At least, that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself, anyway.
Little by little, the festival begins to wake up and greet the day. Watching from up here is amazing—it’s like the whole festival is one big, shaggy animal with a million little eyes. I see people crawling out of their stuffy tents and rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, techies and stage hands swarming all over the stages, setting up for the day. Even behind me, in the talent camp, people are finally starting to show their faces. I feel my heartbeat pick up as I spot celebrity after celebrity. Huge names and minor stars alike line up for their breakfasts, looking a little bored. I can’t believe I’m up here with them.
A flash of gold catches my eye from around the corner of Trent’s tour bus. We’re next door neighbors, after all, just a stone’s throw away. I peer over the roof of my car and catch a glimpse of a gorgeous, impeccably dressed woman stepping out of the bus. Her blonde waves are artfully tousled, and her careful “natural” makeup is flawless. Trent follows close behind her, and I feel my heart tighten in my chest. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s traveling with someone, of course, but I can’t help but feel a little let down.
There’s a rustling inside my tent, and I watch as Mitch stumbles through the unzipped flap, panting. His hair is matted with sweat, and his cheeks are bright red. I stifle a smile, trying not to notice how silly he looks. Mitch is not a guy who likes to be giggled at. He looks over at me with a dazed sort of annoyance.
“It’s, like, a thousand degrees in there!” he gasps.
“Fahrenheit or Celsius?” I ask primly.
“Pick one!” he grumbles.
“You’ve got plenty of time to beautify yourself,” I tell him, “We’re not playing until this afternoon, remember?”
“How could I forget?” he sighs.
“You are going to try to sound good, right?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says, looking around for the source of my coffee. His eyes fall upon the craft services tent, and I watch his eyebrow arch critically. “Naturally...” he sighs.
I follow his gaze toward the beautiful blonde from next door and see that she's resting her manicured hand protectively on the small of Trent’s back. My blood runs red hot for a split second, but I shake the feeling as fast as I can. What is the matter with me? It’s not like he’s mine. I can’t possibly be jealous of some woman I’ve never met for being with a man I could never have.
“Shouldn’t be surprised that the asshole's walking around wearing women as accessories,” Mitch grumbles.
“It’s one woman,” I correct him, “And you just don’t like him because he’s famous.”
“I don’t like him, and he happens to be famous,” Mitch insists, “The dislike is purely for him, not just the idea of fame. Though that’s disgusting too.”
I roll my eyes and ignore him. I try not to indulge him when he gets all preachy like this, it only encourages bad behavior.
“Why don’t you get yourself ready so that we can practice?” I say.
“OK, Mom,” he mutters, stalking off toward the glamorous shower station.
I watch him walk away, weaving through famous musicians without so much as a second glance. He’s a strange, wonderful creature, this partner of mine. I just hope that he can hide his disdain in front of our tiny little audience today.
The morning passes in a bustle of motion and excitement. As the sun creeps higher in the sky, my fingers begin to tremble unaccountably. I hardly ever get nervous before I perform, and we’re sure to have a pretty small turnout. They’re basically humoring us by letting us play at the festival at all, and I’m perfectly aware of it. Still, as small as it is, it’s still a dream come true for me to be among the performers, here. I feel like I’m joining some elite club, even if it’s only as a junior member. I’m practically bouncing by the time we have to start heading down the hill. Mitch can see right through my barely collected exterior. He shakes his head at me as we gather our things.
“Would you calm down?” he says, “This is not the defining moment of our lives.”
“Just let me enjoy it, sourpuss,” I say, socking him lightly on the arm.
“If I must,” he sighs.
We sling our various instruments over our shoulders and begin our trek down into the heart of the festival. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Trent leaning against his tour bus, watching me go. There are three scruffy men and the same gorgeous woman clustered around him, but I can swear that he’s looking right at me. I turn away quickly, certain that I’m imagining things.
