She points at me, blows me a kiss, and I try not to sob.
Tag whoops loud, raising a fist in the air. “First stop, Boston, motherfuckers! Let’s go melt some faces.”
Laughing, I return to my seat, reaching into my backpack and pulling out my battered notebook.
The one that started it all.
I uncap my pen, press it to the page, and write.
***
Ten Songs, Six Cities, And A Van That Smells Like Cheese Fries
Boston
It’s sweaty. Loud. Perfectly imperfect.
The crowd screams before we even strike the first chord, and someone holds up a sign with my lyrics scribbled in pink glitter. I nearly forget how to sing.
Nerves get the better of us, and we mess up the second verse.
No one seems to care.
Afterward, we sit on the curb scarfing gas station nachos while reading comments from fans who drove six hours just to see us. My body is still shaking with adrenaline.
Chase holds my hand until the shivers die down.
I let him.
This is real. We’re doing this.
***
Philadelphia
The van breaks down two blocks from the venue. We haul amps through a monsoon, and I lose a boot in a puddle the size of Lake Michigan.
Inside, a guy hands us weed, while a woman in a tie-dye tulip skirt and denim jacket asks if we’re “the group that strums stars.”
Chase scribbles his name on her chest in black marker.
His first autograph.
Someone cries during our slowest song.
Barefoot and rain-soaked, I cry too.
Later, we all crash in the van. I sleep on a pile of jackets. Rock snores like a tractor.
I don’t care.
I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
***
New York City
There’s a line around the block. The venue smells like beer and dreams.
