by Leah Johnson
At that, I walk out onto the stage and am immediately stunned by how bright the lights are. How hot everything is all of a sudden. I do my best not to squint while also trying to remember to wave and manage a smile all at once.
It’s like trying to rub my belly and pat my head—at least one thing has to go.
So my smile is probably a little more pinched than I’d hoped, but I make it to center stage without an issue. I can’t see much in front of me until my eyes adjust. Now that I have a full view, I can see more people than I could backstage. There are tens of thousands of people out there, and that feels like an undersell. They’re still screaming, girls on shoulders waving their hands in the air and friends standing next to one another arm in arm. I know on both sides of the stage right now my face is being broadcast onto huge video screens so that even people in the very back of the field can see me. I try, and fail miserably, at trying not to let that freak me out.
I hold my guitar to keep my hands from shaking.
The only thing that grounds me is the fact that, if Peter was able to do what he said he would do, Olivia is out there right now, getting ready to hear what I have to say to her. I couldn’t do it this morning, but on this stage I’m ready to be honest. No matter what happens next, I don’t want to leave this weekend without knowing that I’ve done everything in my power to make her understand how I feel.
I rehearsed this with Teela earlier, so without any more fanfare, I situate myself at the mic I was told would be mine and begin to play the first few chords of the song I wrote. The crowd immediately starts clapping and screaming. This isn’t call-and-response, not exactly, but it’s close. A feedback loop, a give-and-take between me and them that says: We’re in this together. This can’t exist without us moving in tandem.
The band lets us go acoustic, because wrangling everyone into learning how to accompany a brand-new, completely-unheard- before-today song an hour before showtime isn’t realistic. But then again, none of this is.
I start in on the lyrics, and Teela matches me in perfect harmony.
We are the breath that gives purpose to your lungs.
This movement, my body’s greatest gift.
They’re Olivia’s words, and I hope she hears them for what they are. An homage, an apology, and a request all in one. After the first verse and chorus, I finally get up the courage to look out into the audience again. I’ve been part of that mass before, plenty of times, but to see it like this changes everything. Nearly fifty thousand people are out there, phones and flashlights in the air, waving back and forth in time with the song that I wrote.
If I said it was like magic, it wouldn’t be enough.
I chance a look down at the front row, the section reserved for Farmers with VIP wristbands, and my breath catches in my throat. I’m glad Teela is the only one singing this verse, because once I see Olivia down there looking up at me, it takes every bit of willpower I have not to jump off the stage and run straight to her. Especially when she’s giving me that softly awed look, like I’ve done something unbelievable.
My blood is thrumming through my veins and my heart is keeping perfect time and everything is music. The rumble of the audience after a particularly beautiful high note from Teela, the crash of a volunteer dropping some equipment backstage, the distant clamor of a helicopter hovering overhead, no doubt a news crew trying to get the story of what happened here yesterday and what’s happening now—it’s all accompaniment. This is orchestral—too big to be explained to anyone who isn’t here, in this, right now.
And when it’s over, when the crowd goes up in cheers again, I know with full certainty: There’s only one person I want with me when I play the encore.
SUNDAY NIGHT
I can’t believe I saw Toni walking down that gravel road just two days ago, but when I watch her on stage, I can definitely believe that I was thrown off enough by her irritatingly beautiful face to fall headfirst into my own tent. Because up there, with the rainbow of stage lights moving back and forth over her skin, her guitar in her hand, and her eyes closed, she looks even more magnetic than she did then.
Before, all I saw was the aesthetics—her outfit, her hair, her septum piercing—but this is so much better. It’s worth more now, to see her like this, because I know who she is outside all the fluff. She’s singing this song that I know is for me, my own lyric spilling from her mouth like I wrote it just for her, and it’s so much to process. That she might want me back. That we might last longer than this weekend. That I didn’t ruin her shot at this—that I didn’t ruin her.
