by Arden Powell
When he said it out loud, Angel flatly replied, “They’re blouses. The sooner you make peace with that, the sooner we can move on.”
Kris wrinkled his nose.
“You said you liked them,” Rayne pointed out. “You want to take them back? We can do it right now. We’re not even at the car yet.”
“I do like them. They’re flattering.”
They were, but half of that was Rayne telling him they looked good on him. Kris had found himself preening under the attention, and though the trying on and taking off of outfits had been exhausting, not to mention stiflingly hot, there was something about being dressed up to fit Rayne’s whims that had given him a little thrill. Rayne hadn’t been shy about expressing his appreciation, either, raking his gaze over Kris or stepping into Kris’s space to adjust some part of the outfit to his liking. Angel had been quieter, but Kris had figured out how to read her easily enough. She might not say as much out loud, but her opinions resided in her eyebrows and in the shape of her mouth, and she’d seemed pleased with the results so far.
Still.
“I feel like a kid playing dress-up,” he said, scrutinizing his reflection in the car window. From the neck down, he could slip into any one of The Chokecherries’ videos and feel at home. From the neck up, he was still a nobody from his dusty little hometown. If he came out of this shopping excursion looking half as put together as either Rayne or Angel, he’d be surprised.
“We’ll get you there,” Angel said. “Now, about your hair . . .” It was just dark enough to escape being called mousy, but too light to make a statement. “You mind if I change it up?” she asked. “Dye it, cut it?”
“There’s not a lot here to cut.”
“I’ll make it work.”
He shrugged. “Knock yourself out, then. I’m in your hands.”
They tossed the bags in the trunk and headed for their next stop. Rayne detoured and got smoothies from a trendy little café where everything was vegan, organic, and obscenely expensive, and they drank them as they walked.
“Now you need your statement pieces,” Rayne explained around his straw. “At least one really good jacket, some boots, some belts. Something with bling. Do you like scarves?”
Kris had never worn a scarf except in winter, but that probably wasn’t what Rayne meant.
“I’m open to scarves.” Kris was open to anything. He liked the attention, which he had expected, but he also liked being dressed up like a mannequin, which he hadn’t. When Rayne and Angel led him into the second shop and took him through the women’s section, it felt illicit; his stomach flipped with nerves, and he kept glancing around to see if the shop assistants were looking at him. They weren’t. He clearly wasn’t even a blip on their radar.
“You’re enjoying this more than I thought you would,” Rayne said.
“A guy can’t shop?”
Rayne held his hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying!”
Kris picked up something sparkly and gold, covered in tassels and sequins. He was pretty sure it was a scarf.
“So, jackets,” he said. “If they’re not denim or leather I’m kind of lost.”
“We can do leather! Come over here.”
Rayne dragged him into another room in the store, where rack after rack of jackets and coats filled the floor.
“You don’t want anything too heavy or it’ll look like it’s eating you.”
Kris was barely five six; he knew all too well the limits of his wardrobe options. He wandered through the racks, letting his attention drift until a little black piece with too many gold zippers and buckles to make any sense caught his eye. The leather was impossibly soft, the metal impossibly bright. He shrugged it over his shoulders and let it settle, searching out his reflection in one of the mirrors along the walls.
“Picture that, but with blond hair and eyeliner,” Angel said.
Kris could see it. His heart thudded harder and he tugged at the cuffs. They came down to his knuckles, the zipper tags jingling.
“This one,” he said.
“You don’t want to try anything else?” Rayne asked.
“Nope. This is it.”
He handed it to Rayne, who glanced at the tag before adding it to the pile. “Vegan leather, nice. Points for you. Lunch break and then go find you some shoes?”
“I’ve got shoes.”
“You could have new ones.”
“These are comfy.”
They were so worn in they had no choice but to be comfortable. He wasn’t opposed to getting new shoes, but he had never seen the point if his current ones were still functional. Although these were practically slippers now.
“I will buy you the exact same pair if you really want to stick with Converse,” Rayne said, “but the ones you’re wearing won’t survive the tour.”
Kris wiggled his toes in them. “Fine. But they have to be high-tops.”
Rayne hauled their loot to the counter, and Kris watched the assistant ring it up. There was the jacket, a collection of scarves, one covered in skulls, and a sequined top that Kris honestly wasn’t sure how to wear, but which Rayne had assured him would look amazing.
“You’re getting better at not panicking about the money,” Rayne observed as the assistant wrapped the items in tissue paper.
“I’ve figured out that panicking won’t stop you from spending it, so I’ve decided not to bother.”
“Smart move.”
They loaded the bags into the car, the trunk getting full, and went in search of a place for lunch. The sun was warm on Kris’s face, the breeze ruffled his hair, and Rayne and Angel walked on either side of him, jostling into him occasionally. Sometimes Rayne’s hand brushed his, and it sent electric tingles up and down Kris’s arm.
Physical intimacy wasn’t done in Kris’s hometown. It was reserved as an expression between couples, and anything outside of courtship was put down as an accident. Guys didn’t hug; there was no such thing as a casual touch outside of a romantic relationship. So Kris had filled that void with his family and the girls he dated, or wanted to date, until he hadn’t realized there was a void at all. Rayne didn’t work like that. He simultaneously dragged that void out into the open and set about filling it before Kris could say culture shock. Kris could get used to it. It had only been two days, and he would already miss it if it stopped.
