“Thata girl.” She pats my leg and sniffles as she stands. I let her make her exit on this note because I know she’s trying to put on a normal face. Nothing about anything in this life is normal, but maybe that’s everyone’s story.

  Maybe normal is the odd man out.

  It takes me several minutes to get the courage to open the notebook. I can tell that it’s going to gut me from the first page. My mom documented everything.

  Everything.

  I close it in my lap and sit still with it for nearly an hour. I’m going to need time, more time than I’ve already given myself. More time than the hours before the most important gig I’ve ever had.

  I’ve had one.

  I take the book to my room and tuck it under my pillow. I’m not sure why I feel like it needs to be protected, but I do. There’s a soft knock at my door and it startles me.

  “Yes?” I sit on my bed near the book, guarding it.

  Jesse opens my door slowly, and I reach to my side and push the book in deeper. I’m not ready for him to see it yet either.

  “Rag’s coming over early. He’s got the trailer and we were gonna load it up, so…” He stops mid-sentence with his eyes on my window. Without much warning, he steps forward and leaps onto my bed in a superhero pose, arms forward to my window sill. My blinds are open. There’s a moving van.

  Irony.

  “You can literally see everything that happens on our street from here,” he says, scooting forward so his eyes can see through the line in the slats.

  I smirk and twist to lay next to him.

  “Sam and I watched you move in from right here,” I admit.

  I feel his body twist, and I know his eyes are on me. I glance to him for a moment and shrug.

  “What? Like you didn’t just leap on my bed to watch some person move in on our street,” I say.

  He bunches his lips, then immediately shifts his gaze back to the window, this time boldly lifting the blind up to stare closer. Another truck has pulled in, and there is a row of cars streaming in behind the trucks.

  The amount of people is strange.

  “I think we’re getting a fraternity!” He’s joking, of course, and exaggerating his excitement while he spies from my window.

  “Sam thought you were a murderer,” I say through a tight smile.

  He doesn’t flinch, and he’s quiet for a few seconds while we both stare out at the chaos pulling in across the street and two houses down.

  “Maybe I am,” he teases. “I mean, a murderer wouldn’t exactly reveal he’s a murderer right away. He might, say, pose as a young, hot musician with massively wide sex appeal…just to lure the sweet and innocent victim into his lair.” He starts to laugh through his evil voice, and I twist to look at him with skepticism.

  “What? You don’t believe me?” He makes a suave face that looks utterly ridiculous.

  “Massively…wide…sex appeal?” I blink a few times to be dramatic.

  He lets go of the blinds and props his head on his palm, elbow bent. One eyebrow arches, and I think he’s trying to accomplish smoldering. I do my best to hold back a laugh, but it slips out and he joins me.

  “What? That was sexy.” He leans in and nuzzles his nose against mine.

  “That was absurd!”

  “Seriously? No! I mean, come on,” he slides away from me a little and morphs his body into a modeling pose while puckering his lips.

  “Oh my God!” I bust out a laugh, and the more I do, the more poses he strikes until he gives up and pulls me toward him, caging me under his arms and lifting his chest up enough to bend his neck and rest his head on mine.

  I stop laughing now.

  “Yeah,” I hum.

  “Yeah?” His voice is husky.

  I nod and let his mouth fall to mine, his teeth grazing my bottom lip and tugging lightly. I smile it loose from his hold.

  “Yeah, that move is sexy,” I say.

  My mom coughs in the distance and we both look to our sides, toward my door. Jesse lifts himself from above me, and my body is cold in his absence. A door slams outside from one of the moving trucks. Maybe Orson is going to be a real town after all, one mysterious moving truck at a time.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I think maybe, perhaps, I’m a diva.

  The last time we had a gig, my first gig, I just walked in to a stage—set up and ready to go. A quick soundcheck and bam! Sure, I had a little fine-tuning to do in terms of where things fit, how my hands liked to feel at the set, but really, things were ready for me by the time I arrived.

