On the drive over to the arena, my brothers had talked solely about the set list. Fitz suggested that we do a couple of cover songs. “We want the crowd to be singing along and excited about us. I think that’s the best way.” Everyone agreed, and we picked two pop songs that we’d performed before. They’d been in the Billboard Top 100 for weeks, and thanks to nonstop radio play, everyone would know the words. We just made them more rock. We also decided to sing our two most popular original songs, “Lost” and “How You Lie.” Along with “One More Night” and “Yesterday,” that would be our entire set. We had only about half an hour, which was a generous amount of time for how well known our band was (we were not well known at all).
When we arrived at the arena entrance, a horde of screaming teenage girls lined the walkway, holding up signs and pictures. Fitz opened the door and climbed out, and all the screams died. The girls started texting on their phones and resumed their conversations.
I thought it was hilarious. My brothers were not quite as amused. “I think I feel insulted.” Fitz frowned.
A crew member met us and led us out to the stage. “Wow” was all I could manage.
We were set up in the center of the massive arena, meaning we’d need to play to more than one direction.
“Can you imagine if we were the headliners and this many people wanted to see us perform?” I asked, not really able to take it all in.
“Someday it will be,” Parker assured me with a grin, twirling his drumstick and then sitting down behind his kit.
Fitz and I had brought our guitars, but Parker’s drums and Cole’s keyboard had been set up by the production crew. It was so nice not to have to worry about amplifier and speaker locations and not to unravel yards and yards of black cords.
Someone wearing a headset and carrying a tablet approached. “Hey, guys. I’m Kenny. I work with Santiago, your sound engineer. You are in excellent hands. He’s one of the best.”
“I’m the best, thank you.” A loud voice boomed over the speakers, making us jump.
“We put your microphones where you indicated you wanted them on your sound plot, and if you’ll get your instruments set up, we can start.”
I took my Dreadnought out of the case and moved my Epi-Pen aside to get the check from Ryan. I turned to face my brothers. “Before we start, I got the money for Mom’s overdue fees.”
Given their expressions, it was like I had just announced that I had discovered the cure for cancer while doing the tango with a shark.
“Where?” was all Parker asked, taking the check from me.
“I got it from Ryan because—”
Before I could explain, Cole interrupted me. “What exactly are you doing for that kind of money?”
I would not smash my guitar over my brother’s head. I would not. “Oh no, you’ve found me out. I’ve decided to become a high-class escort and enter into an indecent proposal with Ryan De Luna.”
Did they get my sarcasm? Of course not.
“If that’s true, you should have held out for a lot more zeros.”
Seeing as how fratricide was still illegal, I told them about Ryan’s situation. I swore them all to secrecy and then explained how he needed a fake girlfriend to impress his label and improve his image and that it had to be someone who wouldn’t sell him out or write a song about him. “I’m a nice, normal, trustworthy girl-next-door type, not a diva or a psycho.”
“He has met you, right?” Parker asked. I went over and took the check back, then stuck it in my bra for safekeeping while we did our sound check. I punched Parker on the arm, as he so rightly deserved. “Ow! I need that to play tonight.”
“How long are you planning on pretending to be his girlfriend?” Fitz asked.
“It will be for just a little while.” With a twinge of unease, I realized Ryan and I hadn’t really discussed terms other than not sleeping together, and a rush of blazing heat reminded me that he expected us to touch and kiss. But I didn’t know how long this would last and whether we would date or pretend to date or what he expected from me.
Cole moved his keyboard slightly to the left. “Don’t get all Ice Queen and weird on him and wreck it. I don’t want to be fired.”
“Don’t call me that. I’ve already had the ‘Don’t get us fired’ lecture this week, thanks. And if I’m weird or an Ice Queen, that’s your guys’ fault.”
“How is it our fault?” Fitz protested.
“Two words. Russ Karn.”
