25- all good things
Deno picks me up at seven o’clock on the nose. He’s extraordinarily punctual. I open a garage door, and he backs up to it so my equipment doesn’t get rained on.
He looks me up and down and lets out a low whistle. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.” I grip my laptop like a shield, feeling as naked as a newborn.
“You don’t look sure.” He leans against my car. “It’s not too late to get changed, you know. Go dye your hair, or whatever you do.”
I hand him the laptop. “This is getting ridiculous, Deen. I’m turning eighteen in two months. Graduating in three. This is long overdue.”
And I may not get another chance to do this. I swallow and hand him my mixer and a microphone case.
His eyes widen on the microphone. “Seriously?”
“Did you think I’d change my mind?”
“Yes.” Deno loads them into his van. “I’m glad you didn’t, even though I just lost another damn bet. Lacey must have hidden psychic abilities. I have to stop betting against her.”
“How much did you lose this time?”
“A night of my life.”
“What?”
He makes a goofy face. “I have to go with her to her cousin’s wedding.”
Oh, Lacey, you wily thing. A smile tugs my lips. “Oh, poor you.”
“Maybe it won’t be so bad.” He shrugs. “She’s making me wear a suit, though.”
“Men wear suits to weddings,” I say. “It’s the rule.”
He tugs his floppy beanie to his brows. “I don’t acknowledge the social norms.”
“Oh yeah, right.” I roll my eyes. “I’ll bet you twenty bucks you have fun at the wedding.”
He points at me. “You’re on.”
I smile and tug the blunt ends of my hair. My normal, dyed blond-with-dark-roots hair. The only part of Sparo coming with me tonight is the glasses—my signature giant green sunglasses. The rest is all Angie.
My instructions for Artie, The Strip Mall’s lighting guy, are quite specific. His wiry gray brows raise as he reads what I typed out in great detail. He listens to me ramble for a while, then, with a nicotine-stained grin, crumples up the paper and chucks it in the circular file.
I blink at him, a little surprised, but mostly not. Artie sees himself as a lighting artist, far above taking directions from a punk newbie like me. He was once a stagehand for Queen, after all.
“Don’t worry, kid, I got you covered,” Artie says in his gravelly voice. “It ain’t every day I get to do a ‘coming out’ show. I’ll give ’em something they won’t forget.” He waves me off. “Go kill ’em.”
I go back to my booth with glasses off. It’s not quite eight o’clock. My set hasn’t begun yet, and so far none of the early arrivals have noticed me. Or, if they have, they think I’m just here to help set up. I think.
Deno puts on some music, and Artie lowers the lights. Lacey bustles in, hauling her keyboard and a case of stuff—headphones and extra cables and whatnot. We both do a double take. She’s put metallic purple streaks in her black hair and is wearing makeup. She’s so pretty she doesn’t need it, and she’s not wearing much. Just enough blush to give her brown skin an extra glow. Her dark eyes look electric in iridescent blue liner, and her nails are tipped in pewter polish.
“What?” she snaps at us. “Aren’t we supposed to be setting up?”
“You look…different,” Deno says.
She doesn’t really. Her hair and makeup showcase what was always there, but Deno stares at her like he’s never seen her before.
“I do not,” she mutters. “It’s just a little— Stop staring!” He continues to do just that, earning him a fierce look from Lacey as she gets to work redoing everything Deno has set up. I bite my lip and turn back to my laptop.
It’s cramped in here, with all the extra equipment, and the three of us, and the suddenly charged energy between Deno and Lacey. I sit off to myself, listening to them argue over what should be plugged into what. They sound faraway, like voices calling through a tunnel.
I am nervous. My hand shakes so bad, I can barely control the cursor on my laptop.
I don’t look out there, but I feel the press of energy that tells me the room is filling up. It’s a heady feeling, knowing they’re here for me, for the music I’m going to play for them. The white noise of voices, the shuffle of feet. My heart pounds. Adrenaline spikes. But my euphoria is tainted with pure fear. This is me, tonight. All me.
I settle my guitar against my ribs and resist the urge to scan the crowd. My eyes search for Reece. Two minutes ago when I looked, he wasn’t here. I try to convince myself that this is good. The distance is necessary to keep Rafette away from both of us. But my heart wishes he were here. It’s an ache I haven’t been able to shake. I can do this. Just a little while longer, then he’ll be gone.
I put my glasses on my face and signal Artie. I’m ready to begin.
The room goes black. A thousand tiny white lights play on the ceiling and walls, like fireflies. None of the lights fall on me. I adjust my microphone, a new addition to the booth, and a very unnerving thing to see perched in front of me. “This is a special night, kids,” I say.
Some guy out there shouts, “I love you, Sparo!” but mostly the room goes silent.
“We’re doing things a little differently tonight. I’m going to play some completely new tunes for you.”
Whispered voices roll off the crowd. Ice cold sweat trickles down the valley of my spine. Briefly, frantically, I wonder if anyone has recognized my voice and—oh God, are they going to laugh at me? Boo me off the stage? Deno pokes me in the arm. He reaches past me, and with slow deliberation, hits PLAY. This isn’t a concert, but some music will be performed live. A hypnotic percussion opens up, builds. Other tracks layer on a melodic synth part that Lacey recorded yesterday.
This is happening. Finally. All the hiding and shame and fear that complicate my past was worth fighting through for this moment. Fear. Excitement. Elation. Fear, again. It all bubbles through me like a boiling pot. No going back.
I close my eyes. Wait for the right beat. Breathe. Sing.
Fly with me, baby, there’s nothing to fear.
Stay with me today, before you have to go.
Be with me, baby, no need to hide.
In the light of the new day, the fire’s burning low.
Can’t stop searching, for some spark of hope.
Find your way to dry land, the sea will drag me down.
Swimming to the far shore, to the lonely underground.
You’ll be gone before I’ve drowned.
Before I ever make a sound,
I’ll never make a sound…
There’s an instrumental bit between the two verses, and I glance at my friends during the break. Lacey plays one keyboard part live. Not easy, considering she has to split the keyboard sounds in order to include a little violin bit she added. Deno’s head is bent over two tablets. He’s manually mixing the tracks of this song we frantically built this week. I’m on the guitar, backing up the track I recorded earlier today.
This is the most “band-like” of my songs, and the difference between my usual DJ set and this semi-live performance feels so… I can’t describe it. The music flows, moves around me like a living thing. It’s organic, growing. Being created one beat at a time. My voice comes out clear and dreamy, and I don’t have to force it. While I’m singing, there’re no nerves, no fears. We should be on the stage, not in the booth. It shouldn’t surprise me to realize this, but it does.
I launch into the second verse and chance a glance at the crowd. Artie’s keeping the lights off me until this song is over. Blue light undulates like water on the ceiling before shifting to purple, then red. Light, made to look like flying birds, plays over the crowd.
Euphoria rolls through me, filling my head with the glorious sensations. I thought I knew myself. I thought I knew what music did to me, but this beats everything. Playing my own music is triumph, release, freedom. It’s the sun on my face on the first warm day of the year. Cool water in the blistering heat.
A weight shifts, sloughs off like skin from a shedding snake. And suddenly it doesn’t matter what my classmates think of this. If they laugh, or never come here again, or beat my ass in the parking lot at the end of the night. It doesn’t matter. My throat tightens with emotion at the sight of my two friends up here with me. I wrote the words and much of the music, but I wouldn’t be here without them. I don’t even know how to express how grateful to them I am, for being here, all along.
Then the song ends. Reality returns.
Silence. Dead air.