  I am not built for loading a trailer in the back alley of a seriously sketchy-looking bar. This crowd is vicious. Three fights have been broken up since we got here, and a car keeps circling slowly around the side of the alleyway with three definitely intoxicated college guys inside who feel compelled to yell sexist things from their windows.

  Jesse said the next time he sees them, he’s going to put a rock through their windshield. I would think he was bluffing, but he actually went and found the perfect rock. It’s about the size of half a loaf of bread. So I guess that’s half a breadbox.

  It’s fifty-seven degrees outside, and I’m sweating up a storm. I’ve started finding clever places to hide while the guys move the last of our gear so I can just rest and get my body temperature back to semi-normal. I probably should have brought a change of clothes.

  “Oh shoot. This hiding spot is taken?” Rag ducks between the line of tall weeds and the back side of the trailer to light a cigarette.

  “Sorry. I just…”

  “You just want Jesse and Logan to finish unloading. I get you. I’m in the same boat.” He lights his cigarette, then stretches out his fist for me to pound. I do and we both mouth boom.

  Rag smiles on one side of his mouth and takes a long drag, rolling his shoulders and groaning quietly. He’s stressed.

  “It’s gonna be good,” I say.

  His eyes crinkle as he inhales again and holds the smoke in his mouth for a beat. He lets it slip out to the other side, away from me, before turning his head to look me in the eyes.

  “Yeah? You think so?” His right brow is arched. He looks so much like Jesse sometimes.

  I nod with a tight-lipped smile.

  “Yeah, I do. I mean, even without me you guys are good, but with me…” I hold my hand out at my waist then raise it up about a foot to show measurement.

  “Wow, like a whole belly button better, yeah?” Rag laughs out. I nod.

  “An entire belly button and at least three ribs,” I say, moving my flat palm toward me and drawing a line with it just under my armpit.

  He takes another drag and spills the smoke from his lips up into the air, shaking out his other arm at his side.

  “I’m not sure if I want us to be great or if I want us to suck,” he says, keeping his gaze up at the periwinkle-colored sky.

  “Alton,” I say the reason out loud.

  He nods.

  “Alton,” he repeats. “Motherfucking Alton.”

  I rub my eyes, then pull my long-sleeved black shirt out from my body a few times to air out the heat still clinging to my chest. The rush of cool air is nice.

  “Maybe this will all work out,” I say.

  Rag just chuckles once, lifting his shoulders and taking one final drag before stomping out his cigarette under his heavy black boot.

  “Yeah…maybe,” he says, stepping back a few paces and pushing his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. He’s wearing torn, deep-blue jeans and a gray shirt under a red and blue flannel. If I didn’t love his cousin so much, I would crush on him hard. It’s hard not to. Where Jesse’s eyes are a muddied blue, Rag’s are piercing and clear. The girls in this joint are going to fight to get at both of them.

  Poor Logan.

  “What’s your real first name, Rag?” I tilt my head to the side, curious. I wonder why he doesn’t just go by that.

  “Orville,” he overly annunciates, smiling with tight, crooked lips and nods, owning up to it.

  “Like the popcorn guy.” It’s the first thing I thought of, which is probably not what he was named after, but still…

  “Like the popcorn guy,” he chuckles. “Well, like my great uncle, actually, but…the popcorn guy was a good enough reason never to use it. Don’t want people confusing us.”

  “No,” I shake my head and furrow my brow, sniggering a little. I tease him, and he takes it well.

  “They’re about done unloading. I’m gonna head in, and you should come soon, otherwise it starts to be obvious that we’re not doing shit.” He kicks at a rock on the ground and turns to leave.

  “Be right there…Orville,” I say. He flips me off over his shoulder and rounds the front of the truck.

  The smoke inside is thick. Bad dance music is thumping from the pool hall, and college-aged young people are starting to crowd the bar five or six people deep. I spin around a little near the back where the stage is set up and note a few of the photographs framed on the wall. They’re big names—Cold War Kids, Young the Giant, Tool, the Peppers. They’ve all played here. This gig is a big deal for more than one reason.