Mitch and I walk down the hill together in our usual performance attire. Mitch is wearing gray wool slacks, red suspenders, and a square brown tie. I once suggested that he add a fedora to his look, and he didn’t speak to me for a week. For my part, I’ve got my favorite vintage dress on. It’s a beautiful sea foam number from the sixties with a big, billowing skirt. My hair is combed and tucked behind my ears, and my face is scrubbed clean but for a streak of red lipstick. If not for the array of instruments, we could very well be dressed for a picnic, but a very stylish one.
We make our way through the densely packed crowd, and something doesn’t feel quite right. We’re dressed rather differently than the average festival-goer, but there are costumes of every sort all around us. As we pass, eyes linger on us, conversations fall away into silence. I can hear excited chatter spring up around us, words whispered behind hands flit by my ears.
“That’s Ellie & Mitch,” I hear someone whisper. Mitch and I trade a baffled glance—do people actually know who we are? Since when?
As we continue, the crowd seems to part for us. People are staring unabashedly as we pass, staring after us like we’re the last specimens of an endangered species. This doesn’t make any sense...how is it possible that we’re being recognized? We’re the least popular act in the entire lineup. Sure, we have tiny groups of admirers in Barton and at Berklee, but we’re far from home, and still people are acting all funny as we go by. What gives? Maybe they’re just impressed by the instruments. Maybe it’s all just a fluke or something.
We skirt around a large, unmoving group as we come up to our tiny stage. As a festival organizer waves us over excitedly, it clicks. That large, unmoving crowd is standing in front of our stage. They’re here to see us! But how...?
“You must be Ellie!” the organizer squeals, shaking my hand vigorously. She’s a couple years older than us, and very perky. “And you must be Mitch!”
“That’s right,” Mitch answers, frowning as the woman pumps his hand.
“I’m Pearl, your stage manager,” she says, smiling a big, toothy grin. “You about ready to go?”
“Pearl...” I say, “Who are all those people out there?”
“Why, your fans of course!” she exclaims.
“But...we don’t have any fans,” I say, mystified, “Do they all have the right stage? Maybe they’re trying to find someone else’s show?”
“Nope!” Pearl says, “They’re all here for you! It was such good timing, that article coming out when it did. You two went a little viral, didn’t you?”
“What article?” I say, “Teddy’s article?”
“I suppose!” Pearl says.
“Mitch, what was in that article, besides a falsely quoted endorsement for drugs?”
Mitch shrugs. “I don’t know, I didn’t read the whole thing.”
“Let’s just get set up,” I say, lugging our instruments toward the stage.
“Don’t be silly!” Pearl says, as two men appear to take our stuff off our hands, “We’ve got stage hands to do that kind of thing.”
I watch, amazed, as the men take our instruments out onto the stage for us. Mitch and I have been a total DIY operation for as long as we’ve been playing together. This whole being-pampered thing is totally foreign. I can’t tell whether I’m excited or uncomfortable all of sudden, though I have a pretty good idea which way Teddy is leaning.
With mounting anxiety, I look out into the jo
stling crowd. I feel eyes all over me, eyes of people that I’ve never met before. I suppose this is what famous musicians feel like all the time, but I’m not a famous musician. I’m just Eleanor Jackson from Barton. I’m not anyone special.
I feel like I’ve led these people on, somehow. That they must be mistaken. I let out a gasp as I see a very tall figure saunter up in the back of the crowd. Trent’s decided to come watch the show. He’s got big old aviator sunglasses on, but I can tell it’s him. That blonde is still hanging onto his arm, too. Perfect. He catches me looking at him and gives a little wave. I avert my eyes quickly, pretending that I wasn’t staring. Mitch raises an eyebrow at me when he sees the source of my caginess.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting all swoony over that asshole?” he asks, not very kindly.
“I don’t get swoony,” I tell him angrily, “I’m just a little confused. And a little nervous.”
“You don’t need to be nervous,” Mitch says, taking my hands in his, “This is just like every other show we’ve ever played.”
“Not exactly,” I laugh.