Rayne took them to an Indian café and laughed at Kris when he tried to make sense of the menu. He didn’t recognize half the words, never mind the dishes. He finally gave up, ordered an iced tea, and let Rayne recommend him something. He never found out what it was, but it was colorful and tasted good, so he couldn’t complain. Rayne told him about the cities he was most excited to play in, their opening band, and the next tattoo he was going to get. Angel talked about the band’s fashion, the club she owned, and where they were playing in her hometown of New Orleans. Kris watched them, ate his food, and basked in the warmth and the company.
“One night ago I was sleeping on a bench,” he said suddenly, sliding into a gap in the conversation.
They both looked at him.
“Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t going anywhere with that. It just hit me.”
“The world works in mysterious ways,” Rayne said.
The second realization hit him like a brick to the face. “I need to learn two albums’ worth of songs before our first show.”
“Total faith in you,” Rayne assured him, though he seemed slightly worried. “You’ve already got a couple of them down. As long as you know the tune you can make the rest up as you go, right?”
“You want me to fake the riffs? Won’t people notice?”
“Not fake them so much as improvise. It’s a tour—the fans will expect it to sound a little different from the albums.”
“Yeah. No, I can—I can totally do that.” Kris nodded and tried to laugh. It wasn’t very convincing.
“Let’s get him some shoes and head back,” Angel said, clearing her plate. “Before the boy has a
nervous breakdown.”
“It’s not a breakdown,” Kris said. “I just need a minute.” He held up his fingers to measure the smidgeon of a minute he was taking. “Just to get my bearings.”
“You’re good though, right?” Rayne checked. “You still want this?”
“I’m good,” Kris promised. He could absolutely learn two albums in twenty-four hours.
Bleach, he learned, stung like a bitch. He bit his lip to keep from squirming as Angel wrapped the top of his head in plastic to let the stuff set. It burned his scalp, digging in like fire ants, and he hated it.
“You’ll get used to it,” she said, seemingly unconcerned about how his entire head was aflame. “After the first few times you won’t even feel it anymore.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, not believing a word of her lies. Her hair was all natural. She was clearly much smarter than he was. He turned the box over in his hands, rereading the warnings for the tenth time. “You sure this won’t blind me or anything?”
“As long as you don’t rub it in your eyes.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
They were in Rayne’s penthouse, crowded into the bathroom-cum-salon on the lower level. Angel had apparently converted it herself: bright bare bulbs shone in stripes around the mirror, which took up nearly an entire wall; another wall was packed with neat little shelves housing every kind and color of makeup, dye, and polish under the sun. It was glamorous, hyperfeminine, streamlined to the point of peak efficiency, and reminded Kris of some weird science fiction spaceship. It was incredible, and he was scared to touch any of it.
“Are you bringing all this on tour with you?” he asked.
“Only the basics,” she said. “Everyone’s got their own style figured out except for you, so I can narrow it down to the bare essentials.”
“How do I figure out my style?”
“We’ll start with where you’re comfortable and go from there. Lenny just wears a bit of eyeliner; Maki spends up to an hour in the chair before a show. I’ll make sure you look good, but you don’t have to wear anything you don’t want.”
Kris caught Rayne’s eye in the mirror. “No, I’m down to, like, experiment.”
“I’m guessing you never tried this back in Kansas,” Angel said.
“I never tried a lot of things in Kansas.”
In the mirror, Rayne’s lips curved in a slow smile. Kris grinned to himself and dropped his gaze. “In for a penny, right? I want you to make me pretty.”
He stayed at Rayne’s place again that night. The next morning they would leave for the tour, heading across the country toward Nevada for the Purple Sage Music Fest, a six-day desert festival, playing sold-out arenas along the way. Rayne brushed aside Kris’s offer of finding a hotel, saying it would be more convenient for everyone if he just stayed where he was. One less trip for Butch to make in the morning when he collected everyone. Kris caved without more than a token protest. A hotel room sounded lonely after two days of constant company.
That evening, as the sun started to slip below the horizon, he spread his belongings over the guest room bed and looked at the trappings of a life that wasn’t yet his. The little red Fender lay on top, gleaming up at him. It was even brighter and more beautiful by itself, without the competition from the hundred other guitars in the shop, and Kris loved it with his entire heart. He was bringing his acoustic too; he couldn’t bear leaving it behind after all these years, even if he wouldn’t play it onstage. Folded neatly in a borrowed suitcase were his new stage clothes. He got a buzz just from looking at them, like they had the power to turn him into someone new, and he couldn’t wait to find out who that person was.
His phone buzzed with an incoming text from his mom. Kris, have just heard from your cousin. PLEASE CALL US.
He winced, moved the guitar aside to perch on the edge of the bed, and video-called home. It connected immediately and his parents and younger sister, Cass, stuttered into frame. He was relieved to see that Brad, his older brother, was absent—while his parents were remarkably open-minded for small-town folks, Brad had leaned increasingly to the right ever since falling in with the wrong crowd at community college, and there was no way he’d be pleased about Kris wearing girls’ jeans or joining a glam band, no matter how punk it was.
