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And that’s why I hightailed it out of class as soon as I could.
Everything I’ve done the past few weeks has been with this audition in mind, and everything I’ve done musically my entire life has led up to this moment.
I hit the button at the crosswalk and wait for the traffic to clear. The neon OPEN sign across the street calls my name even though it’s off. Catching my reflection in the dirty, glass window, I deflate. The guys in this band are all in their mid-twenties to early thirties.
And I still look like I just graduated high school—which I guess is accurate. I’m early, so I wait outside and hear the guy before me nail it. He walks out of the bar ten minutes later with his full beard and aviator sunglasses, looking like he belongs in a band. Swallowing hard, I grip the door handle in one hand, squeezing my guitar case tighter in the other.
Fuck it. Let’s do this.
It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit bar. Dave Lutz, the lead singer of a band I’ve bought tickets to countless times stands in front of me, and nothing could have prepared me for the gut punch that comes with it. American Thieves may not be on American Top 40, and there’s a good chance most people have never heard of them, but that’s what I love about them. They don’t follow the latest trends, their tracks are made with instruments instead of computers, and they aren’t sellouts. They’re real, and they make real music.
I hold out a hand to Dave and hope he doesn’t feel my palm sweating. “Hey, I’m Jackson Phillips.”
Dave’s dirty blond hair goes to his shoulders, his arms are covered in tattoos, and he’s the epitome of a rocker—he’s everything I want to be.
And he’s eyeing me like I’m a kid at the mall who can’t find his mom.
“Shit, man,” he says with a chuckle. “Are you even legal?”
The fact that he’s relaxed helps to ease some of my nerves, and I let out a breath of laughter. “As of eight months ago.”
His mouth cracks into a grin. “Good for you!” He walks me over to the stage where he takes a seat at a small table, front and center. “Plug in, and let’s see what you’ve got.”
Slowly, I make my way up the steps that lead to the small stage of the almost empty bar. I don’t even think they’re technically open right now. The only person here other than Dave is a bartender cleaning glasses, not paying attention. With shaking hands, I plug into the amp and take a deep breath.
Then I play like my life depends on it.
Because as far as I’m concerned, it does.
5
margot
It’s amazing what a difference coffee and a shower can make—and a little distance from your obnoxious neighbor. I haven’t seen him since we left class this morning, but I’m not complaining. Rae has been in and out of the room between classes, and I spent my downtime earlier getting organized for the semester ahead and working on my blog, Reid About It. The title is a play on my last name, and I started working on it when I was in tenth grade. It’s a way for me to express my thoughts and opinions in a way that doesn’t feel as stressful as voicing them face to face.
In high school, I loved the anonymity of it. I never wanted the people at school to know it was tied to me, so most of the growth has been organic. One of my goals this year is to share a little more of myself. All of my favorite bloggers pair a face with the words. I know if I want to one day earn money from it, I need to put myself out there more.
Walking back to my room after my US Government class ended early, I open the app on my phone and respond to some of the comments about my most recent post. The fifteen minute walk back to my dorm flies by with the distraction. By the time I make it to my hallway, I’ve finished responding to the last comment. Halfway down the hall, I lift my head when I hear a few girls laughing and talking through the open door. “I Can See You” by Taylor Swift plays on their speaker, and it makes me pause in their doorway.
“I’ve been listening to this on repeat.” I lean against the door frame and hope I’m not interrupting. Meeting new people has always been a little intimidating, but at least I know I can connect with them on something. She’s one of my favorite artists. I couldn’t not stop.
“Right?” a girl with blonde curls says before jumping to her feet. “It’s so good!” She holds out her hand. “I’m Izzy.”
“Margot.” I smile and hold out my hand to meet hers.
Peering around her, I wave to the other two girls sitting on one of the beds. One has long, brunette hair with the perfect curl at the ends, and the other has short, black hair styled in tight spirals. They both wave back, but before they can introduce themselves, Izzy takes over.
“This is my roommate Jess.” She points to the girl with long hair. “And her girlfriend, Imani. She lives off campus.”
“She’s trying to turn us into Swifties,” Imani explains, like playing Taylor’s music ever needs an explanation.
“Don’t fight it,” I say with a shrug. “Lean into it.”
Jess laughs. “To be fair, I like a lot of her songs, and I love the ‘Swiftie’ culture. Empowering women and making everything shimmer? Sign me up.” She points her thumb at Imani. “She’s the one who needs convincing.”
Imani raises both hands in the air in defeat. “All right, fine. I’ll try to listen.” She pauses, eyeing the three of us. “To one album,” she adds, holding up a finger.
Izzy and I look at each other in silent debate before collectively saying, “Midnights.”
