58
Alina
The Montreal crowd is massive. My heart’s thumping to its own erratic beat, one I swear matches Rain’s or Siobhán’s complicated rhythms when they’re wailing on their drum sets. The Bell Centre is filled to capacity tonight, with 21,273 people occupying every seat. From the wings, I see the way the stage lights spill over the crowd, illuminating the faces of laughing and cheering men and women having a good time as they scream their heads off enjoying the bands, like they did when Happenstance played our set at the start of the concert.
And now, with Ullapool finishing their final song, we’re getting even closer to that time, the time for Sicken Union to give the audience what they came for. Although tonight, they’ll be getting me instead of Zack Nolan.
Fuck me. I gulp just thinking about it.
I, Alina Cassidy, am about to take the stage with some of the biggest gods of rock around.
“I’m going to puke,” I say, trying to retreat from the stage wing down the hall to the greenroom, back to safety. The nerves I’ve been fighting to keep at bay all night are now working overtime as the clock ticks down.
“Oh no you don’t, Ali,” Roxie says, grabbing my hand and holding me in place. “You can do this. You want to do this. It’s going to be epic! You are epic!”
“Ha! I’m not too sure about epic right now. I can’t even get my hands to stop shaking long enough to hold onto my pick. I keep dropping it.”
“And that’s why you always go out on stage with a couple extra,” Roxie says, carefully sticking three fluorescent green ones under the edge of my Strat’s pickguard. “Don’t leave home without ’em.”
I shake my head, laughing. After rehearsing all afternoon, the six of us had gone to visit Zach at the hospital, before heading to La Banquise to chow down on their famous “La Classique” poutine, the famous Québécois dish we’d promised Roxie and Paisley hours before. It felt good to get out for a while, and the laughter and mouthfuls of fresh-cut fries and melty-melty cheese curds drowning in rich brown gravy helped me wrap my head around the magnitude of what I had agreed to do. It was great, I felt settled—until Happenstance finished our set and had walked off stage. Then the reality hit me. I was going to have to go back out there, and this time I’d be playing without the safety net of my girls.
“What if I fuck up?” I say.
“What if you don’t?” Roxie counters.
“Be serious. This isn’t some small stint. This is Sicken Union.”
“Exactly. And you’re the next best thing to Zach on this tour, and they need you tonight. Slater needs you,” she stresses, a sly grin curving her lips, knowing she’s got me. How can I say no when she puts it like that? After everything that man has done for me? This is the very least I can do for him.
“You don’t play fair.” I tuck a piece of my dark hair behind my ear, then start rubbing the inside of my wrist. I remember Slater’s words…
“You are exquisite…”
“I love you…”
“I’m good, eh?” Roxie asks, smiling triumphantly and rocking on her heels. Suddenly I notice that the guys have shifted their way over to us. I’m standing beside Scott, Fife, Rain and Slater, who are getting ready to take the stage. I can smell the lingering scent of hairspray, and smile, seeing the guys with some heavy black liner making their eyes pop for when they’re out onstage. I feel short, surrounded by these tall men, who are all ready and amped to take the stage with me at their side, like we’re going into battle.
“Break a leg, Ali. You got this, and I’ll be here watching.” Roxie pulls me into a hug before strapping my guitar around my neck and placing a purple pick in my hand, to go along with the others she gave me earlier.
“I love you,” I say through clenched teeth, sure I’m going to pee myself.
“I’ll be here,” she says, and it hits me once again how close I’ve become to each and every one of these girls in their own right. I love Paisley and we’ll always be close, but ever since that first photoshoot, and our admissions to each other, Roxie and I have become thick as thieves and I am grateful she’s here with me.
“Us too,” Siobhán says, as she and Paisley come up beside Roxie and me. “We cannot wait to watch you slay out there,”
“I’m so fucking proud of you, I could cry,” Paisley says, beaming with pride. Some pyrotechnics go off onstage and her eyes sparkle in the bright, flashing lights as she slams her hands over her ears at the sound of the explosions. Ullapool are killing it tonight.
“I’m still worried the fans are going to be let down,” I shout.
“Not a chance, Shadow,” Slater says, coming up tight behind me, “they’re going to love seeing us together up there. You know the songs. We got the chance to practice, and you’re gonna kill it. And, worst case, you wing it,” he laughs, running a gentle touch over the tattoo on my inner wrist, giving me comfort and silent support.
“Sure. ‘Wing it’, he says…” I shrug, letting out a nervous laugh. “It’s your funeral when I freeze up there. Rox, you better get ready to step in just in case,” I say, only half-joking.
“Squirt, enough of that crap already. You’re Alina Jayne Cassidy, and you can play this shit in your sleep. Now shut up and show your big brother what you got. Show us all.”
I whip around, seeing Lucky and his girlfriend Teresa standing behind me, hands interlocked, smiling.
“You’re here? Lucky! You guys are here! When? How?” I cry.
“You think we’d miss this?” he says, coming up to hug me.
“We decided to make a weekend of it,” Teresa says, “a little Montreal, a little romance, see this kick-ass show… We wanted to surprise you.” I hug her. I really am becoming so fond of this woman, and am grateful to her for becoming the ray of light my brother needs. “Can’t wait to see you shine girl.”
“No pressure now, eh, guys? At all?” I spin around, joking while taking in the faces of all these people. My family. And I smile. Obviously the person who coined the phrase: “Blood is thicker than water” never stood in the same room with these people.
“I’m ready. You guys about ready?” I ask, beaming and jutting my chin out at Rain, Scott, Fife, and Slater, who is simply standing with his arms crossed over his chest, muscles all distracting and shit, chuckling at my brand of crazy.
“Let’s go kick some ass, Ali,” Fife says, wrapping me in his arms before walking me towards the stage, where Ullapool is now filing off to the sound of loud cheers. “We owe you,” he says, placing a sweet kiss on my temple.
I know he might not quite get it, but I say it anyway, “If anything, I owe you guys. So for now, let’s call it even.”
I smile, looking over my shoulder until my eyes connect with Slater, who mouths, “I fucking love you.”
The house lights dim, and Sicken Union takes to the stage with me on lead guitar.
You are enough…