When asked what she hopes her future holds, Cortland is interrupted by her sister, Virginia. “Expect to hear Hannah on the radio,” says the youngest Cortland. “She’s going to be a star.”
You heard it here first, folks. Hannah Cortland is going from Bonita Vista straight to Hollywood!
Chapter 8
Theo
Friday, April 19, 2024
Since the Saints are filling in for a band who canceled last-minute, we have a single day to practice before I’m supposed to turn them loose on the historic Sunset Theater, the most high-profile stage of their careers. One meager day to repair their fractured relationships and improve their lackluster performances, with the executives at Manifest watching. No pressure at all.
There’s a single hushed moment when we walk into the Sunset Theater and the band beholds the legendary stage, contemplating the rock history that’s unfolded here. One moment of peaceful reverence where I find myself thinking that today might not be so bad.
And then all hell breaks loose.
Before he’ll start practicing, Kenny insists on burning sage around the periphery of the theater to expel bad spirits. When he’s finished, and the energy still isn’t sitting right, I have to stand perfectly motionless while he burns sage around me, the apparent source of the bad vibes. Burnt sage, it turns out, smells like cat piss. When we’re done with the herbs, crystals are next. I’d naively assumed the backpack Kenny wascarrying was full of song notes and drum shit, but it turns out it’s full of rocks, which he pulls out one by one, lining them around the stage in the right order to achieve a “harmonious balance of energy.”
And Kenny is the easy one. Ripper’s obsession with the spotlight is rivaled only by his obsession with catching his reflection in every shiny surface. Bowie and two guitar techs have to carry a mirror offstage just to get him to focus. He keeps goading Hannah and Kenny, grabbing Hannah’s guitar to play riffs, nudging aside Kenny’s carefully placed crystals.
Hannah, on the other hand, is a detached machine. I can’t tell if she’s nervous for tomorrow’s show or pissed to have been roped back into playing, but the moment we get onstage, she pulls open a thick black notebook and bends over it, ignoring us, like she’s going to plan the whole show herself. Unfortunately, even Hannah isn’t immune to Ripper’s antics. She keeps putting down her notebook to snap at him, which only riles him, which then makes Kenny fret more about energy. It’s no wonder these fuckers can’t produce anything. They’re ungovernable.
I’m left with no other option than to pull the Captain Dickhead Maneuver, a tried-and-true method in which I use my status as the band’s number-one enemy to bond them in mutual hatred. Desperate times.
“Kenny,” I yell. “I can’t believe I even have to say this, but stop polishing your amethyst and sit down at your kit. Ripper, put down Hannah’s Jazzmaster. You don’t play lead guitar.”
“I could,” he says, “if some people weren’t so territorial.”
Hannah’s jaw tightens, but I’m already on it. “We can talk about that later. For now, I need you to practice.” I turn to her. “And you.”
She raises her eyebrows.
I look down at the black notebook in her hand. “Can I see that?”
For a long, fraught minute, I don’t think she’ll show me. Finally, she shoves it at me. The notebook’s open to a page with the wordsFamily Fruitscribbled in large, spiky handwriting. It’s full of lyrics that have been crossed out and written over in darker ink. The moment I start to read, my throat closes up.
Like “Six Feet Under,” there’s no pretending the words on the page are anything but Hannah’s insides, spilled on paper. It takes a particular set of skills to write something as raw and exposed as this without sailing into overwrought territory. And even if you pull off composing the song, you then have to perform it in public. If the Saints put “Family Fruit” on their new album, Hannah will have to cut her heart open at each show and bleed onstage.
I won’t be able to fully judge the merits of “Family Fruit” until I hear it, so I ask Hannah to lead the band through a practice run.
“Stop,” I say, after about a minute. The three of them quiet their instruments. “Why don’t you stretch out the bridge? It’s going by too fast. You could double down, really make people sweat, beg for the chorus to come hammering in.” I straighten and wait to see what she thinks.
Hannah gives me a deadeyed stare. I hold my ground, then register a noise and realize she’s kicking her mic stand. I imagine she’s pretending it’s me. Finally, she says through gritted teeth, “I’ll try it.”
“Excellent.” I turn, then hear laughter. I swing around just in time to catch Hannah mocking my satisfied expression and mouthing the wordExcellent, before she schools her face. “Yes?” she asks, the picture of innocence.
Captain Dickhead Maneuver, I remind myself. They may be making fun of me, but at least they’re doing it together.
I make my way to the side of the stage, where I’ll stand during the actual show. The minute I’m gone, Kenny, Ripper, and Hannah huddle together, debating my suggestion aboutthe bridge. I take a deep breath, letting my lungs fill with air. Then I throttle an invisible band member.
“If it’s any consolation,” Bowie says, stepping up and giving me a smile, “you’re not the first person they’ve accused of being a soulless corporate drone.”
“Oh, wow.” I struggle not to roll my eyes. “That does make me feel better.” But I return Bowie’s smile. I’ve already grown to like him. He juggles the whole crew and he’s never without a smile. Plus, I walked into one of the storage rooms in the back of the Sunset Theater and found him breaking down boxes and rocking out to their first album. The man genuinely loves the Saints.
“So.” I fold my arms over my chest. “How long have you been with the band?”
Bowie shoots me a surprised look. He’s on the shorter, rounder side, with spiked dark hair, a studded necklace, and kind, dark eyes. He reminds me of the guys who used to hang out in the library playing Dungeons and Dragons in high school. “From the beginning.”
I whistle. “College?”
