Frail Days

by Prendergast, Gabrielle;

  As we’re walking home, we talk about the summer festival for the millionth time.

  “Two weeks isn’t much time to prepare,” Tamara says.

  “No, I know. But I guess that means we’ll hear today or tomorrow.”

  We don’t say anything for about three blocks, both of us just trying to keep from exploding, I guess. We’re standing in front of my house when Tamara speaks again.

  “I’m freaking out. Are you?”

  “Not at all,” I lie, nodding my head stupidly. Tamara laughs. I’m about to ask her if she wants to make lemonade when my phone rings. I dig it out of my backpack while Tamara clutches at me.

  Chad Banner says the caller ID. I turn the phone around to show Tamara. She practically draws blood, digging her fingers into my shoulder.

  I’m close enough to my home wireless that the call actually comes through as a video call. I press accept and Chad’s grinning face comes into view. He’s obviously sitting at his desk, calling from his laptop.

  “Hey, ladies! It’s both of you!”

  “Hi, Chad!” we say. Actually, it comes out more like a joint squeal.

  “Listen, I have good news and bad news.”

  Gahh! Why is it always that way? Why can’t it ever be good news and more good news?

  “Okay, shoot,” Tamara says, releasing her claw hold on my shoulder. “Start with the bad news.”

  Chad takes a breath. Behind him I can see a few details of his sleek office. It must be in that new high-rise downtown. If you can call ten stories a high-rise.

  “Here’s the thing. You didn’t get selected for the festival.”

  I want to yell “WHAT?!” indignantly, but I’m not surprised. I glance over at Tamara. Her lips are pressed together. She knew this was a likely outcome too, but it’s still disappointing.

  “So what’s the good news?” I say.

  “I don’t want to get your hopes up before I check one thing. How old are you guys again?”

  “The boys both just turned fifteen. Tamara is sixteen now and so am I.”

  Chad looks thoughtful. “Let me go make another call. Here, talk to Mark.”

  Chad gets up and steps offscreen as an extremely handsome young man sits down in his place.

  “Thanks for holding for Chad Banner, the king of coolville,” he says smoothly. “Your call is important to us. Please hold the line.” Then he starts singing “The Girl From Ipanema” as cheesy hold music, making silly faces.

  Tamara and I burst out laughing, which helps dissolve some of the disappointment of Chad’s bad news. Mark just keeps singing, oblivious. Chad comes back into view, his cell phone to his ear.

  “You’re sure?” he says. “Well, yeah, we can work around that. Thanks.” He pockets the phone and puts his hand over Mark’s mouth. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, shoving him away before turning to us. “So, here’s what I’ve cooked up for you…”

  Then he starts talking super fast about a record label and liquor licenses and getting the carry-over from a big festival up north and some executive who saw us on YouTube and doing a guest spot on his radio show and he wants to be our manager. He’s talking so fast I can barely grasp everything he’s saying. Also, my shoulder hurts. I look down to see that Tamara has grabbed me again and is pinching so hard her knuckles are bright white.

  Wait. Chad Freakin’ Banner wants to be our manager?

  “Well?” Chad asks with a bright grin. “How does that sound?”

  Two seconds later my parents run out of the house to see what all the screaming is about.

  * * *

  There’s a moment when I’m drumming when the problems of the world seem to evaporate. Then the world evaporates, and it’s just me and the music. And that’s the moment when I forget all the stuff about getting famous or making money. Because I feel like I could live forever in those beats, in that rhythm. That’s when I feel most like a musician and not just some lame, idealistic kid.

  It happens when I play by myself in my room, and it happens when I jam in the studio with the band. It even happened when we auditioned for the summer festival. I think we all lost ourselves in the music so much that none of us cared about the blank looks on the judges’ faces when we finished. Chad was grinning his bright white smile again. The other three judges looked a bit frightened. But we didn’t care. We’d found that place despite everything. That magical musical place. To hell with them if they couldn’t go there with us.

  I’m in that place right now. I thought the crowd would distract me—the people dancing, the glasses clinking, the lights, the faint smell of cigarette smoke drifting in from the terrace. But none of it seeps into our secret world. We’re in our moment, in the zone where it’s clear that music fixes everything.

  Tamara is singing “The Alien,” belting it out like her life will end if she doesn’t break every window in the building. And Jacob is tripping out on a riff he pulled in his solo that made my eyes fill with tears. And Miles, in his bare feet and paisley shirt, is hopping and popping bass notes like they’re celestial thunderbolts.

