by Arden Powell
“I get it,” Kris said. “It makes it more about the journey than the destination.”
Rayne beamed. “Exactly!”
Hersheypark Stadium was only a few hours away, and though the whole band and crew were buzzing with energy, Kris toppled straight into nerves. Despite going to bed early the night before, he’d stayed awake for hours fantasizing about the tour, and now he was ready to crash. He sat on the couch, his back pressed to the window, and listened to The Chokecherries’ albums on repeat, struggling to keep up on his guitar. The others gave him space, careful not to interrupt, though he must have been driving them nuts. After the third hour, Rayne finally dropped into the seat beside him, and Kris tugged his earbuds out.
“How’s it going?” Rayne asked.
“I don’t want to fuck up in front of twenty thousand people.” The words rushed out in a single panicked breath.
“You played our New York show fine. Pretend it’s like that again.”
“Yeah, no, I was scared shitless then too,” Kris admitted. “I just didn’t say anything. And that was only playing covers, but now it’s your music, and I might be freaking out a tiny bit.”
“Do you think you’re going to fuck up?”
Kris shrugged and gnawed his lip.
“I probably will,” Rayne offered. “I mess up lyrics all the time. If anyone asks, I say I did it on purpose, but I don’t actually notice. Stef fucked up a bass solo on our first tour.”
“Epically fucked,” Stef agreed from the other side of the bus. “I was so high I couldn’t remember what song we were doing, so I did a Flea cover instead. It was awesome.”
“I just want to make a good impression,” Kris said. “I thought the nerves would go away now that I’ve done it once, but I think they’ve gotten worse.”
Rayne put his arm around Kris’s shoulders, and Kris leaned into him, careful not to stick him with the neck of the guitar. Rayne was warm and solid and his hair smelled good.
“Believe me when I say you’re going to kick ass onstage tonight. You’re a natural performer, Kris. You might not realize it yet, but you will.”
Rayne said it with a conviction Kris didn’t know how to fight, and besides, he wanted to believe it. He turned, leaned his back against Rayne’s shoulder, and popped his earbuds back in, returning to track one of their set list as he hefted his guitar back into place. He could do this. Talking about his nerves hadn’t made them go away, but Rayne’s confidence was hard to resist.
By the time they rolled into the venue, the borrowed confidence wasn’t good enough anymore, and the butterflies in Kris’s stomach were ready to eat him alive. His legs shook a little as he disembarked onto solid ground. Rayne intervened as the second bus pulled up behind them, dragging Kris over to meet Passionfruit before he could get any more worked up.
“Angel introduced us during last year’s festival circuit,” he explained, “and we just knew we had to do something together. These guys have incredible energy onstage; you have to see them play. They’re insane in all the best ways.”
Passionfruit was a four-man band, and they spilled out of their bus to greet The Chokecherries like long-lost friends, the one at the forefront pulling Angel into a hug before even saying hello.
“New guitarist, Kris,” Rayne said. “Kris, Billie—and Jay, Hatchwork, and Knocks. Vocals, guitar, bass, and drums, in that order.”
“Hey,” the band chorused.
“Hi,” Billie said, detaching from Angel’s side.
He was ghostly pale, with messy black hair and smudges of maybe makeup, or maybe signs of exhaustion under his eyes, and he had the softest voice Kris had ever heard. Jay was Métis and sporting a devil’s lock and a mischievous spark in his eye; Hatchwork wore an impressively waxed auburn moustache; and Knocks was skinny, dark, and had a head of curls that would give Rayne a run for his money. The others disbanded almost immediately after introductions, wandering off in different directions to explore the venue, until only Billie remained.
“You ready for this?” he asked.
“Haven’t decided yet,” Kris said. “Might sit and panic about it a bit longer.”
“That’s a valid option,” Billie agreed.
“No one’s panicking,” Rayne said. “We’re going straight into rehearsal, and by the time we’re done, he’ll be raring to go.”
“Or that,” Kris said.
“Cool,” Billie said. “I should go find Jay before he sets something on fire. See you around!”
Kris stared after him. “Fire?”
