CHAPTER 17
Playing at the Magwitch is everything and nothing I imagined it would be.
Everything: the enormity of our sound, the energy of the audience, the power of this music we’ve been working on for almost three years, the ecstasy of playing it, the pride of knowing it’s worthy—we’re worthy—of this stage.
Nothing: realizing that I got what I wanted, and it ruined what mattered.
From the first note, Daniel’s voice overflows with emotion; it’s clear that he’s singing to the one person in the building he cares about right now. She’s sitting on a sofa on the top balcony. The whole room is dimly lit by the crystal orbs that drip from the ceiling—it’s like we’re suspended at the edge of the galaxy, floating among the stars—and yet even from here, she’s clearly visible. For one paranoid moment, I wonder whether she carries the illumination within her.
Cameron, who apparently used the free time to just get some street food and then wander around the city, told me before we walked onstage that she threatened to fly home before our set, but Daniel convinced her to stay. How, I don’t know. But when we play “Love You So,” Daniel very nearly sobs into the microphone. By the end of the number, I think I see her stony expression soften.
Anger seems to fuel Flynn, who’s playing like a drum-destroying machine. When I step toward him during my bass solo on “Figure Eight,” he looks away from me and hits his snare so hard that his drumstick splinters. He drops it quickly and retrieves a replacement from a bag by his side. I mostly keep my distance after that.
Cameron’s playing fast and loose, like he’s finally let go of everything that was holding him back. His solo on “Fetch” is insane. He steps out toward the front of the stage and shreds his instrument, but it’s not just speed for the sake of speed. What he plays is beautiful, mesmerizing.
And I’m playing like I have nothing to lose, because I don’t.
And the room knows it.
And it electrifies everything.
When we reach the bass/drum break at the end of “Long Morning,” which is our second-to-last song, I swing around to face Flynn again. It’s an oven up here. Sweat rains off his face as he hammers on his kit. He pretends not to notice me, so I step toward him again, and almost despite himself, he leans into my rhythm. We lock eyes, and the music surges between us. For one breathtaking moment, I think that maybe we’ll be okay, but then Daniel and Cameron come back in on their instruments, and the moment is over. Flynn looks away, hitting his ride cymbal so hard it looks like he wants to murder it.
Still, our set has been tight, flawless. As we play the out-chorus of “Long Morning,” I think of a song by Jeff Buckley—“Last Goodbye,” originally titled “Unforgiven.” I hear it underneath what we’re playing now, and I remember, suddenly, that Jeff Buckley only met his biological father once. He didn’t know his real name was Jeff until he saw it on his birth certificate. Tears gather in the corners of my eyes, spilling over my cheeks, hopefully blending with the sweat that’s streaming down from my scalp. But I’m not just crying for me this time. I’m crying for the end of my band, the destruction of these friendships, the inevitable and ongoing disappointment of my parents. I’m also crying for Jeff Buckley, because he died so young, and I can’t ask him if he ever felt like I do now. He can’t ever explain it to me, except in the music he left behind.
The song ends, but Cameron and I maintain a constant, pulsing tone as Daniel leans into his microphone and shouts, “San Francisco!” Sound swells up from the club floor and down from the balcony levels. “We have one more song to play for you tonight.” His voice reverberates deep in my bones. After everything that’s happened today, it still sends a shiver down my spine. “But first we’d like to thank Horoscope for inviting us. It’s been a dream to play for you.”
Daniel steps to the side of his microphone, angling his body toward Cameron—which is to say, away from me—as he says, “I’d also like to introduce the band.”
Flynn starts tapping out a rhythm as Daniel says, “On lead guitar we’ve got Cameron Zamani . . .” The audience applauds as Cameron plays a blinding series of arpeggios. “On drums, we’ve got Flynn Ross . . .” Flynn plays a brief but complex fill. “On bass, we have Nora Wakelin . . .” The audience’s volume surges as I slap a bass line. “I’m Daniel Teague, and together we’re Blue Miles . . .”
Cameron and I look at each other to get the timing of our entrance for our last song. We land on the downbeat together, and the music gushes out of me. I step toward Daniel as Cameron joins on the countermelody. I step toward him again. He sways in my direction. The energy grows, swells, peaks, and then we cut out.
