Love Songs & Other Lies

by Jessica Pennington

  Like a freaking Miss America contestant. I nod. “Me, Logan, and Anders were in a high school band together.”

  Priya is waving her hand, encouraging me to keep talking, but I don’t know what else to say.

  “What do you think about Logan bringing his girlfriend on tour? Is that uncomfortable?”

  “Why would it be uncomfortable?”

  She points to the camera.

  “It’s not weird at all that Vee’s on tour—Vee’s always been part of the band. We all love Vee.”

  Priya turns to Tad. “Time?”

  Tad looks at his screen and quickly replies, “7:42:06.”

  Priya makes a note on her tablet.

  “What’s the time for?”

  Priya shrugs, “We just like to note places we may want to come back to for editing.” She smiles and continues. “So let’s talk about Logan. He said he’s fine with being considered co-frontmen. How do you feel about it?”

  When the interview finally ends, it feels like I’ve been in the little makeshift room for an hour, but it’s been more like twenty minutes. Vee is waiting outside, and Priya waves her in as I leave.

  VIRGINIA

  They talk to the guys one-on-one, in pairs—as a group. Jenn didn’t make it seem like I would be in front of the cameras much, so when I’m included in the one-on-one interviews, it’s strange and unexpected. It’s even stranger when I start getting questions about being Logan’s girlfriend. Ugh. Girlfriend. Whenever I think the word, I cringe. Logan’s girlfriend—a title I once actively avoided. My interview is mostly about my involvement with the band. My experience as their high school manager, what I did during their time in LA, and when I met them. Specifically, when I met Logan, and how long we’ve been together. It feels like a slippery slope to lie, and the truth—we’ve been together one day—isn’t an option. I stick to the details of our friendship and don’t veer too far from the truth. Still, every time I hear that word—“girlfriend”—I get this ache in my gut. I may not have the courage to be an actual musician, but I’m not a glorified assistant anymore. I’ve been feeding Logan songs for the last year. In the fall, I’ll be interning at a PR firm in Chicago. That’s a huge deal for a sophomore. But for now, I’m nothing but an accessory standing in the wings again. A glorified groupie along for the ride. Maybe hopping on a bus based on a too-good-to-be-true job offer from Logan wasn’t my best choice ever. Who knew, right?

  CAM

  The cameras are a serious adjustment. At first, I notice them everywhere. They’re outside our bunks when we wake up, sitting in the lounge while we talk through new songs. It feels like they see everything. Like they are literally everywhere, even though there are only two cameras to follow all twelve of the people on our bus. There’s this one cameraman in particular—a tatted-up guy named Tad—who seems to be with our band constantly. The other cameraman hops between Caustic Underground and The Phillips. I can’t help but wonder what makes us so damn interesting. Then I remind myself that the coverage is good—it’s what we need. It’s weird to even think of us as a “we” again. In a lot of ways, we’re still all getting to know each other again. And now we need viewers to get to know us too.

  Starting next week, the American public doesn’t just get to see our performances on TV, they’ll see footage of us behind the scenes, too. I hope they come up with something more interesting than watching me get dressed, microwave food, or write songs, because Your Future X needs to be the band that viewers want to watch. I’m trying not to let my distaste for the cameras show, even though there’s something about Tad—and his obvious obsession with Logan and Vee—that feels really off, somehow. His stupid camera catches everything. Every shared joke, each hand placed on the small of her back as she gets onto the bus or into a cab. I don’t know when Logan became such a fucking gentleman. Every playful kiss to her head and every lingering hug will be forever captured online. I could watch it all over and over, for the rest of my life, if I wanted to. If I wanted to torture myself.

  It’s bad enough living it. At the same time, the thought that I’ll be able to see her in those videos whenever I want, when this is all over—it brings me a certain sense of calm.