“Honestly, it’s best not to ask,” Rayne said. “Come on, come get your stuff set up.”
Rehearsal went as well as Kris could hope. He fucked up a few times, but so did everyone else. Playing a Chokecherries’ set felt different from playing covers: the energy was tighter, almost crackling in the air, so sharp Kris could taste it. The butterflies in his stomach spiraled faster in synchronized loops, threatening to choke him, but he swallowed them down and played like his life depended on it. When Rayne finally called a break for lunch and the others dispersed for snacks and water, Kris stayed where he was, his fingers clenched around the neck of his guitar.
“You’re doing great,” Rayne said. “You want food?”
“Actually great, or you’re just saying that so I’ll stop freaking out?”
“I can’t mean both at once?” Rayne prodded him until Kris relented and lifted the guitar from around his shoulders. “Eat,” Rayne ordered. “Or drink some water, at least. The doors open at seven; we take the stage at nine.”
It was 1 p.m. Kris tried to remember the last time he’d had a full night’s sleep: before the flight, for sure. Maybe he should get another coffee.
“Jay’s got energy drinks,” Rayne said, as if reading his mind, “but they might kill you. Imbibe with caution.”
“Caution. Roger that.”
“I want to run through this one more time during sound check at five,” Rayne said, “and Angel wants you in her chair by six.”
Kris swallowed and nodded.
“Don’t play your fingers to the bone before then, okay?”
Rayne put his hand on Kris’s shoulder and ran it down Kris’s arm in a long stroke, leaving tingles trailing in his wake. Kris leaned into it, desperate for any reassurance he could get, and Rayne didn’t hesitate before pulling him into a hug.
“I get it,” Kris said into Rayne’s shoulder. “Why you guys are so touchy-feely. It’s because you’re all on the verge of a mental breakdown at any second, isn’t it? I thought you were all, like, in touch with your emotions and stuff, but you’re actually just hella stressed all the time.”
Rayne huffed out a laugh and rubbed circles between Kris’s shoulder blades, and Kris went boneless against him, practically purring.
“You’ll get used to it,” Rayne said. “The preshow nerves never go away completely, but you’ll find ways to manage them. Or you’ll get a therapist and a nice antianxiety prescription. Either way, you’ll play the shows and you’ll be fine.”
“Can I keep getting hugs in the meantime?” Kris asked.
Rayne squeezed him tighter. “For sure. Anytime you need one, you come find me.”
“Your hugs are really great.” Kris dug his chin into Rayne’s shoulder—he had to stand on his toes to reach it—and from there he nuzzled into Rayne’s mane of hair. Rayne’s shampoo was citrusy, but his cologne smelled like sandalwood and peppermint. Kris breathed in deep to carry it with him through the show. “Macho guys never hug other guys. They’re missing out.”
“Yeah, they are,” Rayne said, and ruffled his fingers through Kris’s hair. “You’re tiny and pretty and you play guitar like a fucking prodigy. You want to fling yourself into my arms, you do it. That’s a sacrifice I can make.”
“Take one for the team,” Kris mumbled.
Rayne pushed him back far enough to look him in the eye. “By the end of the night, you’re going to be a rock star, and you’re going to love it.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart, babe. You’re going to have it all.”
Kris went to find Angel later in the afternoon. She was holding court in the Passionfruit dressing room, engrossed in a conversation about eye shadow brands with Billie. Both seemed to be taking it very seriously. Kris knocked on the doorframe and leaned in. “Am I interrupting?”
“Billie’s a makeup aficionado too,” Angel said. “This is Kris’s first time getting done up,” she added to Billie. “He’s never tried before.”
“Oh cool,” Billie said. “You’ll love it. I started doing mine in high school—emo phase, you know.” He shrugged self-deprecatingly. “One of those things you never really shake.”
“Did you need something?” Angel asked.
“No, I’m just having a tiny breakdown about the show tonight, so I thought I’d come hang out here.” Kris scuffed his toe across the floor. “I mean, if that’s okay. I can go somewhere else if you’re busy. I’m looking for a distraction.”
