I had set up a tent just outside the mess hall for the performers. Gwen had told me most performance spaces have a “green room” where the musicians wait for their turn to perform. When I’d shown her the makeshift tent, filled with cushions to sit on and Thermoses of lemonade, she said, “It’s not exactly a green room, but it’ll do.”
The boys of Wide Mouth Bass didn’t seem to mind. When I came in looking for Gwen, I found them having a great time challenging each other to lemonade-chugging contests. Gwen wasn’t there, but Ray was with them. My stomach turned inside out at the sight of him. He was sitting on the floor of the tent, arms resting on his long legs, his big smile warming the whole place up.
“Stop that!” I said, making a grab for the lemonade. “We need to save some for the others.”
“What others?” Cracker asked, wiping his mouth with the bottom of his shirt. “C’mon, Reenie! I’m dying to know who we’re opening for. Can you give me just one little hint?” He wiggled his bushy eyebrows at me and I laughed, but still refused to divulge any information.
“She won’t even tell me and I’m co-promoter,” Ray said.
“Bang-up job as always, Ray-baby,” Cracker said, peeking through the back door. “That’s a great crowd.”
“Who’s out there?” Bo asked.
I joined Cracker at the door and looked out at the crowds. It was mostly young people, but there were quite a few families, some older people from town and all of our Sandy Shores guests. “Tons of people,” I assured him.
“Has anyone seen Gwen?” I asked.
“She’s getting ready,” Ray explained. “She said to start without her.”
I couldn’t imagine starting without Gwen. This was our project, we had worked on it together.
“She won’t mind. You know how she is,” Bo said, rolling his eyes. “She wants to look perfect.”
Wide Mouth Bass was on first; Gwen wouldn’t be singing until later. She had lots of time to get back before it was her turn to go on.
“Okay, fine. Ready?”
Cracker cheered. “This is it. Are you ready, boys?”
The other band members yelled back at him. I watched as they formed a close huddle, heads together, chanting something that didn’t even sound like English. I met Ray’s eyes across the huddle.
“What are they doing?” I asked.
Ray shrugged, grinning. “It’s a pre-show ritual, something bands do to get them in the mood.”
“What language is that?”
“English, sort of. Cracker wrote this motto, and they decided to say it backwards for luck.”
I tried not to laugh. If I hadn’t witnessed my brother, eyes closed, arms locked with his fellow bandmates, earnestly chanting mumbo jumbo, I wouldn’t have believed it. But there it was, happening right in front of me.
The boys broke off with another cheer and gathered their instruments. Ray went down the line of musicians, slapping palms. When he came to me, he paused, then shook my hand awkwardly. His palm was sweaty and warm.
“You’re on,” he said. “Good luck!”
I made my way to the microphone at the centre of the stage. I know I must have walked there, but I can’t recall the feel of the stage under my feet. People cheered before I said a single word. The sound was like a gust of wind, blowing away the what-ifs and filling my sails. I couldn’t stop now if I wanted to — I was on a one way course and it was full-speed ahead. I wrapped my hand around the microphone stand, grateful for something solid to help ground me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Sandy Shores!”
The cheering was so loud, I had to stop and wait for it to die down. I felt like a character from a book or a movie. Even the words I said felt like someone else’s lines.
“My name is Maureen Starr, and I am pleased to welcome you to a night of music and dancing. First up, a locally grown band featuring some familiar faces.”
I listed the names of the band members, who ran on stage to take their places as I called them. Again, the screaming was so loud I doubt anyone could hear me. It seemed pretty obvious that everyone knew who the boys were, though. They were so cool, nodding curtly at the audience and then looking away, tinkering with their instruments, as if they were completely oblivious to their screaming fans. But out of the corner of my eye I saw Bo fumble with a cord and I knew he was more nervous than he was letting on.
“And, finally, Paul Cracker!”
Cracker was the opposite of cool. He ran in like a cat let out of a bag, doing a whole lap of the stage before barrelling into me. He made a big show of looking embarrassed — took a deep bow, fixed the hem of my shorts and patted my ponytail to make sure I was all in one piece — then grabbed the microphone with two hands and apologized.
