There were three registration tables with white tablecloths, but they condensed down to one since nearly everyone else was already there. The silver lining, though, was that there wasn’t a line. The lady behind the table, who had to be in her eighties, begrudgingly greeted us. Her under-the-eye black eyeliner was smudged, and it looked harsh paired with her perm and navy blue cardigan.
“Scarlet Sofa, music division.”
She handed us our lanyards with our competition number—9A. “Go through those doors,” she pointed to a conference room at the end of the lobby, “and a stagehand will be with you soon.”
We thanked her and speed-walked into the room she indicated. As soon as we walked in, as if the stars had perfectly aligned, a stagehand in all black joined us.
“Hello, Group A! We have a slight delay, as guests from the other divisions are getting seated and arriving. Please get yourselves lined up in numerical order, starting with 1A here at the door and 15A back towards that wall. I’ll be back in a few minutes!”
Everyone adjusted according to their badge numbers as we found our spot between 8A, a woman who gave major Joan Jett vibes, and 10A, a group of wannabe Beach Boys. An interesting and diverse line-up; I wondered if they intentionally blended different genres of music, or if it was just random. I imagined what the other groups must have thought of us. We’re both wearing cream with peach accent pieces, verysame outfit different fonts. Hers was more Lana Del Rey, trying to give that old money feel in a cute little dress an empire waist. The fabric was printed with a soft peach floral pattern so opaque, it blended into the cream background. She paired it with peach socks and peach Mary Jane platforms, her honey-brown hair pulled back half-up with two little braids. I, meanwhile, went for a more modern pop look: a cream-white pantsuit and peach bodice instead of a shirt and my peach-colored boots. I decided to put my hair up in a slick ponytail – or as slick as I could get it, since the gel was still in the car.
With deep breaths, we went through our preshow ritual of listing the things we had going in our favor.
“We’re on time,” Lilli said, her smile mischievous.
“We look great.” I pointed at her eyeshadow.
“Guitars are tuned.”
“Vocal warms are done.”
“Songs are rehearsed.”
“And the things out of our control aren’t worth worrying about.”
“Because we can’t do anything about them anyway.”
“And if anything comes up, we can adapt as needed,” I finished.
Lilli pulled me in for a big hug. “I’m so fucking glad you’re here.”
The door opened, and the room that had been quietly buzzing fell quiet.
“Alright everyone,” the returned stagehand announced, “are you ready?” Everyone nodded as they straightened out the line. “Follow me.”
Lilli and I cheered using our guitar pics in our favorite colors (mine yellow, hers pink). I tried to ignore that nervous feeling in my stomach —it was definitely excitement instead of anxiety. I thought about escaping quickly to the bathroom; I still carried a blade in my pocket, even though I hadn’t used it in a while. The urge for release pulled at me, but I brushed it off as Lilli held my hand and smiled.
I couldn’t let her down.
4 – Connie – Now
He comes over in powerful strides. It’s definitely Eric, but he’s different. For one, he’s filled out, muscles where there had been lean limbs. What was slender is now cut, and he looks really, really good.
I look at Lilli and try to catch her eye, but she’s seeing stars. My mind screams at her that we have a mayday situation here, but clearly, we haven’t unlocked telepathy. I can’t blame her, though—she’s overstimulated from the pizzazz of the day and all the people we’ve met.
Eric Stone. The man popped up into my life for a whirlwind week five years ago, and now, here he is again, right as I’m on the precipice of one of the biggest things to ever happen to me.
“Here he is,” Ash says, clapping a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “This is Eric. He’ll be the other bodyguard assigned to your party. Connie, he’ll be your security. Lilli, I’ll be yours.”
Lilli looks at me with that look of “oh shit, do you see this?” Yeah, Lilli. I just tried having this mental conversation with you. Out loud, though, Lilli says, “Hi there.”
Eric holds out a hand to shake. He’s given no indication that he knows who we are, but he couldn’t have forgotten, could he?
Wait, did he forget?
I take his hand and shake it. The sensation is electric, and I feel it throughout my entire body. His brown eyes are kind and a little sad—he has to remember.
Lilli, always the type to face things head-on, extends her hand. How long had Eric and I been standing there hand in hand? Time feels fake.