“Hi, everybody,” he said. “So, I’ve got news.”
“Kris,” his mom said. “Kris, your aunt called and told us about Marty. What happened? Why didn’t you come home?”
“I didn’t want to give up that quickly, but it worked out! I was just going to call you and tell you the news.”
“Good news?” his dad asked.
“Really good news.” He felt shaky, balancing on the precipice of saying it out loud for the first time to someone else. “I’ve got a job and a place to stay, at least for now. The money’s good, and I’m excited for it.”
“What job?” his dad pressed.
“Um, I joined a band . . .”
Cassie gave an excited squeak.
“A real band,” he added. “We’re leaving for tour tomorrow—I signed a contract and everything. It’s totally professional.”
“What band?” Cass asked.
“The Chokecherries?”
She let out an inarticulate yell and leaped from the couch, pacing with barely contained energy. “Like, as a roadie?” she demanded.
“As their guitarist.”
She made a noise like a pterodactyl.
“Do you know them, sweetie?” his mom asked.
“They’re huge,” Cass gushed. “Kris, you met them? You met Rayne Bakshi?”
“Yeah,” Kris said. “Rayne’s really nice. I’m staying at his penthouse. And I like their music. This is basically the best thing that could’ve happened to me.”
“You’re staying at Rayne Bakshi’s penthouse.”
“He’s in the next room; don’t make this weird.”
“I have a poster of him in my bedroom,” Cassie said. “I learned drums playing along to their songs. Oh my god.”
“Hang on,” his dad said. “You signed a contract?”
“It’s totally legit,” Kris assured him. “They had lawyers walk me through it and everything. They were really professional. There was a limo.”
“And you’re getting paid?” his mom checked.
Kris could still see the amount dancing behind his eyelids every time he blinked. There were a lot of zeroes. “I’m getting paid. It’s good money, Mom. I’m going to be okay. I’ll send you the tour schedule when I figure it out—we’re going west to this Nevada festival first with a few stops on the way, and then heading back east again.”
“You’re going to be a rock star,” Cassie stressed.
“I came here hoping to land a session gig or something, do a few anonymous backing tracks, but this is so much better than anything Marty’s boss could have set me up with. It fell into my lap right when I needed it most, and it would be crazy stupid to turn it down, you know?”
“Rayne Bakshi fell into your lap,” Cassie said. “Oh my god, Kris.”
“We’re happy for you,” his mom promised, “but you’ll be careful, won’t you? You hear stories about rock bands, and life on the road . . .”
“Heroin,” Cassie coughed.
“I’ll be fine, Mom. We’re all adults.”
“I know you are! I just worry.”
“You don’t have to anymore. I’ve got a contract and a full-blown benefactor and a job I think I’m going to love. If you need to worry, worry about my idiot cousin who got himself kicked out and fired in a single move.”
His parents sighed in unison.
“Marty was never a bright kid,” his dad said. “I’m glad you didn’t end up staying with him.”
“Same. Rayne has a really nice place, you know. There’s a balcony.”
“Of course there’s a balcony. Send me pictures,” Cassie said.
“I’m not sending you pictures of his apartment, you little stalker.”
“Okay, t
hat was a bit stalkerish,” she conceded. “Send me a picture of him instead? Take a selfie! Is he still in the next room?”
“He’s probably busy; leave him alone. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll see videos from the tour.”
“I will,” Cassie said. “I’ll show them to you guys,” she added to their parents. “Now that Kris is with The Chokecherries, you have to see everything they’ve ever done.”
Their parents visibly steeled themselves, but nodded.
“Listen, I’m going to go to bed,” Kris said. “We’re heading out first thing, and I’ve had a really long couple of days. I’ll text lots, okay?”
“Skype when you can,” his mom said. “It’s nice to see your face. Did you do something with your hair?”
“Maybe? Love you! Bye!”
He ended the call and stretched out on the bed on top of all his new clothes, his phone held against his heart, and he stared up at the ceiling as the day’s last light chased itself over the walls and down below the horizon. After finishing community college, he had worked in his dad’s garage, and the years had passed without him noticing. It wasn’t until Cassie had decided she was going away to get a bachelor’s degree out of state—the first of all the Goldings, to their parents’ pride and joy—that Kris had realized he could leave too. Now Cassie was almost done college and Kris was twenty-five, and he felt like he had a whole decade of misspent youth to catch up on. Joining a band and crossing the country on a sold-out tour sounded like a solid way to start. He couldn’t stop smiling.
The Chokecherries shared a tour bus while a second bus housing their opening act, Passionfruit, would join them at their first show in Pennsylvania. The bus was a tight fit, but overall roomier than Kris had expected, with a bathroom at the back and a fridge at the front. There were eight bunks and a couch crammed in, leaving little leg space, but Kris didn’t take up much room.
“The international leg of the tour is all flying,” Rayne said, “so I really fought for the buses while we stayed in the States. It’s a classic, you know? I wanted that experience.”
