Rise to the Sun

by Leah Johnson

  I already need her too much. That’s not going to work.

  “I’m gonna just … Um, grab something over … there.” Peter scampers off like a bug and I make a mental note to crush him like one when he comes back. Some best friend he is.

  Olivia holds her hands out. “We had a deal, remember?”

  I don’t mention the fact that I’ve already violated my side of the deal, including the unspoken half. I was supposed to help her find these apples, and maintain as much distance as possible, and we were supposed to go our separate ways at the end of the weekend completely unscathed. But I messed up. She told me this was nothing but a business deal, and I said the same, and I lied.

  “Yeah, well, I’m relieving you of your end of the bargain.” I look up at her face. She’s taken off the massive heart-shaped sunglasses I’ll now never be able to separate from her. Her expression is gentle, curious. “Consider it canceled. Null and void. Cool?”

  Her face changes from soft and sympathetic to something harder almost instantly.

  “No. That’s actually not cool, Toni. It’s the opposite of cool. The very definition of uncool, in fact.” She sits down next to me and tucks her legs underneath her body. She sighs. “I’m not talking about the competition. I’m talking about last night, at the barn. You agreed to trust me.”

  ’Cause the way I see it, the running hurts more than the standing still.

  She’s right. All I have is my word, so I tell her. And I keep telling her. And I don’t stop talking until it’s all out, the entire mess of a story. The night my dad died. The freshman year I’m scheduled to start in two days. The fact that I have no idea what I want from my life and I’m terrified that the music isn’t going to be enough to help me figure it out anymore. Why the Golden Apple feels like the key.

  “I think we should start over,” she says once I finish. “I’m Olivia Brooks. I’m sixteen years old. I’m from Indianapolis, Indiana. I’m about to be a senior at the worst high school in the history of all high schools. I’m aggressively asthmatic. And I’m allergic to shellfish.”

  She holds her hand out, and I don’t really understand what’s happening, but I shake it.

  “Worst high school in the history of high schools. That’s a big title.”

  She smiles. “I mean it. Hell is empty and all the devils are at Park Meade High School.”

  I nod. This is her olive branch to me, a clean slate.

  “Antonia Jackson Foster. Toni to most people, TJ sometimes. I’m seventeen but I’ll be eighteen in a week. I’m also from Indy and I’m not allergic to anything. But sometimes I say I’m allergic to onions so that they don’t end up anywhere near my food. And I graduated from Ardsley Academy two months ago.” Her eyes widen immediately, and I smirk. “So, technically, we’re rivals. Go Blue Devils.”

  “Nice to meet you, Toni.” She finally slips her hand from mine then and presses her lips together in thought. “Look, I’m not going to force you—honestly, knowing what I know now, I can’t believe you wanted to do this in the first place—but I would still like to compete together today if you’re willing.”

  I think about saying no, about walking away, about never feeling again the way that I felt last night, playing my dad’s song under the stars with Olivia—even if it doesn’t mean the same thing to her as it does to me. And I know that it’s just not an option.

  “Melodrama aside”—I push myself to standing and hold out my hand—“I would like that too.”

  When she grabs my hand and pulls herself up to standing as well, it feels like what’s in front of me is finally solid instead of in constant motion. It feels like settling.

  “Well, Toni Foster from Ardsley Academy, we better hurry up.” She tugs me in the direction of the exit, toward the campgrounds where my guitar currently waits. “I think there’s a stage with our name on it.”

  If I thought I was panicking before, it’s nothing like the cold-bucket-of-water-like realization that we have less than twenty minutes to get changed, grab my guitar, and make it back to the performance barn in time for our slot. Olivia seems to be taking it all in stride though. And by that I mean she’s no more frenetic about our preparation as she is about anything else, which isn’t saying all that much.

  We sprint from the Core to the campsite. When we get there, I grab my dad’s case out of the truck and start back in the direction of the barn before Olivia says, “Wait a second. Are you planning on wearing that?”