“I can go get Jay,” Billie offered. “He’s, like, a walking distraction.”
“Setting stuff on fire?” Kris asked.
Billie frowned. “Not on purpose. He’s accident prone, and the accidents don’t always follow the laws of physics, so I’ve found it’s best to prepare for the worst possible outcome and err on the side of caution.” He paused. “Actually, I should go find him.” He slid from his chair, passed Kris, and departed with a backward wave.
“Billie and I were roommates in art school,” Angel said. “He’s a doll. That’s where I learned that the best way for me to deal with stress is to do makeup, and since you came to me, that’s my suggestion. Get your makeup done. You’d have to do it in another hour or two anyway, so you might as well.”
“Sure, why not. Beats pacing for another hour, right? And if I practice any more, my fingers are going to fall off.”
“That would suck,” she agreed. She gestured for him to follow her to The Chokecherries’ room, where Kris hopped up into the chair and folded his hands in his lap.
“Close your eyes and let me work some magic on you. You’ll feel better in no time.”
Kris obeyed. The dressing room setup was wildly different from her salon at Rayne’s: still brightly lit with a huge mirror, but not nearly as streamlined or personalized. It didn’t seem to make any difference to Angel; she could probably work in the dark and it would come out great. Her hands were steady against his face, wielding brushes and pencils and other, more exotic instruments Kris couldn’t identify. He kept his eyes shut the whole time, and as she worked, she chatted—about her club in New Orleans, how she met Billie and Jay in art school, and how Billie was the first person she’d ever come out as trans to, and about her plans for after the tour. Her words washed over Kris like a stream, and he gradually relaxed, muscle by muscle. He didn’t have to talk back—he tried a few times, and she told him to stop moving his face—but he hummed here and there, just to show he was still paying attention.
After maybe half an hour, her talking lulled for a second and he twitched.
“Okay,” she said. “Open your eyes.”
Kris blinked and stared into the mirror reflecting a face he couldn’t recognize. It looked bewildered but very, very pretty.
Over his shoulder, Angel smiled. “What do you think?”
Kris opened his mouth and all that came out was “Wow.”
“Good wow?”
His lips were dark red, like oxblood; his eyes were done up with smoky eye shadow in jewel tones, and rimmed with thick black kohl. The mascara made his lashes feel like spider legs. He blinked, his reflection blinked back, and the fact that it was really him slammed into him. The makeup didn’t have the exaggerated contours of drag, and he didn’t look like a girl, but he didn’t look much like a boy anymore either. He was caught somewhere between the binaries in a space he hadn’t realized existed, and it thrilled him to his core.
“It’s really drastic in the light,” Angel said, “but onstage it’ll be amazing. Just wait till the others see you.”
“Wait, don’t bring anyone in yet,” Kris said. “I want a minute to admire myself first.”
He looked like some hedonist’s wet dream from the seventies, androgynous and fey.
“You do that,” she said. “I’m going to do your hair.”
He still wasn’t used to the blond. It was so pale it was nearly white, and next to the makeup it made him seem ghostly. Angel had buzzed the sides short back in New York, and now she fluffed it up along the top, teasing it with hairspray before easing wax along the roots and the bangs. It wasn’t long enough to really style, but Angel promised she could work magic with anything as long as it sat still, so Kris waited, making faces in the mirror until he could recognize himself again. Angel fixed his hair up like a cockatoo’s ruff and stood back with her hands on her hips.
“Rayne is going to drop dead when he sees you.”
“In a good way?”
“In the best way,” she promised.
Kris grinned. A pleased little blush spread over his cheeks, visible even through the makeup, but he didn’t care. Angel had been right—the routine and the attention had calmed him, and now that he had a mask in place, he felt ready to take on anything. He changed into his stage clothes, feeling heady and invincible, and from there went backstage for sound check and one last rehearsal.
It didn’t take long for Rayne to notice him. Kris kept his head down and his attention trained on his guitar. He didn’t stop when he heard Rayne’s boots clicking over the floor behind him, and he didn’t stop when Rayne circled around to stand in front of him and stare, either.