  My fingers start to feel fat; I ball them into fists and work the feeling back to their ends. I spot my best friend in the thick of the crowd. She came with my parents—not because she doesn’t have a fake ID of her own, but because I told her my parents were going to be here so she may as well pretend she needs them. I doubt they would tattle on her, but with these new leaves being turned over lately, I’m not sure.

  I wave at her, and she leans into my mom to say something, then hops from a stool to weave around the people really beginning to pack in up front.

  “Wow, this is legit!” Her wide eyes scan the room while she spins in a circle next to me. There is so much to see, and some of it is seedy and gross, but other things are truly impressive. This is a real bar where real breaks happen for people. Dreams can be hatched here, and maybe tonight.

  “It’s intense,” I say, shaking my arms and willing her to look me in the eyes. Her face falls into a calm smile.

  “You’re going to be okay.” She says the words I need to hear, even if I don’t believe them.

  Jesse is rushing around, moving from one task to the next, but not really completing anything. I can see the agitation forming deep lines on his forehead. Rag has tried to step in and help a few times, but Jesse’s just snapped at him. This means a lot to him, and I’m afraid it means too much.

  “I think your dad is nervous,” Sam says, bringing me back to her.

  I step up on the tips of my toes and try to see my parents. I can’t believe they actually came. I can vaguely make out the tips of my father’s hair in the distance.

  Alton and the man in the suit are sitting close to the stage at a table marked off with VIP signs. So far, I’ve only seen Alton drink water, which is good. I expect him to binge on shots any minute, though. Every bit of this feels so fragile.

  “Come feel out your set. He’s freaking out,” Rag says at my ear. My best friend makes eyes at him. I know it’s driving her crazy that he isn’t falling all over himself to get into her pants. It’s not that he isn’t into her, though, because I can tell he is. He’s just not a douchebag like most of the guys she picks out, so he’s not being forward or inappropriate. He’s also probably waiting for her to turn eighteen.

  “Go kick ass,” Sam says, hugging me and kissing my cheek.

  I’ve never cooled off. I swear I’ve only gotten hotter since moving shit out of the van. I guess it’s authentic rock to have sweaty hair and a damp shirt.

  I make my way back to my drums and feel my way around, mentally playing through our set and the movements I’ll be making. I let loose a few times during soundcheck and fly through some of the breaks and beats. Jesse wants to close with “Sweet Jane,” and I think it’s just as a way to be nice to me, but I also know that if he does it right—if he does it the way we did in rehearsal—it’s going to leave an impression on the important ears here tonight. It’s probably going to drive a whole lot of college girls fucking mad too.

  He looks older than his seventeen years right now. His birthday is in two weeks, just before the new year. He’ll be eighteen before me, but only by a month.

  I kick the bass a few times and Logan plays through the rhythm with me. We’re careful not to give anything away. It’s tricky not to hype up a crowd with things they might find familiar. If performers do that, the audience gets expectations and aren’t as likely to love the original stuff. Rag taught me that. Sometimes, I wonder if he would have gone out and found a band on his own if he didn’t have his cousin. He’s just as talented. He just isn’t a lead.

  The suit with Alton keeps staring at me. I find his eyes waiting for me every time I take a break. His glare is warm, hot even. It’s uncomfortable and full of judgment. He’s thinking about marketing me, and I know it’s because I’m the girl in this thing. I catch his stare again and swallow, forcing myself not to look at him again until I have to.

  A guy from the bar, like management or something, climbs up on the stage and holds Jesse by the shoulder, speaking into his ear. Jesse said he knows we’re not all over twenty-one—just don’t drink anything in here and get in and out and we’d be fine. He steps away and Jesse makes eye contact with Rag first, then Logan, tapping his wrist and holding up an open palm to count off five.

  His eyes scan to me and twitch a little along with the corner of his mouth. I nod my head to the right and encourage him to meet me at the side of the stage, but he shakes me off. He’s too focused; I worry he’s too tight.