  I look down at my outfit, confused. I’m wearing a solid black racerback tank top, slightly stained around the collar from my sweat, a pair of faded cutoffs with uneven hems because I got too lazy to fix them, and my cowboy boots. Some might even say I look festival-chic. But Olivia shakes her head in disbelief. She ducks into the tent and rustles around like she owns the place.

  “What’s wrong with this?” I ask, and if I sound a little indignant who cares? “They care about the music, not how we look.”

  “The hot ones always say that!” She shouts from inside, and I’m glad she can’t see how much those six words just affected me. Focus, Foster.

  “Here!” She tosses a bundle of clothes at me and rushes me into the tent to get changed. “Go, go!”

  And because Olivia is the type of person you can’t help but pay attention to, can’t help but listen to, we swap places and I get dressed. It’s the quickest of all costume changes.

  So fast that I don’t even realize I’m wearing one of Peter’s shirts. It’s an authentic bleach-stained Nirvana tour tee from 1993—the one from the In Utero tour with the angel on the front—that he found on eBay and cut into a crop top at the beginning of the summer. I’m also wearing a pair of my own shorts, but they’re the high-waist, black denim kind with frayed ends that make my legs looks even longer than they already are.

  When I step out, Olivia reaches for me and takes the bandana that’s been around my forehead all day and ties it around my neck. I let her fuss, and try to ignore the wave of warmth that rushes over me as she lets my hair down from its bun and situates my wide-brimmed hat on top of my locs.

  “There.” She steps back and smiles. I don’t even have to look at myself to know what she’s managed to pull together and to know that I like it. It’s something I’m comfortable in, that looks natural on me, but with a spin. “Just because you’ve got substance doesn’t mean you can’t give a little flair too. Now they have no reason to second-guess you.”

  Everything I’ve been fighting back since yesterday threatens to spill over in that moment, but there’s no time. She grabs the guitar case and shoves it into my hand and then we’re off, running back to the Core.

  Luckily, it’s still early afternoon, so the rush to get in has calmed and the line moves quicker than it has all weekend. I have to thank the festival gods for the good fortune as we make our way through security—with a haphazard check of my dad’s case to make sure nothing is inside it other than my guitar—and rush through the Core to the performance barn. Our phones buzz with a message from Peter saying he and Imani are in the audience and wishing us luck, just as we burst into the backstage area.

  “Toni Jackson and Olivia Brooks?” A tech with a huge headset asks just as the audience bursts into applause to welcome another duo on stage. It’s two white women who look like they just walked straight out of a Free People, and I’m suddenly even more grateful Olivia suggested I switch up my look for this. These people came camera-ready.

  We nod. “Great, you’re on next.” And without any other fanfare, he’s off.

  “You ready?” I ask Olivia once the tech is gone.

  Her smile is a little wobbly as she nods, wordlessly.

  Before I can ask after her new expression, a voice behind us cuts in, “Toni?”

  I turn to see a familiar head of red hair flying toward me as she immediately pulls me in for a half hug. She looks mostly the same as the last time I saw her, but her hair is slightly longer and a new tattoo has cropped up on her forearm that reads: I am deliberat
e and afraid of nothing.

  “Mack?” I break into a smile. And I know she’s surprised to see it, because her eyebrows go straight up as she shoots me one back. “What are you doing here?”

  I stand back to appraise her for a second, happy to see her and surprised by my own surprise. Mack is Davey Mack’s—or David McCarthy, as his Wikipedia page would tell you—younger cousin, but the two have always been more like siblings. So much so that every summer since I was thirteen and she was fourteen, she’s tagged along with Kittredge for a few Midwestern tour dates.

  We met a few years ago when the band was playing Lollapalooza. The two of us were the only under-eighteens backstage, so we bonded over our shared love of Sheila E. and watched YouTube videos in the greenroom while we waited for the show to be over. I wouldn’t necessarily call her a friend, but there were very few people who got what it was like, in that specific way, to be a part of the Kittredge machine than another newly minted teenager.

