“—we say we try this shit on for size, yeah?” I hear Reed say, a grin licking his lips when he peers back at me. “LA, one more time, we are Young Decay—”
He points back at me as he finishes his sentence. I read the first song title on the setlist, and I realize it’s the same set I already have memorized. I exhale audibly, letting the world turn in slow motion.
1… 2… 3… 4…
I strike the rim of the snare four times to set the beat. Mads strums the first note on the bass, and suddenly, I’m playing onstage with Young fucking Decay.
How is this real?!
The entire show is a whirlwind. I’ve tried to notice their signals and cues on the videos I’ve watched—always fantasizing about one day playing on a stage with a real band who didn’t laugh at me when I said I was a drummer.
I don’t know what it says about these three who didn’t even bat an eye or second-guess my abilities when I jumped up here.
Thank fuck for Zeb being near me. He’s able to cue me in and encourage me throughout the set. With every song, the excitement is a little less foreign, the songs begin to feel like they were written with me in mind, and I even take a few liberties on the beats.
This was my audition, myinwith the industry.
And by the time we wrap up the final song, I’m ready to jump, scream, and celebrate from all the adrenaline.
I just played a show with Young Decay.
I follow their lead after the last note—bowing at the front of the stage, touching some fans’ hands, waving. I’d have tossed someone my sticks except they’re fucking disgusting. So, instead, I blow a kiss to my friends and mouth, “Holy shit!” to Mira, who replies the same thing.
Reed wraps his arm around my shoulder when he sees me, microphone still in his hand, and says, “Holy fucking hell, LA. This one right here—” He steps back and bows, arms moving up and down like he’s praising me. Zeb joins him, and it’s all I can do to laugh.
Because holy fucking hell.
My mind feels free, unburdened from anxiety, guilt, and every other darkness that’s plagued me over the last two years. Discovering the stage like this…
I’ll chase this high from now on.
“My DUDE, hell yes!” Reed exclaims as we hit the small backstage area. He holds one hand up for me to slap, thenhesitates. “Wait, are you okay with me calling you ‘dude?’ Is that cool?”
I grin. “Hell yeah, it is,” I reply, appreciating that he asked.
“Then fuck YES, dude!” He holds both hands up this time, quickly lowering them a little so that I’m able to high-five him. “That was fucking awesome. You smashed it.”
“I can’t even disagree with this guy,” Mads says, approaching me with his hand out. “That was so smooth. And the added embellishments?” He blows out a breath. “Fuck me. Do you write?”
“I dabble,” I say.
“She dabbles. Ha.” Zeb is grinning when he comes up to us. “You also said that about playing, and if that’s fucking dabbling, what the hell do you call something you’re passionate about?” He holds his hand out, and when I take it, he brings me in for a hug as if we’re old friends. “That was epic. I knew you would be great.”
I can’t believe this is real life right now.
I try to keep my cool and not reveal how much I’m losing my shit.
“What gave it away?” I ask, my heart reverberating in my ears.
“I am an excellent judge of character,” he says.
I lift a brow, and he chuckles.
“Vibes,” he says. “Pure fucking vibes.”
“It was the confidence,” Mads says. “No fucking sane person jumps onstage like that, and honestly, we don’t want someone any less crazy than us playing our music.”
“Hey—” someone shouts at them from the stage. “Cases?”