  That’s right. The zone. The Frail Days are on fire.

  Who cares if we didn’t make the Parkland Summer Music Festival? I mean, who cares? This is a million times more awesome. We’re playing in Chad Banner’s nightclub. A nightclub! We’re not even allowed off the stage because we’re all underage. We have to climb out onto the roof and get back to the dressing room that way so we don’t have to cross through the licensed area. That’s so punk rock.

  I open my eyes and see Chad Freakin’ Banner drop a bottle of champagne on the table of some guys in flashy clothes. Tamara says they are execs from a big music label. She met them when she was in Fantalicious. Just looking at them now, drinking champagne and schmoozing with Chad—our manager, Chad—makes me see stars. Not stars like they’re going to make me a star, but stars like I’m going to faint face first into my snare drum. I close my eyes and crank my drumsticks down for the last verse of “The Alien.”

  Once my parents told me on Christmas morning that we were going to Disneyland. We took a limo to the airport, with the Beatles blaring the whole way. I wore my pirate costume on the plane. It was sunset by the time we arrived at Disneyland, and then there were fireworks and a huge parade. Darth Vader was in the parade. That was a pretty good day.

  But this blows Disneyland far out into the Pacific Ocean. What. A. Rush. And looking down to the table where all our parents are sitting, I can tell they must be feeling the same way. They’re practically neon with pride.

  We reach the last bar of the song, Tamara holding on to the final note like it’s a life preserver. Then I slam my sticks down on the cymbals, busting us all out of magical music land with a resounding crash. There’s a beat that feels like being punched in the chest, and then the whole club explodes into applause.

  Holy crap. Wicked.

  Soon they’re stamping their feet and banging beer bottles on tables. Tamara pulls me to the front of the stage with the boys, and we all take repeated bows to the tune of a club full of half-drunk goths, punks and rockers. Where Chad finds all these people I’ll probably never know.

  A camera flash pops. Then another one. Blinking the spots from my eyes, I see that one of the cameras belongs to an executive from the champagne table. I have to have a little talk with myself, trying to come down from the “omigod we’re going to be famous” cloud that’s threatening to carry me away. Despite everything—the cheering and the flashing cameras and the smell of beer—I need to keep it real.

  It’s pretty hard at moments like this.

  As the crowd begins to settle, Chad jumps up onto the stage, taking the microphone.

  “Let’s hear it for the FRAIL DAYS!” he yells. The crowd erupts again. As Chad high-fives us all, I notice that Tamara and Jacob are holding hands. And Jacob seems to have grown about four inches since the last time I took a good look at him. Before I can process this there’s a flurry of bright color as Nate climbs out onto the stage (fro
m the roof—he’s underage too!) with an armful of flowers. He hands a giant bouquet to Tamara. The crowd goes “aw” as he gives her a brotherly hug and kiss on the cheek. Then he turns to me, a single rose left in his hand.

  Uh…this is…kinda cool too. I’m pretty sure my face must be glowing red though. If I was another girl, I might be thinking that dreams really do come true.

  Okay, maybe that’s a little more princess than punk, but just this once I think I’ll let it slide.

  Acknowledgments

  It is not easy being a young performer. Combine the insecurity of youth with the uncertainty of the creative artist and put it on display in front of hundreds of people, and you get a whole lot of craziness. Yet we artists stick with it, despite the humiliating auditions, the empty seats, the rejection letters, the bad reviews. We stick with it because we are called to it, because we believe that this is what we have to give back to the world.

  You would think that young performers, exceptional as they often are, would get all kinds of support from the adults around them, but such is often not the case. “Have something to fall back on” is the frequent mantra. “You’ll never make any money at it.” For kids who have heard these discouraging words repeatedly, hearing a little of the opposite can be like elixir to the creative soul. So I’d like to acknowledge the few adults who encouraged me when I was a young artist. I won’t name you; you know who you are. Thank you.

  And to all you young artists out there—you’re terrific.

  GABRIELLE PRENDERGAST is a UK-born Canadian/Australian who lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, with her husband and daughter. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia. A part-time teacher and mentor, Gabrielle is the author of the verse novels Capricious and Audacious, which was shortlisted for a CLA Award. Gabrielle blogs and rants at www.angelhorn.com and www.versenovels.com.