  “I was back with the band for a few dates again this summer. Great, right? Can’t believe Davey hasn’t gotten sick of me yet, but here I am!” She holds her arms wide, revealing her KITTREDGE “BACK WHERE WE BELONG” 2021 NORTH AMERICAN TOUR tank top. A volunteer shushes her when her voice raises, and she tries (and mostly fails) to lower it so as not to disturb the act on stage. “You’re competing?”

  I shrug, a little embarrassed. I don’t know why, it’s not like it’s anything to be ashamed of, just that I’m still not sure how this is going to go. Still not sure I can do this in front of anyone other than Olivia.

  And then I realize that Olivia’s just been standing off to the side, looking between the two of us with this vaguely confused look on her face.

  “Oh! Hey, Olivia”—I hold my arm out and wave her closer—“this is Mack McCarthy. She’s Davey Mack’s cousin. We used to hang out when we were younger, back when my dad worked for Kittredge.”

  Olivia offers a hand and Mack shakes it with her usual level of vigor.

  “Nice to meet you, Olivia!” Mack whisper-shouts. She gives us a quick salute. She leans in, “I’m headed out to the audience, but Toni, you should text me!”

  She holds her palm out and up for my phone and I hand it over to her. She types in her number and shoots herself a text so I’ll have hers too. And as soon as she jogs off, a volunteer with a clipboard walks up to tell us we’re on next.

  “Your friend was … nice.”

  Olivia looks a little green after they walk away. I can’t even focus on Mack right now. All I see is the way Olivia’s bouncing her leg and cutting her eyes between me and the stage. I didn’t even think about the fact that she might be the type of person with stage fright, given her general sunniness, but I don’t mind the idea of comforting her. In fact, I want to.

  I want to tell her it’s going to be okay and that no matter what happens on that stage, I’m glad that we did this. I’m glad that she fell into that tent and needed help with some gimmicky scavenger hunt and I’m glad she didn’t run away when I tried to get her to. I’m glad she stayed. But I don’t have the language for all of that yet. No words to describe how much her presence has meant to me.

  So I trust my gut. I grab her hand and squeeze. I don’t know where Olivia’s set her camera, but I take a mental picture of the way the light from the stage halos her head from behind.

  My dad was right about a lot of things, but when I look at her, when I think about how I felt last night playing in front of her, I know I don’t need to go on stage to figure out what to do next. I lean forward, close my eyes, and follow my own Truth.

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON

  My mind is reeling and I’m doing my best to keep from losing whatever cool I’ve managed to fake thus far, but I’m quickly unraveling. Did I maybe stretch the truth about how comfortable I am performing in public? Maybe. But that was manageable until that—admittedly cute if a little awkward—Mack girl came over and made Toni do that smile I’ve only seen her do once before.

  Does it mean something? Are they just really cordial exes? Toni did say they used to hang out, but maybe that’s just cool roadie code for We definitely used to hook up. I mean, it’s not like she’s explicitly said that there’s anything going on here besides a few stolen moments that could’ve meant something but could be denied if pressed.

  I know it shouldn’t matter, that it’s none of my business, that I’m the one who made it a point not to kiss her last night, but I’m suddenly buzzing with jealousy. It sits low in my belly and snakes its way through my entire body.

  My knee bounces and a familiar prickle starts creeping across my skin. I try to rationalize it away, remind myself that it doesn’t matter, that me and Toni are good, that we’ve had a great time together over the past two days. But I can’t stop thinking about what I might be missing. I’m just me, haven’t given her anything but the unbridled version of myself. What if it’s not enough? What if all she needed was a reminder from her past to push her toward the exit?

  “Olivia?” My head snaps up.

