Strum Me

by Daisy Allen

  “Whoa whoa. Slow down. Breathe, then talk.”

  “I don’t have time to breathe. I’m trying sort out your lives,” he quips.

  “Oh, then screw breathing. Work away,” Jez tells him.

  “So, tomorrow, the whole day’s been set aside for rehearsals and then—”

  “What? Ugh, nooooooooooooo. Why do we have to rehearse more? We know what we’re doing,” Marius complains, covering his face with a cushion.

  “Oh, you do, do you?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s the change that Sebastian made to the chorus to your duet?”

  “Um…” Marius stalls, his face a complete blank.

  “He’s decided not to change the key,” Dennis informs him.

  “Yup. Got it, I was going to say that.”

  “And you,” he points to me with this phone, “whose cue are you going to take, going into ‘Iris’?”

  “That would be…yours?” I grin, hoping that will win me some points.

  “Nice try, burger-breath. You’re taking Jez’s cue.”

  “And you, what order have we moved the Bach to?”

  “Ha. Trick question, we’re not playing it,” Sebastian answers proudly.

  “Actually, last rehearsal we decided we were going to open with it,” Dennis says, whacking Sebastian over the head with his notebook.

  “Ow! Well, same diff. No one listens to the beginning anyway,” Sebastian sulks.

  “You’re going to rehearse. This is the biggest performance you’ve ever had. This is not the time to just ‘wing it.’ Do you have any idea how many people would kill to replace you? Everyone who’s ever been in a band, that’s how many. But somehow, someone wasn’t quite on the ball the day they made the decision, and thought you pansy-pissers should be the ones given the break!” He stops pacing and glares at us, his face glowing red, his lips pulled tight over his teeth.

  “Whoa. Relax. Yes, Dennis, we know. We are not worthy.”

  He takes a breath and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not kidding, guys. This is the gig of the year. We’ve worked hard to get here. You worked hard. Let’s not waste it, okay?”

  He leaves and the others go back to their phones and games.

  But I can’t stop thinking about what he’s said. And it’s given me an idea. An idea that may just change everything, for everyone. Now it’s just a matter of convincing the guys to go along with it. And it might as well be asking them for a kidney.

  But I guess if they were going to give up an internal organ to anyone, it would be me.

  ***

  The charter plane ride back to London is the longest three hours of my life.

  Being on the plane alone sucks, but it’s bad enough I’m not going to be at some of the shows and interviews, let alone the rest of the band going missing as well. There’s a clock above the door of the cockpit and I can’t stop watching the second hand tick tick ticking each torturous moment go by.

  My legs jiggles as I try to envision what reception I’m going to get at the other end. Whether the door will slam in my face, or not open at all.

  I’m giving up everything to be on this plane. I’m going to make the offer I have prepared, and if it doesn’t work, I may have nothing to return to. I’ve asked my very best friends to sacrifice for me. And they did it without hesitation. I can only hope that what we’re giving up isn’t going to be for nothing.

  “Mr. Windsor, can I get you a drink?”

  “No, thank you, Angie. Just let me know when we’re almost there, and call the car to be ready to pick me up from Gatwick, okay? I don’t have a lot of time to lose.”

  The truth is, I’ve lost too much time already.

  ***

  The woman at reception calls up to the room to say that I’m coming.

  I almost wish she hadn’t. Sometimes I think it’s best to catch people off guard. They have less time to think, to plan…to run.

  The elevator ride to the fifth floor is interminably long. Like it’s on the same time warp as the plane, conspiring to make my life a waiting hell. It feels so long that by the time I arrive at the floor, the ding of the elevator startles me, as if I’ve forgotten I’ve been traveling in a metal box up the side of a building.

  I step out, almost bumping into a group of women. There’s a gasp, and I hear her murmur the name of our band. She’s recognized me. I push on, and hope that by looking unapproachable, she’ll get the message. I don’t hear footsteps run after me, and I mouth a “Thank you, God.”

  I scan the doors for the apartment number written on the paper.

  508…510…512. 512, that’s the one.

  I take a breath before I reach up, rapping my knuckles on the door. The music inside instantly stops and there are voices. Shit. I hadn’t expected company.

  Loud footsteps come toward the door and I step back.

  The door swings open and it takes some restraint to stay back.

  “Brad. It’s good to see you.”

  “Silas. We need to talk.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Brad

  He opens the door wider and moves aside for me to step inside the apartment. It’s actually the band’s rehearsal space and the room is set up with their equipment. There are two of the other members there, fiddling with their instruments, and I give them a wave.

  “Hey,” one of them replies, and they take a hint and both stand up and leave the room.

  “So, what can I do for you? Or are you just here to pick up some performing tips? I mean, I’m not saying you could use them, but hey, frankly? You could use them.”

  His tone comforts rather than irritates, because now I know there’s no need for fake politeness, for false modesties. Which is good. I have no patience left for that.