She plays the last note and stares down into the audience like she’s looking for something. When her eyes stop on me and her smile goes wide, I know. Toni said before that I was worth every good thing, but I think it’s more than that. I am every good thing.
Somehow, the rain pouring down around us doesn’t faze me as much as the performance does. I look at Peter like he might have some answers for what we just watched, but he smiles and pulls a spare wristband out of his pocket. A bright green one that reads CREW in bold letters. He slips it on my wrist and says just loud enough to be heard over the music and the sound of the people screaming around us: “You better go! I hear there’s a certain future rock star waiting for you backstage.”
My first thought is to look at Imani. I won’t go. I swear, if Imani says she needs me to stand by her right now, all bets are off. Toni can find me via smoke signal or something once she gets home. Anything it takes to begin to make up for all the things I didn’t see, all the years I took Imani’s love and friendship for granted, I’ll do.
But because Imani is Imani, she sighs, rolls her eyes, and pinches the bridge of her nose like a seventy-year-old lady. And then she says, “Well, go ahead. After all that, maybe the odds are working in your favor with this one.”
I plant the biggest kiss on her forehead with a wet smack.
“You are a goddess among men, Imani Garrett. A goddess!”
And then I’m running through the crowd, dodging eager bodies who are jumping up and down to the sound of Kittredge doing a Bon Jovi cover with Pop Top, feeling light-headed with the thrill of what just happened. Of what that might mean for the future of me and Toni. The fact that there is still a “me and Toni” at all is enough to get me to want to run faster. And then I wheeze a little, because my lungs are traitorous bastards who don’t care about love, so I stop to take a puff of my inhaler.
When I finally make it around the side of the stage that leads to where Toni must be waiting, I flash my wristband at the security guard, and he gives me the signal to hold my arms and legs wide for a pat-down.
I don’t know where exactly I’m headed, but I see a set of stairs that has to lead into the wing of the stage where Toni walked off, and I figure that’s as safe a bet as any. I stop on the stairs for a second to try and pull myself together a bit.
My clothes are soaked through, despite the plastic poncho with the Farmland logo that they handed out to everyone before the show began. And let me just say: The movies get it all wrong. The dramatic reunion scene in the rain isn’t romantic, it’s a damn mess.
Rachel McAdams must not have cared about Ryan Gosling seeing her look like a wet dog in The Notebook, because I am struggling right now. My braids are hanging down my chest like overcooked noodles because Kanekalon is not meant to go through this. There’s no salvaging this look.
And I guess that’s for the best. This is the other part they don’t show you in movies. Where the girl screws up, more times than she cares to count, and the person on the other side of the equation isn’t some perfect knight in shining armor but a surly girl who only smiles when she means it and who fights to maintain every inch of her heart you were born ready to cede. Or the girl showing up to woo her love looking like a soggy boot, while the girl in question sweats profusely from stage lights but is clearly praying no one notices.
Love is messy and awkward and ugly, but at least it’s honest.
If it’s pict
ure-perfect, I think, climbing the stairs, I don’t want it.
I spot Toni’s hat almost immediately. Her back is turned to me, but I start toward her, smiling so hard it hurts my cheeks. Finally, after all our close calls, all our near-misses, this is it. We can be together. We can make it wor—
I stop in my tracks when a pair of arms wraps themselves around her neck and she swings her guitar to the back to hug them in return fully. I see the I am deliberate and afraid of nothing tattoo on the girl’s forearm, and even before they pull apart, I know who those arms belong to. I think back to the moment before our Golden Apple performance, the easy smiles and shared history. I’m not gonna deal with this.
Seriously, after the day, the weekend, the freaking year, I’ve had? There’s no girl worth being made a fool by. Whatever I thought she’d been trying to say by using my lyric … I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I start to turn, and see Toni pulling back at the same time. When she spots me across the dimly lit backstage area, her face brightens even more.
“Olivia!”
Her smile fades instantly when she sees my face though. I guess she didn’t expect to be caught red-handed, which, obviously, was a gross miscalculation on her part given the circumstances. I see her pull her guitar over her head and place it into the hands of some techie before starting after me.
