by Megan Walker
I look out at the crowd. I can see more of them than I want to, even with the lights. They might be incandescent, but they’re blinding, and I feel like I’m going to pass out.
Then I see him. There, standing in the middle of the center aisle, is JT. He’s looking up at me with this angry expression on his face, his arms crossed. He arches an eyebrow at me, like, Well? Are you going to play?
I don’t want to play our songs. I’m not sure I ever want to play those songs again.
So instead I play the first chord of Pink Floyd’s “Brain Damage.” I’ve played it before but never performed it. Still, it feels like the most honest thing I’ve ever played, and suddenly I feel like I’m naked.
I play the song slowly and deliberately. The crowd, which was murmuring about the spectacle they just saw, falls into silence. I sing about losing my mind, about having voices in my head that aren’t exactly me. My voice chokes up slightly when I get to the part about being in a band that goes on to play different songs and leaves you behind because you’re too messed up to keep playing.
I look right at JT, and I try to tell him that I know how he feels. He got left behind in that van. Kevin and I escaped with our lives, but the whole world just kept rolling around us and forgot about us.
Now I’m going to leave JT behind. He’s right. I have to take the medication. Not just because I’m hallucinating, but because I’m a mess. Between the nightmares and the lack of sleep, I can’t function, and I need to be able to do that again.
I’m not the one who died, and that sucks, maybe worse than if it had been me.
But I’m going to move on, because I have to. If it were me who died, I’d want him to do the same.
JT looks up at me, and he sighs. That’s the thing about a hallucination. I don’t even have to tell him what’s going to happen. He already knows. He looks up at me and gives me a mock salute, and then he turns and slouches up the aisle and out the door at the back.
Allison
It doesn’t take long to find Collette sobbing behind a rack of costumes just outside the practice room. I don’t say anything at first, and I don’t have to; she just throws her arms around me, and I hug her tightly back. There’s a low murmur coming from the speakers—the mic on stage is still live and being piped back here, so those off stage can know when their cue is coming up. The audience is coming out of shock and getting confused and restless.
My stress spikes even higher, but I can’t think about the pageant right now. I have to take care of Collette, who just got undeniable proof about what a jealous, controlling dick her boyfriend is.
At least I hope she considers it undeniable proof. I hope—
Suddenly a guitar chord sounds through the speakers and I startle. I look back towards the stage, even as I keep my arms wrapped around the crying Collette.
A guitar? Who—
Oh. Oh.
When I realize what’s happening, my heart pounds harder. Silence follows, a long pause stretching through the speakers.
Shane’s up there, and he hasn’t played publicly since the accident, and I know for a fact he wasn’t sure he ever could again. But Carlyle must have made him, shoved him out there, and now I want to go yell at Carlyle, because he doesn’t know how freaked out Shane must be, how this could trigger another public meltdown—
A different chord sounds, one more confident than the last, and then it occurs to me—Carlyle couldn’t make Shane do this. He definitely would have told him to do it, but no one makes Shane do anything. There’s no way he wants to be up there right now, doing an impromptu guitar solo for a beauty pageant crowd. There’s no way he’s not dealing with all the crushing emotion of being up on a stage again with a guitar in hand, but this time alone, with none of his band mates, his best friends at his side.
He’s not doing this for Carlyle or the pageant.
He’s doing this for me. Even though I hurt him, even though he somehow thinks I don’t need him the same way he needs me—something that is so far from true I can barely wrap my brain around it—he’s doing this for me.
A bright warmth fills me, growing even brighter as Shane starts singing. He’s not a lead singer, but he’s got a really good voice, solid with just that touch of rocker gravel to it. I only vaguely recognize the song—for all that I work with bands, I’m not as immersed in the music scene itself as I could be. It’s not Accidental Erotica, though. That much I know.
Shane sings about a “lunatic on the grass,” and my eyes burn, thinking of us sitting on the lawn outside the benefit, him telling me about him losing his mind, about the hallucinations.
He was so afraid, I remember. To tell me, to tell anyone.
Now everyone may already know, but I think this is his way of telling them on his terms—or at least as much of his terms as it can be, this unplanned concert he’s giving to keep his girlfriend’s pageant from falling completely apart.
My heart is swelling with so much love for this man, and I want to just hang on every word coming through those speakers, but Collette’s sobs are turning into gasping hiccups, and I know I need to take advantage of the time Shane’s giving me to be there for her.
“I’m so sorry that happened,” I say, stroking her platinumblond hair, careful not to get my fingers caught in the stiff, hairsprayed curls.
There are definitely things I don’t miss about being in the pageants myself, and the sheer volume of hair products is one of them.
She pulls back enough to look at me, her watery blue eyes red-rimmed. “He’s such a j-jerk,” she sniffles. “Everyone said so, and I kept making excuses for him, even when he made me feel bad about myself. I’m an idiot.”
“Hey,” I say, holding her by the shoulders. “You’re not an idiot. It’s always harder to see the red flags when there are feelings involved.”
