Garrett saved me from further interrogation by saying, “Can we just get this going? It’s almost eight.”
Over the last year, we’d put in the work to clean up our sound, landing on pop with some classic rock inspiration. We didn’t put a high level of analysis into it. We just wanted to make fun music, especially with everything else that was going on then.
I’d heard Mom and Hudson bickering about money a few times. She was eight months’ cancer free, but the long-term effects of the hospital bills and treatments were hitting hard. Hudson offered to pay. It was the first time I realized how much money he must have had to essentially pack up his life and buy a new house to help Mom out.
I was climbing on stage when Dave came up to me. A few paces behind him was this guy in a leather aviator jacket. He looked familiar, but in a way I couldn’t place. I froze, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling as I was hit with a wave of anxiety. Was he a classmate’s parent who recognized us? Did he tell Dave that we were minors and needed to leave?
“We have someone else stepping in for your set tonight. You know Martin Hall, he’s big with the regulars and offered to play,” Dave explained. Of course, I knew the name Martin Hall even if I didn’t recognize the man at first. A good old-fashioned rock star. Avery must have had all of his albums.
“You’re cutting us?” I sputtered in disbelief.
“It’s one night. He’s big time and I can’t pass this up.”
“What’s happening?” Garrett asked as he came up to stand at the edge of the stage, looming over us.
“We’re not playing tonight,” I said.
“You’re kidding.” This time it was Jared who spoke.
“Come on, don’t be difficult. We all know I’m doing you kids a favor letting you play here,” Dave said, his voice hardened in warning. He gave us this opportunity and could take it away just as easily.
“One song. We’ve tuned everything and are ready to go. Let us do one song,” I begged.
We needed this.Ineeded this, just a few minutes where I felt in control again.
“Fine, but after, you’re letting Martin Hall borrow your guitar.”
We played that one song like it was the last time we’d ever perform. Desperation lit us up like gasoline on a campfire. A need to prove everyone wrong.
Wit’s End for dropping us. Dave for replacing us. Martin Hall for thinking he deserved to be up here more than we did. To prove to ourselves that we weren’t going to be stuck here forever.
Once we finished, as promised, I handed off my guitar to Martin Hall. I held on an extra second, and Martin’s storm gray eyes clashed with mine.Acknowledge me,I demanded. He did with the slightest nod of his stubble rough chin.
I watched from the shadows, wanting to stomp away but he started singing and I couldn’t move.
Watching Martin Hall was like observing someone perform an autopsy on themself, guts spilling out. Raw, tragic, and impossible to turn away from.Here I am, all of me and the ugly truth of it.His voice was a low gravel heavy with regret.
When the music ended, it was like time stood still. The only thing I could hear was the hum of neon lights and my own heartbeat. I swear no one was even breathing. No one applauded because no one wanted it to be over.
“Thank you, have a good night,” he said into the microphone before dismounting the stage. He seemed to shrink, turning into any old guy at the bar. “Here, kid.” He handed me back the guitar, and I took it with reverence, amazed that my instrument could sound the way it did in Martin’s hands.
Nothing I’d done had ever come close and I wanted, no needed, to know how to reach that level.
“I—” I tried to speak, but his hunched form was already halfway to the back entrance. I rushed to catch up, only pausing for a moment to rest my guitar on a stand.
“Wait. How are you going to walk away after that?” I burst through the door and shouted down the shadowed alleyway.
“I paid my tab, so there’s no reason for me to stick around.”
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”
He sighed, stopping to fish a cigarette and lighter from his jacket pockets. “What do you want? For me to tell you the song you played was good?”
“I don’t want to be good.” A new hunger clawed at my stomach. I was tired of being pushed aside. “I want to be unforgettable.”
“Then stop playing like it’s the nineties. Make something new. People won’t remember a knock-off version of the Pixies, they want to listen to the one they already own.” He flicked the lighter to life, a warm glow catching on the end of the cigarette. “Say something new.”
“Help us. You’re supposed to be a big deal in the music industry, make us the best new thing,” I goaded him. I didn’t know if I’d ever have another chance like this and I needed to make up for losing the tour.