  He slips from the stage and heads to the bathrooms off to the side. He’s going to smoke, and I don’t like it, but I know he thinks it’s the only thing he can do to block out the noise. I step over to Logan and watch him make a few final adjustments on his bass, tweaking the amp to find that perfect sweet spot for his sound. I sit on the box and feel the buzz rumble through my body until there’s nothing more for him to do.

  “I bet this part never gets old huh?” I ask him.

  “Tuning? Yeah, that gets old,” he jokes. I punch him playfully.

  “No, I mean the nervous energy. The waiting before a big gig.” I still love saying that word.

  Logan shrugs and pulls a pack of gum from his pocket and offers me a stick. I shake him off.

  “Can’t chew and play at the same time. It’s a thing,” I say.

  He nods.

  “I feel that.” He puts two pieces in his mouth and starts to break them down. “Gum helps me stick to the beat.”

  He plays air guitar against his stomach and chews exaggeratingly. I start to drum along with him on my legs, and we kill almost a full minute being silly. The energy of the room takes over again quickly, though. I shake my hands out and slide from my seat on the amp.

  “To answer your question from before…we’ve never played a gig this big. I don’t think we’ve ever had nervous energy to contend with,” Logan says.

  My mouth contorts into a lopsided line.

  “I felt like throwing up when we played the diner.”

  Logan puffs a laugh through his nose.

  I grab my sticks from my pocket and spin them in my fingers. I move it down my fingers, shifting the stick from one knuckle to the next and back up to my thumb again. I amuse myself and Logan with this party trick for another full minute, but when Rag steps in-between us, I jump and drop both of my sticks to the ground.

  Rag picks them up and hands them to me, and I poke them in my back pocket.

  “I’m gonna get him. We gotta start.” Rag looks irritated, and I’ve learned that he doesn’t like disorder. Must be hard for him to be Jesse’s cousin. They’re polar opposites in a way.

  Rag’s posture is tight and his shoulders are high, showing his frustration as he steps from the stage and cuts through the now-thick crowd along the same path Jesse took. A few drunk guys near the front of the stage are starting to get ballsy with us, and I do my best to tune out the sexist remarks.

  “Hey…backup dancer!”

  I roll my eyes at Logan and turn so my back is to the mouthy asshole who seems to yell the loudest. He reaches up and grabs my sticks from my pocket, though, and I jerk around and call him out.

  “Don’t fucking touch!” I shout.

  Logan steps up in front of me, though I’m pretty sure I’m the bigger of the two of us. If anyone is winning this fight for us, it’s going to be me, and I will have to fight dirty. The guy steps back and forms a V with my sticks, flicking his tongue between them to be truly disgusting. My face matches my mental reaction, and he feeds off it, getting bolder and louder. Rag and Jesse are walking up behind him, though, so I let it all play out.

  Rag slaps the guy in the back of the head as he passes and Jesse grabs my sticks and twists the front of the guy’s T-shirt and shoves him backward. When the guy tries to retaliate and shove back, security gets involved. We’ll have one less fan in the building tonight, not that the guy was a real fan anyhow.

  Jesse’s eyes are hazed. He’s relaxed, which goes along with the high that comes from back-alley joints. I glance to the direction he walked in from, though, and manage to look just in time to see a very curvy, incredibly sexy girl puff out the smoke from the joint pinched in her fingers. She pinches it out on the wall in the back of the bar and worms her way closer to the front of the audience, her eyes matching Jesse’s and locked on him like a viper.

  I’ve been jealous before. I was jealous when the guy who took me to my eighth grade dance ditched me for Lana Anderson, the prettiest girl in our school. I was jealous when Sam got to go backstage and meet the lead singer of Joda Moss, a local band from San Jose that we got into two summers ago. This jealousy is way more intense. With very little information to go on, I’m leaping to dozens of conclusions, and I want to dive into the crowd and rip this girl’s trachea from her neck.

  “Let’s do this,” Jesse says.

  “Yeah,” I answer, my reply short. His brow dips and I look away and head to my set. I’m irrationally ticked off, but I don’t want to ruin his mood and start things off on a bad note.