  VIRGINIA

  The first two venues of the tour are small. They remind me of the local bars The Melon Ballers would play. The producers want the whole tour to mimic the reality of a rising band, so they’re all starting at mom-and-pop bars and clubs. Each week, the venues will get bigger and the productions more elaborate, with fewer bands playing each week. At the end of the sixteen-week stretch, one band will walk away with a record deal and the hearts of the nation. They actually say that in the show intro—“the hearts of the nation.” Cheesy, but true. The first two shows will be taped, so there’s no pressure of a live performance, and no bands will be cut. They’ll basically be elaborate practice runs to generate some buzz before the live tapings begin, and tickets are already sold out.

  When we load into the first venue, a graffiti-covered two-story bar on the outskirts of Houston, I can’t help but be sucked into the memories of past gigs. I have missed this. In the afternoon light, everything looks dark and dirty and old. It feels wrong to be here in the daytime, when all of the imperfections are on display. The light fixtures are dulled—probably by years’ worth of smoke—and the cement walls are covered in thousands of names scribbled in a rainbow of Sharpie. Thin blue tubes run along the ceiling. I imagine what the walls will look like glowing under the black lights—a tangled web of graffiti popping off of the walls like neon signs.

  The crew brings in case after case, loading in the speaker boxes and instruments, and the backstage area begins to look and feel like a storage locker. Trying to escape the claustrophobic towers of equipment, I hop onto a stool in the bar area and begin to scribble notes. The first pseudo-publicist task I’ve given myself is to update the band’s website. Their bio and FAQ sections are first up, because they’re embarrassing. Nothing has been updated in ages. Reese’s picture looks like a bad selfie taken in a bar bathroom, and Cam isn’t even listed as a band member. I jot down a list of questions I think viewers—hopefully their future fans—will want to know. I have a sheet’s worth of questions penned when the familiar hum of tuning guitars distracts me. Up on the stage, in all their glory, is my band—My Future X. I can’t help but feel a swell of love for these guys for bringing me along on this journey. Even Reese—who has made it his mission to embarrass me with his dirty jokes and shameless flirting—has assured me he wants me here (even if it’s just as entertainment value).

  Up on the small wooden stage, Anders clicks off the beginning of the first song. Logan and Cam are seamless as they trade off vocals, switching from lead to backup, coming together in perfect harmonies. They’re so in sync—a well-oiled machine—like two voices that started as one and are finally being joined together again. It seems like yesterday—and also a lifetime ago—since I last saw them do this. Each of them is lit up from the inside out, happiness and joy radiating off of them in waves, as they belt out each song.

  Maybe it’s muscle memory, but my eyes can’t help but lock on Cam and his guitar. He always was—and still is—like a magnetic force onstage. I watch his hands, sliding up and down the long fret of his honey gold Fender, strumming and plucking and teasing each string. His muscles tensing and relaxing as he moves around the stage, looking so comfortable. My breathing slows as my eyes trace up from his hands to his arms—the black curls of his tattoo still taunting me from the edge of his T-shirt. I want to read the tiny words penned along those twisting notes, curving up and around his hard bicep. Having his voice fill my ears again is like the moments right before you fall asleep, when it’s hard to distinguish dream from reality.

  My neck heats as I drag my eyes over his broad chest, let them wander across his face, and up to his eyes. Still so green, still so sad, still so—looking at me. God, Virginia, get a grip. My chest burns hot as I turn back to my website work, contemplating something embarrassing to
secretly include in his bio.

  The songs drifting off of the stage are some of my favorites. One that I wrote years ago, another that Logan and I worked on first semester, before he left for LA, and a few from high school. Listening to them is like watching old family movies, like being wrapped up in a memory. When they finish the last song of their practice set, I hop to my feet, clapping and whooping, and I know I must look like a crazy person, but I can’t help it. This is it. I’m watching their dreams come true right in front of me. At this moment, wrapped in the memories, soaked in the songs, it doesn’t feel like it was that long ago that this was my dream. My someday.

  The guys jump off the stage one by one, and Logan grabs me around the waist, pulling me off the ground as he spins around with me. This is Flying High off a Performance Logan; my favorite Logan. He uses his palms to wipe my cheeks. I hadn’t even realized the tears had started.

  “You’re a giant, sappy nerd. You know that, right?”

