I know you’re listening
Why are you holding still
clenching that key in your hand
What are you hoping for?
All alone, one a.m.
Why are you here again
standing still until you can’t stand it anymore
And you’re not
the flying bullet
And you’re not
the speeding car
And you’re not
even the empty sky behind a falling star
What can you see?
The darkness closes
What does it mean
that every light is too light to hold you down
And you’re not
the buried bullet
And you’re not
the totaled car
And you’re not
even the empty sky where there was a falling star
When it’s done, I feel hungover. I’m guessing this is what a hangover feels like, anyway. I’ve only been seriously drunk once in my life, and then I puked so much, I don’t think there was enough of anything left in my system to give me one. But after the songs come, I feel
exhausted and empty, just like I did then. Like my brain is out of my control. Like my stomach is a wrung-out sock and my mouth is carpeted with sour paste, and like I’m not sure what I was doing five seconds ago.
It’s been this way for almost two years now. As long as I’ve been writing anything decent. A song comes: Everything else in my brain fizzes out. I’ve had to stop in the middle of a math test to scribble notes and lyrics under my desk. I’ve had to pretend I was sick and bolt from the dinner table. It’s like when some big breaking news story comes on TV, and it’s on every channel, interrupting every show, and everything else has to stop. Everything but the song.
And the songs always come in one finished piece. I can hear the bass line, the drums, the guitar intro, and solos. There’s no voice, but there are always lyrics, playing in the tone where I’m supposed to sing or shout them. They fill up my skull, blasting at top volume again and again, louder and louder, until I release them all on paper.
It’s exhausting, but it’s exhilarating. It’s a lot like the shows. I guess there’s a reason people want to get drunk again and again.
It’s gone on long enough, and I’ve gotten enough good songs out of it, that I guess this is just the way my songwriting works. Other composers have described feeling the same way. Beethoven even said, “Tones sound, and roar and storm about me until I have set them down in notes.” Not that I’m Beethoven or anything. Just that what happens to me when a song comes isn’t that strange.
This is what I tell myself.
And the way that I can play, the way my hands have gotten faster and faster, and how it sometimes feels like I’m not even the one controlling them—that’s because I’ve practiced like crazy for the last nine years.
This is what I tell myself, too.
Even though I’m less and less sure I believe it.
I put Yvonne gently back on her stand. I set the notebook and pencil in their place.
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