  My brain was skyrocketing to nowhere good, and I’ve been there a thousand times before. But Toni squeezes my hand gently, our only point of contact, and brings me back down to earth. Her face is soft and her smile is different than any of the others we’ve shared so far. It’s the type of smile that tells me I’m already too far gone for my own good. That despite my best efforts—and I do mean the very best I’ve ever given—there’s no way this weekend ends without me losing just a bit of myself in this thing between us.

  It’s enough to make the questions disappear.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I …”

  And it’s like the dance barn all over again, only this time, it’s better. I’m not wondering whether or not I’m making the right choice, I’m not second-guessing myself. We made it here. We did this.

  I don’t even shut my eyes as I lean in to meet her lips. I don’t want to miss any of this. It feels like the first time—like the way a first kiss should be. Palms sweaty and so, so soft. Noses brushing just this side of awkward. It’s so much and not enough and it’s over too soon.

  She pulls back and smiles.

  “I just had to do that before we went out there,” she says. I bob my head up and down because I’m pretty sure if I tried to speak it would come out as gibberish right now. Her eyebrows are slightly raised and she’s biting her lip and God, how is it fair that one person is that cute? “Thank you. For everything.”

  We won’t find out about whether or not we won until tomorrow morning, so I want to tell her to hold her thank-you until then. The pair in front of us finishes and the audience gives them modest applause. I didn’t even hear any of their performance. This is it. My heart feels like it’s lodged in my esophagus, so I reach for my inhaler on instinct, even though I’m breathing fine.

  I don’t have time to take a panic puff before they’re calling us out though. The guy who’s emceeing calls out our names—he says Toni Jackson, her first and middle instead of first and last, and I can’t help but think that her name even sounds like a star in the making—and the crowd starts to applaud and then we’re out.

  The sounds of clapping are overwhelming, even though I can see through the bright spotlights they have on us that there can’t be more than two hundred people in the barn. My palms start sweating, and I bring my hand up to my brow line to shield my eyes from the lights. Is it supposed to be this hot up here? Can they turn the freaking lights down a little?

  Unlike me, Toni waves comfortably, her smile back on her face and completely at ease. Out here, it doesn’t seem like she has any problem warming up to people. She looks at home, like this is exactly where she’s supposed to be, surrounded by music.

  And suddenly, I’m ridiculously, overwhelmingly nervous. In true Olivia Brooks style, I didn’t think about what all this would entail when I jumped straight into it. I saw an opportunity and I took it. And now I’m looking into the crowd and the lead singers of Sonny Blue and Kittredge, two of
the headlining bands and two of the biggest artists in the world, are there to watch me crash and burn. But what’s worse, I’m going to crash and burn and bring Toni down with me. My heart is beating a little too fast and I feel like I’m breathing the way I only do after running from the cops at a house party—nerves and a sense of danger shooting up my spine.

  I’m going to ruin her dream. I’m going to mess up her life just like I have every other person who’s ever gotten close to me.

  My eyes practically bug out of my head as I look at Toni.

  “That’s—that’s Bonnie Harrison out there. And Davey Mack,” I whisper and cover the mic so it can’t pick up any of the sound. My heartbeat is out of control and I reach for my inhaler. I take a puff, partially because my breath starts coming in shorter, but also because it buys me some time. This is crazy. “I can’t do this, Toni. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry but I seriously can’t—”

  Toni swings her guitar to her back and stands so her back is to the audience. Her hat even manages to block the spotlight as she positions herself in front of me. She looks my face over, considering, before placing her hands on both of my cheeks.

  I stop breathing again, but this time for a completely different reason. Her smile isn’t the kind that I’m used to. The kind that Troy used to flash, or Casey or Liza or Andi—a little like I was something to be devoured, a prize to be won. One that said: I’m watching you, I’m picking you apart.

  It’s so kind and so solid and somehow so her that I relax.

  “You know how you told me you you’re good at being who people want you to be?”

  I open my mouth and immediately try to backtrack. I thought we cleared this up earlier. I don’t want her to think that this—whatever is happening between the two of us—is anything like that. She’s special. This is special.