Luckily, I’ve had more opportunities to run this weekend than I have in my entire life, so I’m quicker than usual as I make my way back down the stairs and into the rain. Stupid rain. Stupid Farmland. Stupid Toni.
My heart clenches in my chest, but I stop myself short of what usually comes next—the self-loathing, the rash decisions. This isn’t on me. No, if Toni wants to sing a song to me and then rush offstage into the arms of some cool red-headed roadie girl, that’s her choice. She’s the one who’s missing out. I mean seriously, who would have the absolute genius to pair a thrifted Rowen Rose pleated floral-print crepe mini dress with these Saint Laurent knock-off sneakers? Just me, that’s who!
And now, thanks to her, my sneakers are covered in mud. I’m sending her a dry-cleaning bill, I know that for a fact—
“Olivia, wait!” I can hear Toni’s voice over the sound of the rain. I decide to cut to the back instead of toward the crowd, since that’s where she’ll expect me to go, and make a hard left. So hard, in fact, next thing I know, my feet fly out from under me and suddenly I’m the most wildly unglamorous heroine-like blob known to man.
I land, hard, with a hugely unflattering splat. Mud soaks through the back of my dress and into my shoes and I don’t bother getting up or opening my eyes.
Here lies Olivia Brooks. Tell them not to use my yearbook photo from junior year in my In Memoriam because there wasn’t enough concealer in the world to cover that zit on my chin.
“Olivia, are you okay?” Toni kneels down next to me, completely careless of the way the mud soaks through her jeans and now cakes her boots. She slips a hand under my back and helps lift me to sitting up. My entire body feels alight with sensation, from where her warm hand rests between my shoulder blades to the tips of my fingers. It’s barely been twelve hours, but having her hands on me again sends a jolt of electricity through me. I blink the rain out of my eyes and see Toni’s annoyingly adorable smirk looking down at me.
“We’ve really got to stop meeting like this,” she says over the sound of the music.
I groan. I’m so going to feel that one tomorrow.
“That’s supposed to be my line, I think,” I answer under my breath. Toni stands and offers both of her dirty hands to pull me up. She doesn’t let go right away, but I force myself to take a step back. Once I get my bearings, I shout over the downpour, “I saw you back there! With the girl from yesterday!”
Toni’s eyebrows knit together and then she shakes her head vehemently.
“That’s not—She was congratulating me!” She holds her hands out wide and adds a little quieter, like she can’t quite believe it herself, “I got offered a crew gig. I’m joining Kittredge for the next leg of their tour!”
“Oh my God, Toni!” I jump and very nearly slip again before she darts forward and puts a hand on my waist. She’s close enough now that I can see the way raindrops cling to her eyelashes. “I’m so happy for you,” I say, and I really mean it. Toni belongs on the road, or with a band, or in a band. Whatever. She belongs wherever the music is.
“Olivia …” Her voice is so low it’s almost imperceptible. I don’t move a muscle. I don’t want to throw any part of this out of balance.
“Can we start over?” I cut in. My heart pounds in my chest.
“No. I don’t want that.” She shakes her head, but before I can bring myself to panic, she rests her hands on my wrist. “I want all the memories from this weekend. Every great, horrible”—she looks down at both of our ruined outfits—“disgusting bit of it.” She hesitates. “Okay?”
I can hear Teela’s voice ringing out over the crowd, and the audience giving her back the same energy that she’s giving them. It’s so loud—the swell of their love, their energy, the joy of it all. But I don’t want to be out there right now, I want to be right here. I want to be me: the loving, overly enthusiastic, occasionally impetuous, loyal-to-a-fault, Olivia Brooks. All of me. And I want to share it with this girl, for real this time. No secrets. No fear.
It’s not even a question.
“Okay,” I answer. I lean in.