  “I do.” I drag my sleeve over my wet eyes. “But you guys were incredible.” The tears are coming even heavier now, even though I’m smiling. “This is going to be amazing,” I say, and suddenly I’m throwing my arms around Cam, engulfing him in a hug. He just stands there at first, frozen in place. Then his arms wrap around me, his hands barely brushing my back. I can smell the mint of his breath, feel his soft T-shirt under my fingertips, hard muscles just underneath. What am I doing? Giving him a tight smile, I extricate myself, before hugging Anders. I give Reese an awkward high-five, which turns into him pulling me into a hug. Then he hoists me over his shoulder, spinning us in circles.

  I’m screaming, as the lights of the stage become a twist of blurring red lines. “Down!” There’s a new band setting up onstage and I can hear their laughter as their faces blur by me. Stage left, Tad has his camera trained on us, and beside him, Kaley is spinning her finger in the air, egging Reese on.

  CAM

  It’s been almost two years since the last time I was onstage, playing songs that I wrote, feeling the energy of the music moving through me, electrifying me. Being onstage tonight, under the hot lights—the audience a mass of blacked-out faces—it makes me feel alive. I can’t see them, but for once, I feel like they see me. They hear me. Without saying the words, I share everything I’ve ever felt. Everything that I try to keep hidden. By the time we finish our fourth song of the night, and relinquish the stage to Caustic Underground, everything in me is laid out in the open, exposed and raw under the black lights.

  Vee is standing in the wings, in the purple Melon Ballers shirt she’s always worn when we play. A good-luck shirt. That’s what she told Logan, when he asked why she wouldn’t wear one of the new Your Future X shirts being sold at the shows. When we met with Jenn to discuss the promo for our band, Vee had suggested the shirts be purple. We all agreed. Not because we care, but because she does and we don’t. The shirts are already being sold tonight at our first show, and it’s pretty hilarious to see girls in the audience wearing T-shirts that say YOUR FUTURE X. Maybe it’s prophetic.

  By the time the other two bands finish playing it’s nearly midnight. As the last of our equipment is loaded, Vee is standing in the alley. Leaning against the metal door, her face is illuminated by the glow of her phone. The bus is idling, ready to take off for the next stop, when Vee finally makes her way back onto the bus. She lies down on her bed, pulling the curtain closed until the last foot. She never closes it all the way, she always leaves a gap. So I do, too. That way I get to see her face. And when she sleeps, it doesn’t feel like we’re us. It feels like we’re them. The people we were back before there was ever a Me and Vee. As she rustles around behind the curtain, I know she’s trying to change into her pajamas in the tiny space.

  “Everything all right?” I say.

  One of her feet slips out of the curtain. “Yes.” With a final grunt, she pulls back the curtain. “I’m actually getting pretty good at this.”

  “I meant the phone call.” I give her a half smile. “But you really are getting good at the undercover changing. You know you could use the bathroom.”

  She snorts. “Totally not worth having to walk through this bus in my PJs, thank you.”

  “So…”

  “Oh.” She’s not saying anything. Maybe she’s gone back to ignoring me. “I was just calling home, talking to my mom.”

  “How is she?”

  “She’s fine.” Both of us are lying on our backs, whispering in the dark.

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Just some stuff going on at home with my parents. It’s a long story.” She’s lying still, looking up at the ceiling, and I think our conversation—if you can call it that—must be over already. Finally she breaks the silence. “I haven’t told her yet—about the internship.” She makes air quotes with her fingers.

  “Would she care?”

  “That I’m spending the summer with a bunch of wannabe rock stars, instead of working, or getting college credit, or living at her house?” She rolls her eyes. “Yes, she’d care.”

  “It’s not like she can make you go home.”

  “Sure she can.”

  “You’re nineteen, Vee.”

  “And she’s my mom.” She rolls onto her back and rubs circles on her temples. “My mom, who pays for college.” At the end of the bed, her feet are tapping a hectic rhythm against the wall, and it won’t be long before she wakes up Pax in the bunk above her.

  This is what Vee looks like right before she starts panicking.

  “Relax. She’s not going to find out.”