She scrubs a trail of snot onto the back of her hand. I look around for a tissue, but short of using one of the other girl’s costumes as makeshift Kleenex—something I very much doubt any of them would appreciate—I’ve got nothing. But Collette doesn’t seem to notice. “I should have seen them. I’m psychic!” This last part comes out as a wail, and she buries her face back into my shoulder.
I am starting to believe she might actually be. But apparently even visions from dream-Cher don’t prevent heartbreak.
“Oh, honey,” I say, patting her back, wishing I knew what to say. Shane’s voice still drifts over the speaker, his song settling over me, morose and yet empowering—to him and to me.
I think about how I wondered at the beginning if I was being naive when it came to him. Wondered if I was ignoring my better judgment in thinking there was so much more underneath the bad boy rep he’d definitely earned, if maybe not quite to the level everyone assumed. Thinking that the reputation and the attitude that fueled it was all a mask, but wondering if I was going to be proven wrong and left heartbroken.
It scared me, then. But it doesn’t anymore.
“I don’t think anyone’s psychic when it comes to their own love life,” I say, gently. “We’re all just kind of putting ourselves out there and taking a risk.”
She nods against my shoulder.
“But the guy who deserves you,” I continue, “the guy who’s going to be worthy of your love . . . That guy isn’t going to try to control you or make you feel bad about yourself, Collette. He’s going to love you for who you are, for your true self, and never try to make you less.”
I listen to Shane sing and feel tears behind my eyes.
Shane makes me feel more like my true self when I’m with him, like the true self I’ve been afraid to be. He gives me a safe space to be that person, gives me a safe place to fall, and I’m more and more confident that I do the same for him.
“Thomas isn’t that person,” Collette grouses, with an especially loud sniffle, as she plucks at the torn sequined sleeve half-dangl
ing off her arm. I’m glad to see that there’s a spark of indignant anger in her eyes, blazing through the sadness.
“No, he’s not,” I say. “But one day, you’ll find that guy. And until then, I think you’ve got some friends out there who’ll be willing to beat down anyone who’s an asshole to you.” I jerk my head towards the stage, the scene of the shoe and tiara-throwing, and Collette manages a smile and even a little laugh.
“Yeah, I guess so,” she says.
“And don’t forget that you’re badass all on your own. With or without a man at your side.”
She nods, letting out a long, shaky breath.
“Now, if you don’t want to finish the competition, that’s totally okay. You just went through a lot, and it won’t affect your chances in future pageants, I’ll make sure—”
“No,” she says. “I wanted to do this, and I’m not letting some stupid boy ruin it for me.” She glares at the half-torn sleeve, and then with a sudden, angry tug, rips it all the way off. “I’m going to finish.”
I smile at her, even as the designer in me winces at the ragged seam. “Are you sure?” I ask. Because I know how hard it is to make a choice like that in the middle of all the hurt she’s going through.
“I’ve earned my spot on that stage,” she says firmly, quoting my earlier words. “And I’m going to show the world.”
“Good for you,” I say, feeling more than a little proud. I squeeze her arm. “But if you’re going back up there, you might want to fix your makeup first.”
She sniffles and swipes at her eyes, smearing more mascara across her cheeks. “Totally,” she says. Then she gives me another quick hug. “And in case you were wondering, your aura and Shane’s are very compatible. I’m, like, ninety-five percent sure you won’t murder him this time.”
I laugh. I’ll take those odds.
Collette hurries into the practice room to fix her makeup, and I all but run toward the backstage area. The other contestants are bunched up in groups, whispering to each other, and Carlyle is trying to line them up—probably for a redo of the dance number—but I weave through them to get to the edge of the stage. I make it there, hidden by the curtain, just as Shane finishes the last couple lines. He’s bathed in the spotlight, owning it, his voice and the notes from his guitar filling the auditorium. His pain and his honesty infusing every beat.
Tears finally slip from my eyes down my cheeks, my heart so, so full of love for him.
It ends, and there’s just the echo of his song.
And then the applause. The audience going nuts, knowing they’ve seen something special, even if there’s no way they can fully grasp what just happened—I’m not sure I can. I’m not even sure he can.
But he looks back at me, and I smile at him, wishing I could somehow convey from here all that love. I don’t think that’s possible, but I blow him a kiss, and from the way he smiles back, I think maybe he knows.
Twenty-seven
Shane
I finish the song, and I stare out at the audience. I can see several people with their phones out, plus the pageant is being filmed. This is going to be on TV as well as all over the internet, and I didn’t have the rights to perform it, so I better keep Parker around long enough to clean up that mess, if there’s going to be one.
There’s a beat after the last chords fade away, and then the audience applauds. I turn back to the curtain, hoping for some signal about what the hell is going on back there, and on the other side, I see Allison hiding behind the proscenium, peering out of the curtains, watching me. I can’t quite make out her expression, but I realize that aside from recordings, this is the first time she’s heard me sing. She presses her lips to her fingers and blows the kiss at me, and I smile.
Damn, I love that woman. And while I need to move on and let go for me, I want to do it equally as much for her. For us. For our future. One that will likely be messy, but I hope will also be long and beautiful.