“I deeply, deeply apologize, Miss Starr. Will you ever forgive me?”
I pretended to think about it for a minute, which made Cracker fall to his knees, his hands clasped together, pleading. The audience laughed, and someone yelled, “Aw, come on! Give him a break!”
“You’re forgiven,” I said.
The audience cheered, then whistled as Cracker kissed me on the cheek. I fanned myself as if I were about to swoon and hurried off to the wings. I ran down the stairs and into the crowd as Bo’s guitar roared to life. I was exhilarated. I’d heard Mimi, Bo and Gwen talk about the rush of performing, but until that moment I had never felt it for myself. I felt superhuman. Ray was standing against the wall, waiting for me. There must have been twenty people packed into that little corner, but all I could see was him. My superhuman sight locked onto him and drew me in.
“You were great!” he yelled, his mouth next to my ear.
I hoped the band would play forever, just so Ray would have to keep speaking to me like that. His breath against the nape of my neck made me shiver.
“Everybody loved you,” he continued. “I knew they would.”
Ray was grinning at me and I grinned back. I wondered which of us had the bigger smile.
As the boys eased into their set, I relaxed a little and started scanning the crowd. From my spot against the wall, I tried to get a glimpse of Mimi or Daddy, but I couldn’t see past the first few rows of people. It was hard to believe that this room was the same place I had watched Gwen spin across, empty except for us and the dust motes.
The crowd was going crazy for Wide Mouth Bass. And it wasn’t just the young people, everyone was smiling and nodding along. A few people were clapping and shaking their heads at each other, as if to say, Can you believe this? As fizzy and exhilarated as I felt, one thing niggled at my happiness like a toothache. Daddy wasn’t here. I scanned the crowds again and again. In that sea of happy, impressed faces, his was the one I wanted to see the most. If only he could see what I had done, bringing these people together at Sandy Shores, pulling off a major event, surely he would feel confident leaving me in charge one day.
Eventually, the boys’ set came to an end, and I wormed my way through the crush of people and ran back on stage to announce Gwen. “Our next performer is Gwen Cates, who some of you know as our dance teacher here at Sandy Shores.”
Someone whistled and the crowd laughed.
“In addition to being a professionally trained ballerina, Gwen is a star in the making. Today she is going to sing a song for you written by Bo Starr, who is yet another — star — on the rise!”
A couple of people groaned at the joke, but more people laughed. I loved hosting. I got a thrill from making the audience laugh, even if it was at my bad jokes.
I turned to make my way off the stage and was struck still by the sight of Gwen, waiting for her entrance. She was wearing a dress I had never seen before, simple and white, with a round neckline and an overlay of lace, a narrow yellow belt buckled around her waist. She had tucked a sprig of blue flowers behind one ear. It was a bit like seeing a ghost, for here was the Gwendolyn I remembered from so many years ago, only more grown up. She looked like a fairy bride with her blond hair and pale dress. She didn’t se
em nervous at all. It reminded me of how she would dance on her own after class, as if she were completely alone, oblivious to my presence and comfortable in her own skin.
As I passed, she grabbed my fingers and squeezed lightly. Our eyes locked for one second. When she smiled, it looked a little sad. I wondered if maybe she was more nervous than she let on, or perhaps she was sad that her mother couldn’t be here. I was about to ask what was wrong when she mouthed two words to me and turned away. It happened so quickly I couldn’t tell what the words were, but I could ask her later.
Then she started to sing, and there wasn’t a single person in the room who wasn’t hanging on her every note. Her voice was so simple and beautiful, she didn’t need backup dancers or a glittery dress or any smooth moves. She had ditched all of her girl-group shoulder rolls and finger wagging and stood at the microphone, one hand wrapped around the pole and the other hanging at her side. She didn’t flirt with the audience; in fact, she barely looked at them. She sang out as if no one was there, with a slight nod to Bo as the song finished.