“Well, try to think of it that way,” he urges, “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Your voice is beautiful. These people obviously think so, or they wouldn’t have come.”
“Maybe they just like your suspenders,” I suggest.
“Well...they are excellent suspenders,” Mitch admits, cracking the rare joke.
“Are you guys ready for me to introduce you?” Pearl asks excitedly, “We like to do a little Q and A before a new act takes the stage. Is that OK?”
“Sure,” Mitch says, “Whatever.”
“Super!” chirps Pearl. She dashes through the curtain, a pretty arbitrary divider since both the backstage and audience are open air. We watch her tap the mic and address the audience.
“Hello everyone!” Pearl says, her voice amplified in the afternoon air, “It’s my pleasure to introduce a brand new act to you today. You’ve probably been reading all about them the last couple of days, as their most recent song, ‘Patch Me Up’, has been all over the Web. Please give a big Hawk and Dove welcome to the adorable and magnificent duo, Ellie & Mitch!”
“Adorable?” Mitch hisses.
I grab onto his hand and drag him through the curtain. A huge wave of applause washes over us as we step out onto the modest stage. For a moment, I’m caught like a deer in headlights, totally frozen before this unexpected wash of praise. I look over and see that even Mitch is startled by the attention. We’re used to playing in tiny little bars and dorm rooms. This is another animal completely. I don’t think I could have fully imagined the sensation of walking out before a big group of people who are actually gathered to listen to me...it’s absolutely wonderful. And terrifying.
“We’re so glad you two could be here!” Pearl says.
Mitch and I take our places before our microphones. My fingers tighten around his—I’m too nervous to let go. I lean into the mic, smiling. “We’re glad to be here!” I say brightly.
“I hear that you’re a veteran of the festival yourself, Ellie,” Pearl says.
“Oh yeah,” I say, “Big time.”
A cheer goes up in the crowd as Pearl goes on. “Well, you two have become quite the internet darlings over the past week or so. That interview you gave, Ellie, gave such a wonderful account of the way you two met, fell in love, and started making this excellent music together.”
“I—What?” I splutter.
“Everyone here loves to see a couple on love making music. It always adds so much to the sound, don’t you two agree?”
I feel Mitch’s fingers leave mine as the heavy weight of his arm settles across my shoulders. I look up at him, utterly bewildered, and see a big, silly grin spread all across his face. He pulls me tightly against him and plants a kiss on the top of my head.
“You’re absolutely right Pearl,” he says into his microphone, “You can absolutely tell the difference. It’s a pretty new thing for us. In fact, this interview is really the first time I’ve been able to know Ellie’s heart about us. So, if we’re a little giddy, you all know why.”
The audience lets out a collective “aww,” grabbing at each other gleefully. I look out over the crowd, utterly tongue tied. What is Mitch doing? What the hell did Teddy write in that article?
My eyes lock with two vibrant greens orbs, staring up at me from the back of the audience. Trent Parker’s mouth has straightened into a firm, unreadable line. He doesn’t look pleased, and that makes two of us.
Chapter Four
I cross my arms firmly over my chest as Ellie and her lanky beau take their places onstage. A scorching, acidic anger starts to rise inside of me as I watch that nerdy try-hard asshole beam at her. It’s completely, utterly irrational that I'm mad at some snot nosed kid for having the audacity to like the same charming, adorable, intelligent girl who’s happened to catch my eye...but I’ve never been an extremely rational person.
As Mitch settles onto a stool, cradling a stupid little ukulele, all I can do is fantasize about storming the stage and smashing it over his head.
“Why did you want to see these two play?” Kelly asks, sounding bored.
“They’re our next door neighbors,” I tell her, digging my fingers into the skin of my arms. “I thought it would be nice to come out and support them. They’re pretty new at this, apparently.”
“Seems like they’ve got a nice little following,” Kelly remarks, looking around at the boisterous crowd clamoring for a better look at the stage.
“Yeah,” I mutter through my teeth.