At that, they fell silent, as well they should have. Russ Karn, captain of our high school football team, had been my prom date senior year, and he had been a very nice boy. A nice boy who was respectful and a gentleman the entire evening—opening doors, pulling out my chair for me, dancing to both fast and slow songs. When he took me home, he confessed he’d been dying to kiss me the entire night. Which I thought was awfully sweet, so we stayed in the back of the limo and made out a little.
Up until the moment my brothers practically yanked the door off its hinges and hauled him out to the front yard.
“What kind of girl do you think our sister is?” Cole demanded while holding Russ by his tuxedo lapels.
I got out of the limo and screamed at them to stop, that they were ruining everything. Fitz dragged me inside without even letting me say good night. Monday morning at school, Russ sported a black eye and never spoke to me again.
Cole looked just as angry as he had been that night. “We didn’t tell you this at the time, but Russ Karn had made a bet with the offensive line that he was going to score with the Ice Queen on prom night. Which I didn’t find out about until the night of, and I ditched my date to go looking for you. I went home and told Parker and Fitz, and we tried to call you, but you had your phone off. We were all worried he might try and force you to do something you weren’t ready for. So when you showed up at home and he was all over you, yes, we overreacted. But he deserved it. You’re welcome.”
Shock flooded my limbs, making it difficult to blink, chased by an overwhelming sense of guilt. Here I’d been mad for years about something they’d done, but they’d done it not to be interfering or overprotective, as I’d assumed, but because they cared about me and didn’t want me to get hurt. I’d rushed to an unwarranted conclusion.
Before I could say that I’d been wrong, Kenny returned with our inner-ear monitors. Santiago worked with each of us to figure out which parts of the band we wanted to hear and which we didn’t.
“You mean I can tune out the drummer?” I asked. “Parker couldn’t hold on to a steady beat if he married it first.”
When my brother smiled and shook his head while Cole and Fitz laughed, I knew things would be okay between us.
Sound check took a while as Santiago learned our preferences, and we learned to trust his suggestions. The music in my IEM sounded off, and Kenny explained that performing in clubs and arenas were two totally different beasts. Not only that, but the arena was currently empty, and Santiago had to account for the bodies that would be there, the sounds they’d be making, the wind currents—all kinds of stuff. If Santiago didn’t do his job correctly, then it wouldn’t matter how well we played. We’d sound like garbage.
“Which is why it’s fortunate for you that I am the best,” Santiago intoned over the speakers.
We played through our set list, and Santiago instructed us to play softer or sing louder or vice versa, then checked the levels. About an hour and a half later, we had it all arranged to his satisfaction.
“Next time will be faster,” Kenny promised. He got somebody else to show us to our dressing room. We had only about an hour and a half until the concert started. There were assorted snacks and water, juice, and Gatorade waiting for us, along with my carry-on so that I could get ready.
“We never did get a rider,” Fitz said, a note of disappointment in his voice.
“Right. How else are the venues going to know I need fresh-cut Casablanca lilies, fruitless baskets, two boxes of cornstarch, imported Versace towels, and a twelve-foot-long boa constrictor before I can even think about going out onstage?” Cole asked as I headed into the bathroom.
I changed into a tight red shirt and black leather skirt that felt more rocklike to me (more binding and less comfortable than my regular clothes) and did my makeup and hair. One of my brothers might have possibly changed his shirt, and that was it.
Totally unfair.
With an hour left, we started warming up our vocals. We’d done this for so long it was second nature—no thought or concentration required. Even though the warm-ups felt comfortable and routine, a nervous energy permeated the room. Parker kept twirling a single drumstick between his fingers while Fitz paced and Cole jiggled his right leg up and down.
Finally, there was a knock at the door telling us it was time. I watched all the people running around, doing what needed to be done to make this show a success. I thought of all the other crew members I couldn’t see, all the people who were reliant on Ryan for jobs. I listened to the twenty thousand fans currently chanting his name and thought of all the money they’d spent to watch him perform. He was busy and important, and it occurred to me that what he had done for me earlier was really special. How he had sat and talked to me, let me whine and complain, and then helped me with my problems. It caused a pulling sensation on my heart that I had neither the time nor the inclination to examine too closely.
