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“Thanks, Amy.” Florence draws a last deep breath before turning around.

“Speech time?” Miray asks.

Florence nods. She waits until they’ve gathered in a circle before she says, “This is our first real show. Everything we’ve done before this has been practice. Out there is a crowd of six thousand people. They’re not here to see us. They’re here to see Juno.”

“Wow,” says Izzy. “Inspiring stuff.”

Florence ignores her. “They’re not here to see us,” she repeats. “Right now, they don’t even know who we are. It’s our job to make sure they do. When we get out there, we have thirty minutes to make them care about us. We don’t have to make them like us—no one likes the opening band. For today, it’s enough if we can get their attention. And maybe there will be ten, twenty people out there who have always been waiting for a band like ours. Who will look us up on social media and stream our music and maybe, by the time we put out an album, remember us and check it out. If we manage to get to those ten people, then tonight is a win. All right?”

“Let’s do this,” Toni says.

“Come on.” Izzy spreads her arms, beckoning Florence closer.

Within seconds, they’re huddled in a group hug in the middle of the dressing room, arms slung over one another’s shoulders, heads bent together. Florence can smell the smoke on Izzy’s clothes, hear Toni’s even breathing, feel the faint tremor in Miray’s frame. Luca is opposite her, eyes closed and head bowed, looking a little like someone during prayer. Having them all this close makes Florence’s chest feel tight with gratitude and something else, too big and unwieldy to put into words.

“Let’s go, Scorpios!” Amy calls from the door.

They go.

Florence was eight years old the first time she stood on a stage. Her music teacher had asked if she wanted to sing a solo at the Christmas school assembly, and Florence had spent all of December learning the words to “O Christmas Tree,” driving her mum insane humming it at every meal and during each car ride to school.

She remembers the way it felt, walking up the three steps to the stage. Seeing the microphone stand, seemingly a world away. Feeling the heat of the spotlights pointed at her. Hearing the room fall to a hush as she drew a breath and stepped closer to the microphone. She couldn’t make out any faces, but she knew that her mother was somewhere out there. Her father wasn’t, but her mum said she’d film it for him, and Florence told herself that was good enough.

She remembers how her voice trembled for the first few notes before all those hours of furious practice kicked in and carried her through the song. She remembers the applause, thunderously loud to her ears, filling her with a feeling too large for her tiny chest to hold. She remembers thinking for the first time that she understood why her father was never home when he could feel like this every night.

She had sung a song, and the room had been silent. For three whole minutes, she had known that all eyes were on her, listening, admiring, paying attention.

She remembers knowing even then that it was a feeling she would spend the rest of her life chasing.

The in-ears muffle the noise of the crowd as they step out, but Florence can feel it all the same. It vibrates through the soles of her boots and lodges itself in her chest like a second heartbeat. The lights are so bright, she can’t see a thing beyond the stage. She forces her feet to move, one step in front of the other, while the others fan out behind her.

She has been imagining this moment for years, but nothing could have prepared her for the reality of it. As she cups her hands around the mic stand, she thinks of “O Christmas Tree,” of their first gig crowded together in a corner of Earl’s pub, of her mum at home and her father an ocean away.

She reminds herself to breathe, to straighten her shoulders. Presence is everything. Presence is everything.

The moment stretches like spun sugar, fragile and dreamlike. It’s a shock when she hears Luca through her in-ears: her soft one-two-three, and then the drum intro of “big teeth.” Miray follows—Florence’s anchor in every performance, her north star from school choir to the practice basement—then Toni and Izzy, dark and foreboding.

This is it, Florence thinks.

She closes her eyes, takes a breath, and sings.

13

Thirty minutes pass in a haze. There’s the crowd cheering as they enter the stage. The tremor in Luca’s hands as she picks up the drumsticks. Florence, prowling across the stage like she was born there, her voice crystal clear in Luca’s in-ears. Toni and Izzy playing back-to-back, flashing silhouettes drenched in red light. Florence walking around to introduce each of them, the brush of her fingertips on Luca’s bare arm. “Give it up for our drummer, Luca Walsh!” Miray smiling from ear to ear. Florence, again, dropping to her knees during “a ballad for bruised knees,” and Luca finally understanding what she and Izzy were arguing about when Florence said the song was pornographic all those times they fought over the setlist.

Then it’s over and they’re stumbling offstage, sweaty and delirious. The moment they’re out of sight of the audience, Florence releases a high, disbelieving laugh. “We did it!”

“We did!” Miray says, muffled against Florence’s shoulder as she pulls her into a hug.

“That was fun,” Toni says.

Izzy slings an arm around Luca’s shoulders, grinning. “Good job, Rookie.”

For once, Luca’s smile comes easy. “Thanks.”

Florence flings herself at Luca next. For the first time since Luca stumbled into band practice, there’s nothing awkward about the interaction. Florence wraps both arms around Luca, and Luca does the same without thinking twice, feeling the warmth of Florence’s breath on her neck as she laughs, almost too quiet for Luca to hear.

“You were brilliant,” Luca tells her, squeezing her upper arms.