I watched my sister in disbelief. I wasn’t going to lie, I’d been worried. She might have been a trainwreck. I’d been ready to flip a breaker if I had to, to save her from embarrassing herself.
I held up my phone and zoomed in on her, taking a video. The crowd liked her mixes. At first, it was tentative; people hung back waiting to see what she’d do. It was a mob-mentality thing. No one wanted to show they liked her music until someone else did. But once a few people started getting into it, it was like the floodgates opened. A fifteen-year-old who’d never DJ’d in public before, and she was killing it. Good girl, Dizz! I muttered to myself, sort of in a big-brotherly stupor. She was better than I’d expected. She had a presence on that platform.
It was almost the end of the song and her eyes flicked to the door, probably checking to see if DJ Erika had arrived yet.
“Keep going,” I said, gesturing with my hands. No sign of Erika meant she had to keep the tunes spinning. She looked freaked out for a second — her eyes got round and scared — but then she set her mouth and pulled some records out of the pile beside her.
She was halfway into another song when the door opened and a gust of wind swept in. DJ Erika stood there, a laptop bag of gear over one shoulder and a cart with wheels holding the rest of it. “Coming through,” she said breathlessly to the people in her way.
“Erika!” I shouted over the music.
“Oh my god! I’m sorry, Lou!” She threw one arm around my neck and the suitcase almost tipped over. “Traffic was brutal.”
I took the bag from her and moved to the side.
“Who’s that?” she asked, pausing to listen.
“My little sister. Dizzy.”
“Your sister? Isn’t she like ten?” Erika laughed and craned her neck to see.
“Fifteen. She’s pretty good, huh?”
Erika listened for a few minutes. “How long has she been DJing?”
“She’s been spinning for about a year, but it’s her first time doing a gig.”
Erika tilted her head at me like I was joking. “Seriously? She’s a lot better than I was at fifteen!” The tempo picked up on Dizzy’s mix and the crowd shouted its approval. Erika shook her head appreciatively. There was no point in barging to the front while Dizzy had things under control, so Erika and I hung at the back, waiting for the song to finish.
Looking at Erika, I was reminded of the embarrassing crush I’d had on her through high school. It had ebbed a little over the years, but she was still a super-hot girl. Kind of edgy. Cool to think that a girl like her, from our neighbourhood, was becoming the go-to DJ at clubs and music festivals. “So, what’s new with you?” she asked.
I silently groaned. Why did people have to ask that? I knew she was being polite, checking in with me, but there was nothing new with me. For a second, I thought about inventing a story: I was going backpacking across Europe; I was moving out to B.C.; I got accepted to business school; I was starting a band. Instead, I shrugged. “The usual,” I said, like I was okay with it. “How about you?”
Her face lit up. “I’m playing at a music festival in Italy this summer! I just found out. There’s an all-female lineup. I can’t wait.”
“Wow. That’s great. You’re big time.” She rolled her eyes, but I could tell she liked the compliment.
“Yeah, still schlepping my own gear, though.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh.
“Yeah.” I nodded.
“Might be your sister one day,” she said. I watched Dizzy move the controls, so intent. Erika was right, she had talent. The crowd was feeling her music. I held up my phone to record the rest of her set. It was easy to detach myself from what was going on around me when I stood behind the camera. “I’m going to move up front. You coming?” Erika asked.
I shook my head. “I’m going to stay back here, keep an eye on things.”
Erika moved her bag and case behind the cash desk. I watched her make her way through the crowd. She had so much ahead of her, I wondered why she ever came back. Jeremy and Dizzy had things to look forward to also: another year of college for Jer and Dizzy had her DJing; Dad had jamming with his buddies. I didn’t have anything. No bright spot to move toward. Nada. Nothing. Zilch. There was no reason, other than force of habit, that made me get out of bed in the morning.
I didn’t want to be that guy, the one with the beard and the tie-dye shirt living in my high school glory years. Not that they even were glory years. I’d hated high school — well, not hated, but it wasn’t like I’d been a stellar student. I hadn’t played sports and I hadn’t won any student leadership awards. I just went, hung out with friends, and worked. All that had been okay when I was a kid, but people were moving past me, finding what they wanted to do with their lives, and here I was: same job, same store, same life.
There had to be more. The question was how to find it?