“What’s the matter with you?” Kelly asks, narrowing her eyes at me, “You were the one who wanted to schlep down here for amateur hour. I’d rather be enjoying a vodka rocks in the bus, if I may be frank.”
“You always are,” I say, “That’s why I keep you around.”
“Not because I’m singlehandedly managing your entire career?” Kelly asks, threading her arm casually through mine.
“That too,” I allow, keeping my eyes trained on the stage. Trained on Ellie, if I’m being honest.
She’s been nervous all day, but there’s a new element to her anxiety, now. I watch her take her place before the standing mic, smoothing down the front of her old-school dress. She tucks her hair behind her ear with a quick, aggravated motion. As she lifts her eyes, I can see it clearly—she’s pissed.
A little bubble of hope rises through my unaccountable anger. Maybe Ellie isn’t too thrilled with Mitch’s little romantic spitball. I have to give her credit, she’s keeping her annoyance hidden pretty well. Just not well enough for an old pro like me. I’ve been crafting this persona of mine long enough to see through just about anyone else’s guise. Ellie’s playing the cool, collected songstress, but I can practically see her cracking open right in front of my eyes.
The weirdest thing is, I now feel responsible somehow. Not that I had anything to do with what’s bothering her, but I feel like I should be here to comfort her. I don’t even mind feeling like I should stay and offer what support I can. I want to be here.
Ellie’s eyes flit upwards and catch mine for half a moment, and I see that our fleeting connection steadies her at little. I try to smile at her encouragingly. If I can do anything at all to help her through this performance, I’m glad to. I remember well enough what it was like to get up in front of a crowd for the first time, after all. I guess I’m just feeling a little sentimental. Or something.
Ellie looks over her shoulder at Mitch and nods her head, ever so subtly. He takes a deep breath and curls his long form forward over the instrument. His fingers begin to pick artfully, sending a high, clear melody spinning up into the sky. Even I have to admit, the kid has skills on that dinky little thing.
A hush falls over the crowd as he weaves through a sunny but sad tune, clearing the way for Ellie’s voice. I watch her long-lashed eyes flutter closed for half a heartbeat. Her chest rises beneath the fine fabric of her dress, and a shot of longing courses thr
ough me. Finally, she parts her lips and begins to sing, holding her hands peacefully at her sides.
The sound that comes of out her isn’t at all what I expect. Most of these singer/songwriter types have the exact same voice, that throaty, overly embellished wail that’s so popular these days. But Ellie doesn’t adorn her voice with any stylistic trappings. Her tone is clear as a bell—smooth, full, and unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. I’m so blown away by the quality of her voice that for a minute, I forget to listen to what she’s saying. But her words make their way to me, at last.
After four lonesome days of beaches and boats
I bumped into my shadow, and traded hellos,
She took one look at me, and wouldn’t you know—
Set me free from this sorrow, and sent me on home...
I watch her, transfixed. It’s like her soul is streaming unfiltered through her lyrics. Word upon word tumbles from her mouth, twisting through the air like the wispy smoke of a just-extinguished cigarette. The girl is good, but I can tell just by watching that being “good” is of little interest to her. She’s not singing to impress anyone, or to be the most interesting girl at the party, or even because she can. She’s singing because she has to.
“Wow...” I mutter, my gaze steady on Ellie’s curvy figure, swaying before the rapturous crowd.
“She’s good,” Kelly says begrudgingly.
She catches me gaping at the girl onstage. I snap my jaw shut and nod, but there’s no getting anything past my manager.
“She’s not really your type, is she Trent?”
“Yeah, well,” I sigh, “My type sucks, don’t you think?”
“Usually, yes,” Kelly says, “But right now I’d advise you to stick to familiar waters, my friend. Don’t go getting all misty eyed over some Joan Baez wannabe. As your manager and dear friend, I have to warn you that chasing after this little girl would be...problematic.”
Hawk and Dove (Rock Star Romance Novel) Page 5