“Thank you,” I say into the microphone. I look back at Allison and she nods.
Then I slip back through the curtain just as it parts in the center.
The pageant goes on. The music from before cues up again and the girls start their flower-themed dance number, round two, though several of the headdresses look like they’ve been through a storm—or, really, a pretty awesome asshole-beatdown. I make it backstage just as the first of them file on, and I sit down on a stool, glad to be out of the spotlight for a moment.
Allison comes over and throws her arms around me so hard she nearly knocks me off my stool.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “Is Collette?” I don’t see her dancing on stage with the rest of them.
“Yes for me,” Allison says. “And I think it will be yes for Collette, too, at least eventually. She doesn’t seem inclined to try to patch things up with that douche.”
“Good. Did she drop out of the pageant?”
“I told her she could, but she still wants to be in it. I guess in addition to surprisingly accurate psychic predictions, the girl’s crazy tough.” Allison looks proud.
I smile back at her and brush her hair over her ear. “Did you like the song?”
“Yes,” she says, smiling softly. “I wanted to kill Carlyle when I realized he sent you out there. That was a good song choice, though. You sounded amazing.”
I’m not sure that’s true in a musical sense. More like passable. But I’m pretty sure that’s not what she means.
“Thank you for doing that,” she says. “I know you didn’t want to perform.”
“I think it was good for me,” I say. “But yeah. I did it for you.”
Her expression softens even further, and she tugs her lower lip between her teeth like she wants to say something, but I think we both realize at the same time that the song is over and the girls are filing off stage, which means I’m back up.
And I sure as hell don’t want anything else to go wrong in this pageant.
So I do the announcements for the evening-wear competition, and I stick to the damn script. Collette shows up for this part, and I notice all the girls giving her—and each other—encouraging smiles. Becky and Gwen even do a little fist bump. I bet Allison is feeling even more proud of her girls today than ever, and with good reason. Pageant girls are fierce, man.
Last is the final interview portion, which they answer without leaving the stage from the evening-wear portion. They are each given a single question, which I read from the updated script I was given by Carlyle minutes before the pageant started, like he didn’t trust me unattended with both the top-secret interview questions and the green room garbage can in which they might end up.
I guess I earned that.
The questions are mostly about current events or their charity platforms (is Pennies for Polyps really a thing?), and they all seem to handle them pretty well—I’m especially impressed with Angelica’s grasp of international trade politics, and Carmen’s dedication to Alzheimer’s research.
And then, after a small break where the judges deliberate, I’m handed the envelope with the names of the winners. The girls are lined up in back, some of them holding hands, others biting their lip nervously, and as I open the envelope, I can almost imagine Allison back when she used to compete. I bet she was the fiercest of them all.
“Second runner up, Miss Sweet Orange, Carmen Rivera!” I announce, and Carmen beams and struts out to receive her crown and bouquet.
“First runner up, Miss Grand Meadows, Collette Frey!”
Collette bounces up and down excitedly, and all the girls cheer along with the audience on this one. Allison beams from the wings. I’ve got to admit, I’m a little disappointed that Collette didn’t win. But she doesn’t seem too upset about it, blowing little kisses at the judges, who seem charmed by her.
“And the winner of the Miss California Poppy pageant is . . .” I trail off dram
atically, because hell, I know showmanship, “Miss Golden Gal,”—seriously, was this supposed to sound like the beauty pageant at a Florida retirement community?—“Sherry Spencer!”
Sherry squeals, and the music swells and a big-ass gaudy crown is put on her head. She waves and cries happily, and I imagine to myself that in the back somewhere her dogs with their ridiculous pun-names are barking in shared celebration.
After that, and some final terrible closing jokes, the pageant is over. I hurry off the stage, but not before I see Nix all but climbing over seats to get an autograph from Bridget Messler—and, judging by the interest with which another of the judges looks over at her, about to get hit on by a minor league baseball star. I shake my head.
It’s a huge relief to be done with all this, to have survived both hosting a beauty pageant and playing music publicly.
Maybe even to have survived these last few months.
It feels even better when Allison comes up to me and wraps her arms around me again, and we hold each other for several long moments.
She looks up from where she’s resting her head on my shoulder. “I really am sorry I didn’t tell you about my investor dropping out. I should have given you the chance to be there for me. It wasn’t fair.”
I’m pretty sure this is the thing she wanted to say earlier, before I had to run out to host. I shrug. “I probably would have fucked it up. It’s all right if you needed to cope with the problem without wading through my reaction, too. If you don’t want to deal with me, you shouldn’t have to.”
“No, I wanted to. I was just scared.”
The idea that she could be scared in this relationship baffles me. I don’t know how much clearer I could be that I’m in this. She has to be able to see how much I need her. “What were you scared of?”
She’s quiet for a moment. “I didn’t want you to hate yourself because being with you cost me something. I don’t regret any of it. Not for a minute, not even if all my investors backed out. But I was worried you’d decide you were bad for me and leave me.”