  “And I just don’t tell her? I keep it from her?”

  “You can tell her when you get back. It’s not a big deal, Vee. It’s a tiny lie.”

  Vee’s eyes are cold, and fixed on mine, and I regret my words before I even hear hers.

  “Right. Just tiny lies.” She shakes her head and turns her back to me, her voice muffled by her pillow. “Those never come back to haunt us, do they?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THEN

  CAM

  Two hours into my first Melon Ballers practice, I feel like things are clicking into place. We’re meshing, finding our groove.

  Vee looks up from her notebook between songs. “Don’t forget to bring your clothes to practice Thursday night.” She tosses the red notebook onto her bag and turns toward us. “Please.” Her voice is dramatically sweet as she gives the guys an exaggerated Cheshire cat smile.

  “Creepy, Vee,” Logan mutters.

  I’m confused. “Our clothes?”

  “The clothes you’re going to wear for the gig at Carnivale on Satur—”

  Anders doesn’t let her finish. “Vee likes to make sure we’re dressed appropriately.” His tone is sarcastic, but a smile spreads across his face. “She just likes to watch us change. We’re her man meat.” Logan almost chokes on the beer he’s drinking.

  Vee picks up a random sock lying next to her and chucks it at Anders. “Gross. I think you mean ‘man candy,’ because I’ve never seen your man meat. And I don’t plan to.” Her nose is scrunched up like she’s disgusted by the idea. “And if you want a manager who doesn’t care about anything, then ask Drew to make some time for you in his busy college schedule. I’m just trying to avoid a repeat of the great farm convention incident.”

  Logan shakes his head. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

  “You guys played a farm convention?” I’m having a hard time picturing it.

  “No.” They all say in unison, sounding annoyed.

  Vee turns to me. “Last year, we played at Fall Fest. It was one of our biggest gigs ever, and these guys”—Vee stabs a finger at each of them—“all showed up in flannel.”

  Everyone is laughing, except Vee. And me. I don’t even own flannel. I think the state of California actually banned the sale of it.

  “Oh, yeah, laugh it up. One person wears flannel, okay. Fine. But all of you show up in flannel, and you look like those freaking anima
tronic bears from Disney World who play banjos and wear suspenders and scare the kids.” Anders is hunched over his set, shaking with laughter. Vee looks like she wants to hit him with something much worse than a sock. “So yes, I’m checking your clothes. Because I love you. And because I—not you—get blamed when you show up looking like you should be carrying fiddles and washboards.”

  “So is there a uniform, then?”

  She looks surprised, but come on. She can’t be serious with this.

  “Anything that makes you look like you belong in a band.”

  I smile at her. “I kind of thought the guitar did that.”

  “I guess the polo shirt was distracting me from the guitar.” She cocks her head to the side and gives me an odd smile.

  Maybe I should tell her that I used to have a lot of really kick-ass clothes. But moving to Michigan meant a fresh start—in every way. And pulling my guitar out of storage doesn’t mean I have to go back. “I’ll see what I can find.”

  “And you’ll bring it Thursday?”

  “If I remember, yeah.”

  She’s trying to look annoyed, but the tiny turn of her lip is giving her away. “Do your best to remember, okay? I’d hate to see anything happen to your beloved polo collection.”

  “What are you wearing?”

  She blushes, and all I can do is smile.

  Personality Traits: Sadistic fashion cop. Control issues. A little tightly wound? Very tightly wound.

  * * *

  We don’t wrap up our last song until close to midnight. I’m hunched over my guitar case, clicking the locks into place, when I see her eyes. Vee has beautiful eyes—deep brown rings that bleed into green centers—but right now they look like giant white marbles. Before I can ask her what’s wrong, I hear footsteps behind me. A bony set of ribs jabs into my back, lurching me forward. Vee lunges, pushing my guitar case out of the way. Under the weight of the monkey on my back, I slam into Vee. I try to land my hands to either side of her, but one of my elbows jabs into her ribs.

  “Shit,” she yells. She’s pinned under me, the bottom of a three-person pileup.