The rain has nearly slowed to a stop by the time we pull away, but mother nature can’t take the moment away from me. I got my kiss in the rain, with the flawed but fantastic heroine of my dreams, and I am every bit as giggly and giddy as I thought I’d be. Muddy butt stains notwithstanding.
“Don’t even think about it, you two.”
I jump back from Toni when Festy Frankie emerges from the shadows with her hands on her hips and an expression on her face that is a far cry from any of the smiles and pursed lips on her page. Even in her flower crown and flowy, off-the-shoulder white dress that is still somehow magically spotless.
“I believe there’s an apple that we need to talk about.” She crosses her arms over her chest and raises her eyebrows.
Toni squeezes my hand and pulls me just slightly behind her, like I need protecting from this waif-like white girl with the offensive dreads. But I go willingly, if only because Toni is pretty cute when she’s in defense mode.
“Look, Festy, we’re not going to apologize for taking that apple. I know it goes against the Farmer Code, but it was worth it to us. So if you want it, you’re going to have to come and take it.”
I expect her to come up with something woo-woo but lowkey snappy in response, but instead of arguing back, Festy just … laughs. She laughs so loudly and for so long, I almost think Toni must have broken her. Until she reaches into the fanny pack that’s hanging around her waist and pulls out another apple.
“You—you found the last one.” I point at her. “Where did you find it? They never even released a final clue.”
She tosses it in the air and catches it easily.
“I’m a Fiat brand influencer.” She shrugs. “I always knew where they were.”
“Then why did you say on your post—”
She steps forward and opens Toni’s palm before placing the apple in it.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you two not to trust everything you read online?”
She reaches forward and cups both of our cheeks gently. Her voice softens back into something ethereal.
“Go forth and be at peace, my loves.”
With that, she disappears as quickly as she materialized, leaving me and Toni staring at each other with open mouths.
“What the hell just happened?” I ask.
Toni breaks into a grin. “I think you just won?”
Instead of answering, I wrap my arms around her neck, not because I’m afraid that if I don’t hold on she might fly away, but the opposite. In my arms, she’s strong and solid and present. I’m at one of the strang
est, most magical places on earth, and everything is a mess, but somewhere in that mess is me. And Toni. And my best friend. And the thing I’ve been chasing and never even knew it.
Davey Mack and Teela Conrad are singing a song that I don’t know but can feel in my bones, and I’m covered in mud and the cloying stickiness of rain after humidity, and I’m pressed against the girl I’m sure is more than just a future memory or a fleeting feeling. This moment is better than any movie, any song.
I press my lips to hers and try to catalog everything, from the way my feet sink into the mud to the way the bass pounding from the speakers makes my ears ring. When I pull back, Toni blinks her eyes open slowly, trying to focus like it’s the first time we kissed all over again.
“Wow. We should win you a car every day.” She smiles slowly. I reach behind my back to where she’s still holding tight to the golden apple. I pull it from her hands and slip it into my open fanny pack. She flattens her palms against my back, and I can feel the heat that radiates from them everywhere.
And because for all the drama and the theatrics and the mess of it all, my life is a movie: Fireworks go off above us, rocketing from behind the stage and lighting up the entire sky. Toni’s eyes never leave mine. Like no show is better than the one in front of her. I trace the exploding colors that reflect across her cheeks.
She’s right. I did win. I kiss her again.
I won big.
At the beginning of the pandemic that tore through 2020, Dave Grohl wrote this about the importance of live music spaces: “Without that audience—that screaming, sweating audience—my songs would only be sound. But together, we are instruments in a sonic cathedral, one that we build together night after night,” and I’ve been thinking about that ever since.
I wrote this book about a world that I love, while living in a world my wildest imagination couldn’t have dreamt (or nightmared) up. So first and foremost, I owe a debt of gratitude to every song, every band, every Pinterest board that reminds me, always, how powerful live music can be—how it can make a friend out of a stranger, inspire our radical hope, and envelop us in the arms of communal joy—even in times when it doesn’t feel possible.