The entire room seems to gasp for breath before we come back in on the chorus. My voice is stronger than usual as I sing harmony.
Neither Daniel nor Flynn will make eye contact with me; we don’t even have a word. But my entire soul seems to spill across the stage as my fingers climb the neck of my bass. I close my eyes, arch my back, and let everything go.
When we play the final note, the room erupts with applause. This is not you-were-decent-enough-for-an-opener applause; this sound hits me like a wall, practically pushing me off the stage. Daniel does his usual, “Thank you! We’re Blue Miles! Good night!” But I doubt anyone hears him.
The stage lights switch off abruptly, and before I’ve lifted off my bass, I see Flynn’s shadow dart toward the wing and disappear. Daniel glances at me as he brushes past, but then he, too, is gone. Cameron and I walk offstage together. Before I step out of view, I take one last look at the audience. The houselights have brightened somewhat. I wonder who all these people are and if, a few years from now, any of them will remember our performance tonight. I wonder if Stellan Prescott is really out there and, if he is, whether he thinks we had what it takes.
During Horoscope’s show, I sit in the wing, hidden in the shadows, knees drawn in to my chest. I thought playing the Magwitch would change everything, that afterward I’d feel fundamentally different. But I don’t really feel different at all, and things have changed, but not because of our performance. I wonder if every big moment in my life will be this much of a letdown.
Suddenly, I’m exhausted. I feel wrung out, desiccated, like I need to spend the next decade sleeping off the past forty-eight hours.
Behind me, someone shouts, “Nora,” and even over the noise from the stage, I know that it’s Flynn. I look back at him and wait for him to speak. “I’m leaving. Tonight. The rest of you can fly back, but I’ll take your equipment if you want.” He’ll drive my bass, but he won’t drive me. It’s so Flynn—principled, but practical. “So, do you want me to take your bass?”
I look back at him. His posture is rigid; his arms are crossed tightly over his chest. It’s too dark here for me to see his face clearly, but I get the general idea. His lips are pressed into a straight line across his face. His eyes seem to be angled to the side, so he doesn’t have to look at me.
I keep my voice steady as I say, “Yeah. Thanks.” He doesn’t move right away, so in case I don’t get another opportunity to say this, I force out, “I’m sorry, Flynn. I didn’t mean to ruin everything.”
A long moment later, he sits down next to me, cross-legged. The position looks unnatural on him—too casual by a mile. But some of the rigidness goes out of his spine as he says, “I know this has been a rough week for you, for a lot of reasons.”
I think about the lies I told Daniel, the lies I told the band, and then say, “That’s not an excuse, though.”
He folds his hands in his lap. “I just wish—”
When I realize he’s not going to finish his thought, I look at him and say, “You wish what?” Because if there’s something I could do to make this better, I’d do it. It’s heartbreaking enough to know that I’ve lost Daniel, or that I never had him to begin with, but the thought of losing the band is what’s making my throat close and my chest feel like it’s being squeezed in a vise. As soon as our show was over, it struck me how isolated I am. I don’t have friends outside the band. I don’t even talk to my sister, not really. Somehow, I’ve managed to go my entire life without letting anyone get close to me. I’m sure that some shrink could tell me a dozen ways that this is rooted in some trauma from my past, or something like that, but I don’t really care. Right now, I just don’t want to be alone.
Flynn looks at me, and his eyes seem strangely bright, catching the stage lights at a weird angle. “I wish that you’d come to me instead.” Those words send a white-hot pain through my midsection, because I suddenly realize that, yes, this night can get worse. Because there’s at least one thing I won’t be able to do to make this better.
When he places a hand on my knee, I feel its clamminess through my jeans. “Nora, you have to know that I—” He closes his eyes, moves incrementally closer to me, tries again. “I always thought that you and I were the same. You know?” I know I need to make this stop, but I can’t find the words. I can’t even find the breath to make words come. So Flynn goes on. “Dan and Cameron don’t take anything seriously. They never have. But you and I, we care about things.”
I need to say it. I need to get these words out. I start to say, “Flynn—”
But the words get caught in my throat, and in that pause, he takes my hand. I feel his pulse racing through the center of his palm.