  “When you get your first, well, any award at all that we haven’t won yet? I’ll be the first one to sign up for lessons.”

  “You’ll have to get in line.”

  “From what I hear, you have a revolving door.”

  “You see, that’s what I never liked about you Brad. You seem to think that being popular with women is an insult.”

  “No, and you know better than to think that I’m some virginal saint. But I do think that the quality of the people going through your revolving door is an insult in itself.”

  “I don’t know, we’ve had the same person go through our revolving doors—are you saying she’s a slut?”

  His use of the harsh word temporarily surprises me. For all our talk of women, and hell, our experience with them, it’s always because we’ve loved them, found them beautiful, sexy, passionate. Never would we use the word “slut” to describe any of them. Jokingly or not.

  “I don’t know who you mean, but it’s not someone I’ve ever had the pleasure of being acquainted with.”

  “Cut the crap. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to make you a deal. And trust me, you’re not going to refuse it.”

  “Because you’re going to make me?”

  “No, because of how much you’re going to want it.”

  “What is it?”

  “In all seriousness, what is this with Emily and Ben, huh? You want her working for you? Bullshit, you could get any other PR person, journalist, whatever, for half the price.”

  “How do you know what I’m paying her?”

  “Because I know how much her paper was paying her, and that you’re at least matching that. Apparently you’re a dick, but you’re not stingy.”

  “Maybe it’s because she’s good at what she does, if you know what I mean?” The sleazy way he raises his eyebrow makes me want to punch it right off his face. I tangle my fingers with each other behind my back to wait out the impulse.

  “And Ben?”

  “He’s my son. I don’t need any other reason than that.”

  “It wasn’t a good enough reason before now.”

  “People change.”

  “People don’t change that much.”

 
; “Circumstances change then.”

  “Now it’s your turn to cut the crap. We both know what the reason is. It’s me.”

  “You’re an arrogant fucker, aren’t you? Why do you think this has anything to do with you?”

  “Because you’ve always been jealous of me, ever since high school, ever since I got picked to be first violin in eighth grade and you just could not fucking stand it. We used to be friends, weren’t we? Or don’t you remember? Don’t you remember that once I was being favored in school you had to beat me in other ways. Isn’t that why you asked Emily out in the first place? When you knew that I was in love with her?”

  “Fucking hell, are you seriously bringing up all this shit now?”

  “No, you brought it up. You made it about this. About me.”

  He walks over to the bar and pours himself a drink. He’s thinking, he’s thinking what it all means. He comes over and shrugs.

  “FINE! Fine. I admit it. I want to you lose everything you have and wither up and fucking die.”

  He takes a drink from his glass and slams it down.

  “Good. That’s good. But let’s be even more specific. It’s really been about the fortune or really, in your case, the fame isn’t it? That’s what really got your goat all these years. That our band shit all over anything you’ve tried to achieve in the music business for almost a decade.”

  He says nothing, but the flicker of hatred in his eyes says it all.

  “Well, good. Because this next offer is really going to get your two-inch dick hard. You want what I have? You got it.”

  “What?”

  “The RockFever Fest. You’ve heard of it, right?”

  “Shut up. What are you talking about?”

  “You can have it. Your band. Headlining on the Saturday night one-hour set, 9 p.m., broadcast to almost every fucking country in the world. All yours.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I didn’t fly all this way to lie to you. I have a life.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “You know.”

  “Emily.”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what?”

  “Ben.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “All you have to do is sign these papers, releasing all rights to Ben as his biological father.” I pull out a contract from my back pocket and lay it out in front of him. My heart beats so loud, I press my hand against my chest to stifle the sound.

  “What are these?” He leans over, peering at the front page.

  “Just some nifty papers I had my lawyers draw up. Come on, what’s there to think about? The star performance in the year’s biggest international gig. In exchange for something you never wanted in the first place.”

  “How?”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s all in place with the organizers. All you have to do is sign the papers and we will say the word, pull out, and you will replace us.”

  “You can’t do that. It’s not your decision.”

  “Oh, but we can. We have Dennis, and that’s why we are who we are. And you are still playing opening gigs for us…and on standby lists. But this—this gig will change all that. But of course, you already know that.”

  He takes the papers, reading over them, flipping the pages one by one.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Who cares? Isn’t it what you want? Not only is it what you want, but you’re taking it from me. Don’t pretend that’s not getting you all wet.”

  His voice is soft, low. “What’s the catch?”

  “I told you already. You get the performance of a lifetime, for your little signature on that line.”

  He closes his eyes, and I know he’s picturing it. He wants it so bad he can taste it, and it taste like nectar to him.

  “Just sign it, Silas. Let’s not waste any more of each other’s time.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut, and his knuckles rap on his temple as he thinks. “Can I…will I still be able to visit him?”

  “That’ll be up to Emily. But she’s never stopped you before. She wants what’s best for Ben.”

  “Can I think about it?”

  “You have until the end of the day.”

  “That’s not long enough.”

