“Listen to that guitar!” Bowie yells.
The song’s pace escalates. Kenny’s drumming becomes more fevered, Hannah’s voice climbs, her words ripping into shreds the instant she sings them. They’re feeding their defiance to the crowd, which is going crazy, not just jumping but thrashing. It’s not just the bros in the front anymore: hundreds of people fling against one another, knocking shoulders. And the intensity of the song is only increasing, flooding the auditorium like a contagion.
Hannah sings the chorus again, punching her bass with each word, then lifts her hands, making a show of not touching it, and suddenly all the lights sweep to Ripper. In the spotlight he chews his lip, and his fingers go from warp speed to mind-melting, traveling up and down the length of the neck like a goddamn prodigy.
“Oh, shit,” Bowie yells, jumping like he’s down there in the mosh pit. “Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh shit.”
Kenny’s unleashed, a beast going wild on the drums, and Hannah’s back to the bass, nearly as fast as Ripper. Suddenly the stage lights start flashing so fast they’re strobing, and we can barely see through them. The band appears in illuminated flashes, one freeze-frame of their hands flying, one freeze-frame of their hair and sweat spinning everywhere.
The whole place descends into anarchy. The bros in front rush for the stage, the moshers in the middle for the metal towers around the amphitheater. They pull and shake them.
“They’re going to tear this place down!” Bowie shouts.
Jesus.“Where’s Diehard?” Dillon Diehard, the tool in charge of booking, is going to annihilate me.
“Holy shit,” Bowie crows, pointing over my shoulder. “Look!”
I follow where he’s pointing. A man climbs the tower, beating his chest and waving down at the mosh pit. It’s Dillon fucking Diehard.
The song is still escalating, wreaking chaos, and in the fury of noise and lights I can barely think straight. The whole auditorium is filled with the sounds of Ripper’s unearthly talent, and Kenny’s soul, and Hannah’s anger. I think she’d tear apart the world if she could. I can’t do anything but let the song beat at me. No matter her issues, her talent is undeniable—the raw power of it shakes the auditorium’s foundations.
Kenny’s drums finally start to slow into a steady pound, but Ripper’s still going a mile a minute, and as he does Hannah pulls his bass over her head. I know what she’s going to do the moment before she does it, but still it floors me to watch her smash the bass into the stage, her violence timed with Kenny’s drum beats. The whole venue goes crazy as the instrument comes apart, metal pieces flying, and when it’s nothing but fragments, she tosses the neck and walks offstage.
Chapter 20
Hannah
Saturday, May 4, 2024
Backstage, I’m mobbed by fans Diehard must’ve let past security. They dog my steps, moving with me as I try to walk down the hall. They’re shouting about the last song, trying to engage me in conversation, but with so many overlapping voices it becomes a cacophony. I’m drenched in sweat, and a few of them slide their hands down my arms like the sweat is a magic elixir.
With tonight’s surprise performance I’ve either cemented my place as a force to be reckoned with or finally convinced Manifest I’m a liability who needs to be shut down. But there’s no sense agonizing. The thing I’ve learned about catharsis is, when it comes for you, you have to let it take you, punch you up, and spit you out. And that’s what that last song was: catharsis, not punishment. There’s someone I need to make sure knows it.
I need to find Theo.
But the crowd’s making it impossible. I scour backstage for him while saying thank you to fans, nodding at their references to TikTok, smiling instead of screaming at their invasive closeness.
Down the hall, I spot Theo’s unmistakable mussed hair. He’s moving fast in the opposite direction.
“Theo,” I call, but he doesn’t turn. I push through fans, picking up my pace. “Sorry,” I say, shoving past someone with their notebook out for an autograph.
I break free and ignore the people calling after me, even a red-faced Diehard, who bursts backstage and shouts, “You shredded, Barbie! Surprised the fuck out of me. Hey, wait, come back!”
I turn the same corner Theo did and spot him at the end of the hall. “Theo, hold up!”
He looks over his shoulder, then keeps going. I’m practically running now.
He punches open a door and disappears through it. Seconds later, I follow, and find myself in a new hallway. This one’s smaller and dimmer and empty of people. Ahead of me, Theo turns to the right and bursts through yet another door. He must be livid.
“I swear,” I call. “If you don’t slow down, I’ll . . . ” I have no idea how to finish the sentence.
I shove open the next door, ready to keep running, but it’s a room, not a hallway, with folded-up tables stacked against one wall. Facing them, with his back to me, is Theo. His shoulders are high, his hands tensed by his side, like he’s preparing for battle.
I stop a few feet away. “At least turn around.”
He does, slowly. One hand rises to cover his mouth. He’s either physically restraining himself from speaking or he’s so mad he has no words. The look he’s giving me through his lashes is one I can’t decipher, except for its intensity. His hazel eyes are molten, pinning me in place. Suit is not supposed to be able to look at me like this, like he could burn me from the inside out.
The air thickens. My head fills with responses to his silence— explanations, indignance. I’ll admit it: I don’tlike disappointing him. I’d rather he look at me the way he usually does after a show— admiring, like a fan but better.