“Ever since you joined the band, I’ve hoped that someday we could be more than just bandmates, more than friends.” He finally looks at me as he says, “I think we’d be great together.”
He watches me hopefully, until I slowly remove my hand from his and manage to choke out, “You know you’re one of my best friends, but—”
I lose the thread again, but he doesn’t need me to fill in the blanks for him. His expression shifts from hope to horror, and it breaks all the pieces of my heart that weren’t pulverized already. He’s on his feet in a blink.
He chokes out, “I’ll get your bass to you on Monday,” and then he’s gone.
By the time Horoscope’s set ends, all my guys have left. Well, they’re not mine anymore, so I guess they’re doubly gone. Cameron informed me that Daniel’s staying in Darcy’s hotel tonight, then flying home with her in the morning. And Flynn left as soon as his van was loaded. If he drives all night, he’ll be home by sunrise.
Before taking a cab back to our hostel, Cameron used his parents’ credit card to book a flight home for us; we get into John Wayne Airport tomorrow morning. I have no idea how I’ll explain this to my parents. My current plan is to say nothing at all.
When Skeet, Becca, and Jos stride off the stage, I’m still sitting in the wing, wondering what sort of hell I’ll face at school on Monday, or at home tomorrow night. And still there’s a corner of my mind that can’t stop thinking about Tessa Reynoso, my verified birth mother, alive and well in Honolulu. I can’t believe I’ve come so far and lost so much—and gotten so close—and still haven’t met her.
“Hey, Carol Kaye,” Skeet says to me. “Why the long face?”
I shake my head. “It’s a long story.”
“Well, we have it on good authority that you impressed Stellan Prescott,” Becca says.
Skeet wraps his arm around Becca’s shoulders. The way they’re standing together reminds me of a thousand moments with Flynn and Cameron and Daniel; I wonder if this aching sense of loss will ever diminish.
“As in, we heard him say, ‘I’m impressed.’” Skeet smiles at Becca. “And trust us, that’s high praise from Stellan.”
I inhale deeply, giving myself a moment to live inside the possibilities of what they just said. But on the exhale, I decide that now is as good a time as ever to start spreading the news of Blue Miles’s demise, so I stand, brush off my jeans, and say, “That’s flattering, but my band just broke up.”
“That’s a shame,” Skeet says, though he doesn’t sound too bothered. “But Stellan specifically mentioned you. He already took off, but he wanted us to give you his card.”
Skeet reaches into a pocket in his vest and produces a black business card with the Kitten Kat logo watermarked in the center. Printed along the bottom edge of the card is Stellan Prescott’s contact information. Five days ago, this would have been a dream come true. Now it feels like a cruel joke.
“But I don’t have a band.”
Jos shrugs. “Bands break up. They get back together. You play with some people, and then you play with others.”
“Oh, wee one,” Skeet says, pressing the card into my hand. “A band is like love. You always remember your first, but that doesn’t mean you should settle down with them and make babies.”
My first. Blue Miles was my first of a lot of things.
“Was this a sudden break,” Skeet says, “or was it a long time coming?”
“Sudden.”
“Like”—Skeet leans forward—“was there a fight?”
“A big one.” I shake my head. “There’s no coming back from this.”
“Never say never, Mini-Mingus.” He elbows Becca. “Bex and I were in a band together years before we formed Horoscope.”
“With Zachary.” Becca says the name with obvious displeasure.
“A good bassist can always find a group to play with,” Jos says. “And you have the chops to be a great one.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, but it’s okay, because Jos has already stepped inside their greenroom, leaving me alone with Becca and Skeet.
“You’ll be all right, kiddo,” Skeet says.
Becca adds, “Just keep playing.”
I nod, and then they’re gone, too, and I’m alone here in the belly of this mythical place, this Mecca of Music. Instead of going into the greenroom to gather my gig bag and get out of here, I step back through the hallways to the wings of the stage. People are still milling around in the pit and on the balconies, but the stage is empty, highlighted by artistically crisscrossed streams of multicolored lights. As I wrap my hands around the plush curtain, I promise myself that I’ll be back someday. I’ll play on that stage again.