We went under the stage to where we would be lifted up after we were announced. Kenny helped us with our IEMs. Once he finished, I grabbed Fitz’s and Parker’s hands, and Parker reached out for Cole, bringing him into the circle. The lift went up slowly, the bright stage lights beaming down on us.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for Yesterday!”
“This is for Mom,” Fitz said with a smile.
We walked onto the stage, waving to the polite applause we received. We were not who the audience wanted.
But my brothers didn’t care.
I was not the bantering-with-the-crowd type and quietly walked over to where my microphone and guitar were set up. Parker, on the other hand, had no such problem. As soon as he was seated at his drums, he said into his microphone, “Hello, Las Vegas! How excited are you to see Ryan De Luna tonight?”
The entire arena erupted in hysterical screams.
Cole played along. “Will we do until you get to see him?” He even struck a pose, much to the delight of the crowd.
“If Ryan doesn’t treat you ladies right, you come find one of the Harrison boys,” Parker teased, causing even more shrills and shrieks.
“Yeah, we know what women like,” Cole said, and I thought the crowd might actually fall down from the response. Like the walls of Jericho.
A woman near the stage screamed, “I want to have your babies!” and ten seconds later a lacy hot-pink bra landed on the stage. It was like the feminism movement was regressing before my eyes.
I figured somewhere Gloria Steinem had just become violently ill without knowing the reason why.
With the crowd whipped up into a frenzy, Parker hit his sticks together to an eight count, letting us know when to come in.
The adrenaline rushed through my veins, singing as it went. An electric buzz sank into my skin, spreading until it filled my soul. The only thing I could compare it to was when I’d been close to Ryan earlier.
Only more magical.
Our music filled the speakers and shook the stage beneath our feet. I sang the first five words of the cover song we’d chosen, and the crowd immediately responded, singing the next four words back to me without prompting.
It was the most incredible feeling in the world. It would be hard to explain to someone whose life didn’t revolve around music, but it was this . . . overwhelming euphoria. Connection to the audience that was connecting with us. As if we’d harnessed some great, inexplicable power and thrown it out to the crowd, and they were funneling it back to us with their cheers.
Not that we were flawless. We made mistakes. Rushed beats, sang flat notes, misplayed chords. Probably due to jitters and excitement, but it couldn’t detract from the golden bubble of happy that encased all of us onstage.
When I got to “One More Night,” the audience practically lost it. They sang every word along with me, and I had to fight to not get choked up. The music uplifted. It united us and spoke to every person in the arena in a way that no language ever could. I’d never felt so energized, so completely alive.
Like I had been fundamentally changed and would never be the same person again.
This was what I was going to do with the rest of my life, no matter what it took.
We finished with “Yesterday” and thanked the crowd for listening to us. This time, the cheers and applause were real and maybe a little bit earned.
Then we were back under the stage. The audience’s response still rang in my ears. I felt hands slap me on the back and heard people say, “Great show!” and “Good job!” I was on such a high that I walked by Ryan without even realizing it.
Clear up to the moment when he slipped a hand around my waist, pulled me in close, and pressed his lips softly against the side of my face. I gasped, my breath sticking in my throat.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “Your cheek looked like it was missing a kiss. You were absolutely incredible out there. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
With a wink and a grin, he was gone, and I almost stumbled and fell into a stack of animal props they used for the circus portion of his show.
“Come on, IQ,” Cole said as he navigated me toward our dressing room. “Let’s get you cooled off.”
Not possible.
“I know you said this is all fake, but that looked real to me.”
What could I tell him? There was nothing to say, so I just kept walking.
“Don’t get me wrong, because I think he’s a cool dude, but don’t say you weren’t warned.”
I’d been warned. Repeatedly. By both strangers and the people who loved me best.
I was finding out that it didn’t matter. I knew what I should do: what was best for me and my life.
In that moment? I absolutely, 100 percent, did not care.