“It’s good, right?” Kris asked, aiming for confidence and falling just short.
“Fuck, Kris.”
He glanced up.
Rayne was studying him in open appreciation, from the outfit to the makeup and hair and back again. Kris licked his lips self-consciously and came away with the bitter taste of lipstick on his tongue.
“Gorgeous,” Rayne proclaimed, though he seemed like he wanted to say something more.
Kris fidgeted with his guitar and ducked his head, infinitely pleased. His face was hot.
“You’re going to inspire a thousand crises of teenage sexuality,” Rayne said, slinging his arm around Kris’s shoulders.
“Just what I always wanted,” Kris deadpanned. “My mom will be so proud.”
“She should be. You ready?”
“I don’t know.”
“Close enough. I still get nervous before a show. Like I’ve got a live wire running through me. It’s good.” Rayne nodded, seemingly more to himself than to Kris. Kris nodded along anyway.
Passionfruit, Kris learned, was not just an opening act. They weren’t worried about converting The Chokecherries’ fans to their music; they brought their own fans who screamed for them and knew all their lyrics, and Passionfruit whipped them into a frenzy. Kris watched from the side, burning with secondhand adrenaline. They were half-feral and completely unrecognizable from when Kris had first met them. Billie was unstoppable. Whether Jay was slamming into him like a battering ram or the crowd was surging up against security to mount the barrier, he never missed a note, singing his throat raw.
“The crowd looks ready to riot,” Kris said.
Rayne laughed. “You didn’t get many punk bands out your way, huh?”
“We were more of a country town. Banjos and shit.”
“That’s terrifying,” Rayne said mildly. “You ready?”
Onstage, Passionfruit didn’t wind down so much as drop abruptly out of their last song. Billie said something about love and respect—the crowd screamed—the drum kit crashed—and the band came staggering backstage as the lights went dark. They were all soaked in sweat but their smiles were incandescent; The Chokecherries hugged or patted them as they passed.
“Twenty minutes,” Rayne said in Kris’s ear.
The crew nipped out to turn the stage over for them, clear
ing away things the fans had thrown—pamphlets and flowers and the occasional item of intimate clothing—and wiping up the spilled water. Kris vibrated with restrained energy as the crowd chanted in a low rumble of anticipation, waiting to overflow. His blood felt like mercury in his veins.
Something must have shown in his expression because Rayne said, “Come here,” and drew him into an embrace, tucking him in close so Kris couldn’t protest.
Kris pressed his face against the ridges of Rayne’s jacket buckles, careful not to disturb his makeup, and breathed in. Rayne smelled warm, like spices, and his jacket was clean and leathery.
“You’ve got this,” Rayne said. “They’re going to love you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. I do, so they have to, because I’m not getting rid of you anytime soon.”
One by one, the rest of the band slipped onto the stage until it was only Rayne and Kris left behind. The crowd sounded insatiable. Lenny kicked up the drums to a roar of screams, and Stef opened with a slinky bass line minutes later. By the time Maki set the keyboard in motion the roar was deafening—twenty-seven thousand voices all demanding Rayne.
“Your turn,” Rayne said.
His eyes were dark in the dim lights, and Kris could feel his heart skipping through their clothes. Kris gave him one last squeeze for luck before ducking through the curtain and taking the stage.
It was blinding. The noise was unreal, even through his earpieces; the stage pulsed under his feet with every beat. He could barely see the crowd through the stage lights—they were a sea of dark shapes, no faces, only voices. He took his position on stage left, planted his feet, and tried to breathe. The music helped. He matched his breaths to the rhythm of the bass and struck up the chords to the intro as the screams reached a crescendo, and he knew Rayne was coming.
They charged into the intro song as Rayne took the stage, the crowd falling back as soon as he started to sing. By the time they reached the chorus, the pace was blistering, the crowd manic, and Kris’s nerves were seared away under the onslaught. He felt bare—no insecurities, no fears, no stress. It was like he belonged on the stage, like he’d been born there, and there was nowhere else in the universe he should be instead.