  “Then enjoy watching the concert from the nosebleed section.”

  I tap the sheet in his hand.

  “You want to play? You’ll get these signed to me by the end of the day.”

  I slam the door behind me, and only hope that I haven’t fucked it up for everyone.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Emily

  I have the first night off in a long time, and can’t wait to sit in front of the TV with a pizza while Ben plays with Legos on the sofa. There’s one more week before his cast comes off, and I don’t know who’s looking forward to it more.

  I kick off my shoes and settle back into my couch, lifting a piece of pizza off the box and letting the melted cheese fall into my mouth like a greasy, milky waterfall.

  “Hmm, yum,” I moan, as Ben giggles and reaches for his own piece of pizza to do the same. I start to reprimand him before I realize I have no leg to stand on.

  I’m happy to see him happy. There are moments when he still wakes up confused and calls for Brad, asking me to call him and just let him say good night. But I believe that going cold turkey is probably the best thing for Ben, to help him forget. As a child, I guess I assume that how he feels, recovers, and processes is different.

  Or, I sure hope it is, because if he was feeling anything like the pain I am feeling, then I may never forgive myself.

  Brad and I haven’t had any contact since that night texting.

  Although it feels like we have, as each night I take out my phone and reread the old message over and over. Ones from the other night, ones from when we were on tour. The ones when it descended into sexting and I realized I wanted him more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

  At least there is news of them as they travel the last legs of their tour. I try to remember my schedule with them and tune into their radio interviews and videos uploaded from their shows.

  I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience sometimes when I see them walking as a group. I can see me, and even Bed following behind them. I can smell the leather from Brad’s jacket, hear Jez torturing Marius, Sebastian whispering to Cadence and making her laugh.

  How quickly we became attached to them all. But life has gone on without us.

  The heaviness descends, and I look over at Ben, struggling with one hand to cram the pizza into his mouth so he can go back to playing.

  Then suddenly, there’s a familiar sound from the TV. And a familiar face.

  I turn up the volume on the news just in time for Ben to look and squeal. “It’s Uncle Brad! And Uncle Marius and Uncle Sebastian and Uncle Jez!”

  And it is. Wearing clown costumes and playing at a children’s ward at a local hospital.

  I’m glued to the screen, as the footage cuts to them playing the opening to Debussy’s “Clair de Lune,” lulling the children into a blissful state before cutting to the Wiggles’ “Hot Potato.” The group of children crowd around them in an array of pajamas and hospital gowns and cheer and dance, while Cadence and Hailey make the movements for them to copy.

  There’s so much joy that it palpitates off the screen.

  The footage then cuts to a reporter pulling Brad aside to interview him.

  “What do you think of these kids, huh?”

  “They’re amazing, each and every one of them. We come here to get inspiration on how to live our lives, with commitment and gratitude and to be reminded to make each day, each moment count.”

  “But there are so many places you guys could play and would be welcome, I bet.”

  “Maybe, but because of a very special little boy, we were reminded that there’s a special place in our hearts for these kids.”

  “Oooh, can we know who that is?”

  “For sure, his name is Ben Butter
. And he’s the bravest little boy you ever met. I hope he’s watching. Hey Benny Boy! We miss you so much and we hope to see you soon—without your cast. You better be eating your veggies!”

  “I’m sure he is,” the reporter laughs.

  Ben and I turn to each other, mouths open. His eyes light up with a thousand stars, just like his night light. And he jumps into my arms. Sobbing and laughing all at once.

  My boy, my little boy, what have I done? I’m going to fix it. Mommy’s going to fix it.

  ***

  BRRRRRINGGGGGGGGGGGG!

  My phone ringing at 7 a.m. a few days later wakes me much too early.

  I debate ignoring it, knowing that Ben is safe in the next room. Not much else matters. The caller hangs up. Then rings back.

  “Arghhhhh!” I scream into my pillow and grab my phone, answering it without looking. “Hello?”

  “You fucking bitch.”

  It’s Silas. And even with just those few words, he sounds drunk. At 7 a.m. I brace myself. I haven’t heard from him since the other night. I knew he’d be too careful to get in touch with me too soon, and I was taking advantage of the time to figure out my next move.

  “What?”

  “I can’t believe you would do this to me. After everything we’ve been through, this is low,” he spits.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

  “I don’t…”

  “Like I don’t know you used your little contacts with the paper to print this? You make me…you make me into a monster. You send Brad here to make that deal and then this is your parting shot?”

  “Silas, what are you talking about? What about Brad?” The mention of his name has my skin sparking into life.

  “Shut up, you lying slut!”

  “That’s it! Don’t you ever call me again, you hear? I have had enough of your fucking abuse. Don’t expect to see me for work. Don’t expect me to ever answer your call. I don’t know what you’re accusing me of, and I don’t care. I just care that I never see you again!”

  I hang up. Scared and relieved and nervous all at once, shaking with the emotions running though me, my nerves like naked wires zapping with electricity through my entire body.