Silence, like a final note, hung in the air. It took a moment for people to shake themselves from Gwen’s spell. When they did, they burst into eager applause. Gwen smiled, nodded and then gestured to Bo, who did the same. As the applause rang on, they grinned at each other shyly, pleased but humbled by the response. Eventually the applause started to thin out, except for one person in the back. He was clapping madly, dog whistling and banging on the wall of the mess hall. A murmur spread through the crowd as people craned their necks and shifted, trying to get a glimpse of Gwen’s fanatical admirer.
“Settle down there, buddy, and we’ll do another,” Bo said lightly into the microphone.
“I don’t think so,” the voice called out. “I’ve seen enough.”
My entire body stiffened, and my heart fell all the way to the soles of my feet as Johnny Skins pushed his way through the crowd and hauled himself on stage. The murmuring grew into a dull roar as people started to recognize him. All of the colour drained from Gwen’s cheeks as she backed away from the microphone. Bo looked puzzled, trying to figure out how he knew the man coming toward him.
Then a single voice rose above the crowd.
“It’s him! It’s Johnny Skins!”
Now the mess hall was full of screaming girls and the audience surged toward Johnny. Bo looked back at Gwen, who was hovering at the back of the stage like a deer in headlights. Bo went to her, carefully taking her arm. There was so much tenderness in his reaction, that all the air was sucked right out of me and the truth exploded in front of my eyes like fireworks. Bo and Gwen. Why hadn’t I seen it before?
I wasn’t the only one who got it. Johnny took the abandoned microphone for himself.
“Well, hi there, Sandy Shores! It’s swell to see you, too! Wasn’t that nice? Wasn’t that just the most goddamn nicest thing you’ve ever seen? Two kids in love, makin’ a song.”
“Please, let me though!” I cried, struggling uselessly against the hot bodies. Suddenly the mess hall felt too small, too crowded; it had become dangerous. My superhuman strength was gone and I had to resort to ducking under sweaty arms and elbowing my way through the swarming mob.
“Come on back here and say hello, Dolly,” Johnny sneered. “Oh, right, you’re going by Gwen now. Is that what your boyfriend here calls you?”
Gwen started to shake. Bo led her toward the wings. Cracker appeared in the doorway, looking concerned. Johnny turned his attention back to the crowd and pouted. It was an ugly, cartoonish expression.
“Aw, we frightened poor Dolly away! There she goes, kids! Off into the woods with a different guy. He looks like the lead singer of your hometown band! Watch out, Bo, ladies love a leading man!”
Finally I reached the front of the crowd.
“Johnny, stop!” I screamed, slamming my open palms on the stage. It was no use. Even if he’d wanted to, he could never hear my voice over the excited crowd. I looked over my shoulder, searching for Daddy, Ray or somebody who could help, but all I could see were strangers, pressing in on me from all sides.
“Well, what can you expect from a dancer, right?” Johnny jeered.
Bo returned from the wings, having left both Gwen and his guitar with Cracker. He approached Johnny warily, hands out in front of him, showing he meant no harm. “Hey, cut it out, man.” He had to yell to be heard. “We were just singing.”
Johnny laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Cut it out, man?” Johnny laughed again. “Who do you think you are, a big shot? Hey, Sandy Shores, let me ask you a question. Who do you want to hear? Me—” Johnny pointed at himself and let the roaring of the crowd wash over him. Then he held his hand up for silence and hitched his thumb in Bo’s direction, “—or this kid?”
People continued to scream, as if it were all part of the show.
“Looks like you’ve got a lot of fans out there, Mr. Big Shot. So why do you have to go after someone else’s girl, huh? You think you can just help yourself and get away with it?”
Johnny was closing in on Bo, who continued to stand his ground. Bo was at least a head taller, but he wasn’t nearly as angry as Johnny, who I knew was unpredictable and rash.
“Listen, you’ve got it all wrong,” he said. “I was helping her out with a song, that’s all.”
