Bryan elbows me and I glare at him, rubbing my newly healed arm. “They’re back,” he whispers.
The Saints, led by a Grammy docent, make their way to a table up front, shaking hands and thanking the people who stop them for congratulations along the way. They’ve changed out of their performance clothes. Now Hannah wears a simple black gown, her golden hair loose down her back, and both Kenny and Ripper wear actual tuxedos, which may actually be the most surreal part of the night. Hannah’s put on weight, and there’s a healthy flush to her skin. The last few months have been good to her.
There’s a deep pang in my chest.
Bryan squeezes my shoulder as the presenter clears her throat and the auditorium goes quiet in anticipation. She begins to unfold the envelope. “And the Grammy for Song of the Year goes to . . . ” She glances down, then leans into the mic. “Hannah Cortland, ‘Six Feet Under.’”
I clutch Bryan as he shrieks, “That’s our girl!” and the audience applauds louder than they’ve cheered for anyone all night. Up at the Saints’ table, Kenny leaps out of his chair and Ripper tugs on Hannah, trying to get her to stand. I wish more than anything that I could see her face in this moment. I wish I could grab her and tell her I’m so fucking proud.
Ripper finally succeeds in getting Hannah to stand, and the audience quiets once more as she makes her way up the stairs to accept the golden gramophone. She turns to face us, wide-eyed, and people in the nosebleed section start to whistle.
Even from where I’m seated, I can see her hands shaking.
I hold my breath for her.
“I . . . ” Hannah bites her lip and looks down, too overwhelmed. The whistling and clapping escalate. Like always, the audience wants all of you when you’re onstage, and she’s giving it. She takes a deep breath, and when she tries again, hervoice is steadier. “I’ve dreamed of standing here my whole life.” She glances at the statue. “I wanted this so badly.”
Shouted encouragement breaks out, followed by laughter.
“I grew up,” Hannah says, still looking at the gramophone, “with no talents other than the strange one of being able to write a song. So I guess it made sense, growing up in an achievement-oriented household, that getting tothisplace, to the highest honor in our field, would be my goal. For so many years I thought getting here would show the world I was good enough.” Hannah’s gaze sweeps the arena, and the stadium hushes. “But then my sister died, and everything changed. I got new dreams, and one of them was to keep her alive the only way I knew how. That’s why I wrote ‘Six Feet Under.’ And that’s why I need to thank the fans who organized the Patron Saint Virginia campaign, which is a more beautiful tribute to my sister than any I could’ve imagined. I know I’ve been away for a while, dealing with my demons, but please know you’ve made my dream come true.” She raises the gramophone. “Not this statue.You.”
The audience applauds again. My heart aches for her.
She tucks her hair behind her ear. I can almost feel the silk of it against my fingers. “I also want to thank my dad for seeing that I needed something to be proud of as a kid and teaching me to play guitar. Ripper, Kenny, and Bowie, thank you for being the best friends a girl could ask for. Sorry, Bowie, but I had to say your name in public. Someone please pass him the smelling salts.” Her eyes scan the crowd and suddenly—improbably—they land on me. Bryan squeezes my shoulder again. My heart threatens to pound out of my chest.
“I might’ve written this song before I met Theo Ford, but I wouldn’t be standing here today without him. So thank you, Theo, for giving us everything you had. Who knew our hero would arrive one day in a suit?” Her amused eyes leave me and sweep the arena again. “And speaking of suits. Whereveryou are, Roger Braverman, for everything you’ve done . . .” She pauses. The entire audience waits with bated breath. “Fuck you, and fuck Manifest Records.”
It’s like someone set off a bomb—gasps erupt across the arena. “Oh god,” I say, at the same time Bryan whoops, “Of courseshe did.” An entire table of hip-hop artists near the stage stands and applauds. It’s pure pandemonium.
Hannah leans into the mic, her eyes lifting to the rafters, and says, barely audible over the noise: “I hope that made you proud, Ginny. You know this is for you more than anyone else.”
Then she thrusts her gramophone into the air and strides off the stage.
It takes the next presenter, a ten-time-Grammy-winning elder statesman of country music, a solid minute to calm the crowd, which the producers can’t be happy about.
Bryan nudges me. “I can see you stressing, bro. But you’re not her manager tonight. You’re the talent. So fuck the rules.” I smile and exhale, trying to breathe past my knee-jerk worry. “Fuck the rules,” I whisper, trying it out.
“I’m honored to be back at the Grammys to present Record of the Year,” the country star drawls loudly, when the audience finally quiets and he gets an opening. “These are the outstanding nominees.”
Record of the Year.Bryan rubs his hands together. I think I might be sick. A video plays snippets from all the nominated songs on the large screen, including the Saints’ “Family Fruit,” which runs with the picture of the band that graced theRolling Stonecover.
“And the Grammy goes to . . . ” The presenter struggles to open the envelope. It feels like the whole arena holds its breath, or else I’m projecting. “‘Family Fruit.’ The Future Saints.”
My hands fly to my face. Bryan leaps to his feet as the arena applauds. At the Saints’ table, Ripper and Kenny hug eachother fiercely as the announcer starts listing everyone who worked on the song.
“Get up!” Bryan shouts. “They said yourname! You won!”
The world shifts into a dream sequence. Bryan tugs me out of my chair and pushes me toward the stage. Everyone I pass turns to stare. I know in her lake house in Virginia, my mom is screaming at her television, or sobbing at it, or both. Maybe somewhere, my dad is watching too. Maybe he’s proud.
Ripper and Kenny barrel into me before I can make it to the podium.
“We did it, Suit!” Ripper shouts, jumping up and down. “We did it!”
“We fuckingdid!” I yell, all concern for producers and censors out the window.
Hannah emerges from backstage and the four of us, plus our mixer, Claudia Forsythe, huddle around the mic. There’s no time to even say hi to Hannah, much less everything I want to say. She shoves Kenny forward. “You’re up, Ken doll.”
I make the mistake of looking out at the audience as Kenny begins to say his thanks. So many eyes stare back. And so many of them belong to musicians I’ve worshipped for years, sitting at tables only a few feet away. My throat goes dry and my mind blanks, to the point that when Hannah tugs my hand, I turn to her with wide eyes, not understanding what she wants.