He’s lying, I thought. Johnny said that Gwen had stopped writing him letters. And the reason Ray recognized her shorts that night was because Gwen had been sneaking out to see Wide Mouth Bass play. Then she was so upset when I told her Johnny had called — not because she didn’t want us to know about her secret rock star boyfriend — but because she didn’t want Johnny to find out about Bo. They had been carrying on this whole time, and I hadn’t noticed. How could I have been so stupid?
Johnny was laughing like a maniac, slapping his leg and whooping. The audience was beginning to get antsy. They were starting to clue in that something was wrong. Johnny jabbed Bo in the chest and leaned in. I could barely hear him over the rumble of the crowd.
“Right. A song. That’s always how it starts, isn’t it? I should know. Look, let’s call it a day. We’ve both been had by the same girl. We’re not the first two guys that’s ever happened to, am I right?” Johnny spoke into the microphone and asked the crowd, “Who out there knows what it’s like to be had by a cheating woman?”
No one seemed to know how to respond. A few people laughed and someone cheered weakly. Then Johnny extended his hand to Bo, who looked at it but didn’t move to shake it. In that split-second pause, Johnny drew back and thrust his arm forward in a punch. I heard the crack as his knuckles connected with Bo’s jaw, and I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach. Bo spun around with the impact and landed on the stage with a thud.
There was a collective intake of breath, and then the screaming began again — but this time it was shrill and panicked. I scrambled to pull myself up on the stage, but someone grabbed me around my waist and yanked me away.
“Let me go!” I screamed. “Bo!”
It was Ray, his mouth by my ear again. “No, Reenie! You’ll get hurt!”
Bo had rolled onto all fours, his hair hanging in his eyes. Two members of his band, including Cracker, had appeared on stage and stood between Bo and Johnny, yelling threats. Two men I didn’t recognize jumped on stage to give them a hand. On the floor, the crowd was split into bloodthirsty spectators, chanting “fight, fight, fight,” girls crying and wild-eyed women and children who couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I leapt at the stage again, and Ray picked me up and carried me through the crowd. I twisted in his arms, demanding to be let down.
Over Ray’s shoulder, I watched as Johnny slugged another man who had been trying to pin him to the stage.
“Bo!” I cried. “What about Bo?”
“He’ll be fine; there are lots of guys in there on his side. It’s not safe in there right now.”
I screamed for my dad, tears streaming down my face. When we finally made our way out of the
mess hall, Ray set me down gently on a log.
“My dad,” I said. “You have to find my dad.”
He knelt in front of me, hands on both shoulders, and looked me right in the eyes. “I’m going to find him,” he said. “But promise me you won’t go back in there.”
I nodded and Ray squeezed my hand one final time before sprinting off toward the lawn we were using as the parking lot. I closed my eyes and took a long, deep breath through my nose, trying to ignore the shouting. I tried to calm down by focussing on the damp smell and rough grooves of the log beneath me. When I opened my eyes, I felt clearer and more determined. I couldn’t sit around and wait for things to happen. I had to find Daddy myself.
The Getaway
Even away from the crush of people stumbling out of the mess hall, Sandy Shores was buzzing with excitement. I couldn’t find Daddy or Ray in the parking area, so I started looking everywhere else I could think of. Daddy was nowhere to be found.
I asked after him with each person I met, but no one had seen him. There were people everywhere. Guests had gathered around the firepit and were trading their versions of events. On the front lawn, in between the tightly packed cars, kids were huddled, gossiping. Some of them had gone down to the beach and were goofing off in the sand. As I ran through the resort, I caught snatches of conversations.
“I can’t believe that was really Johnny Skins. Wait till I tell my sister.”
“Did you see Bo hit the ground? I thought he was out for sure.”
“And then my husband climbed up to give that poor boy a hand. I told him not to, because of his heart, but he just went ahead and got in there.”
“It’s that music they listen to — it makes them go crazy.”
I listened for any mention of Daddy, but no one had seen or heard from him. All that gossip passed me by, like someone was turning a dial on a radio.
Summer Days, Starry Nights Page 14
