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I jump off the stage, on a euphoric high I never want to come down from. This is what my music does to me—it feeds my fucking soul, makes me believe that everything is good, that I am good at something.
Frankie gives everyone in the band a hug and when she makes her way to me, she squeezes me tight. “You just changed your life, kid,” she whispers, and it’s the first time I’ve even thought about the industry spectators since the moment before I stepped foot on stage. I was so damn nervous, but the minute we got up there, everything faded away and it was just me and the crowd.
I trail my eyes to the two men lounging on stools in the corner, both eyeing us up, but I’m unable to tell what they’re thinking by their neutral expressions. One of them nods at me and I give a small wave. I know there’s also a woman directly behind me who has come here on a mission, but I don’t turn around to make it seem like I’m too eager.
I feel like I could throw up from an even mix of nerves and excitement. Adrenaline courses through my veins as people all around us continue to clap and cheer.
“Dude, that was probably the best set we’ve ever fucking played.” Declan runs her palms over her hair to try to tame her frizz. She’s like the sister I never had, and she’s the best damn bassist I could dream of playing next to. Miller lazily hooks his arm over her shoulders and gives her a side hug.
“I’m excited, too. But we should play it cool, you know? Let’s act like we don’t give a fuck if they hated it. We need to give off that edgy, punk rock vibe,” Miller says, talking so quietly, I can barely hear him over the noise.
Flynn slaps Miller upside the head, about as light and lovingly as you can slap someone in that nature. “This is the one time I’m not concerned about playing it cool.”
Grandma Frankie brings us a round of shots that she declares—and loudly, at that— are virgin. When the warm liquid slides down my throat, I know they’re anything but. She winks before walking away, throwing her fist in the air. “My grandson is gonna be a fucking rockstar!” I realize just how right she is about thirty minutes later when one of the big names from a label we’ve been dying to get a meeting with saunters over to where we sit, dangling our feet off the stage and drinking a few more “virgin” drinks.
The woman stretches her arm toward me, holding her hand out to shake mine. I notice the electric blue of her pointy nails. “I’m Carleeta.”
I take her hand in mine and notice how tight her grip is as she shakes my sweaty hand before dropping it quickly. “I’m from Hellfire Records, and I really like what I saw here tonight. It would be my pleasure to have my people call yours.”
Eight
Isla
Duende (n.) the mysterious power of art
to deeply move a person.
___________
My favorite time to paint is long after the sun goes down, when the world is dark, and lights illuminate the city. I’m never more relaxed than when I’m here, when it’s just me and the darkness with only tiny slivers of light spilling in through the windows.
The studio has long since been vacated for the night, aside from me. My mother hates when I do this. She says I’m basically just asking for a hooded serial killer to corner me when I leave the empty college in the early morning hours.
But this is when my artistic inspiration peaks, Mother.
I stare at the canvas perched on the wooden easel in front of me and gently dip a small brush head into the muted purple liquid. Turning my head sideways, I try to make sense of the portion I completed earlier in class, but my mind was all over the place when I first started this piece. I’m studying music management, but painting has always been a huge passion of mine, too. I’m taking a painting class on the side, on top of all my other classes, and despite music being my greatest passion, painting is what I like to do when I’m feeling too much. And right now, I’m feeling way too much.
I close my eyes and try to push out thoughts of the record store, Bordeaux, and Manuel. I try to only think about the here and now, and how to save this piece that I’ve royally fucked up. I know eventually I need to come to terms with Manuel. I need to come to terms with walking in on who I thought was the love of my life screwing someone in the bed we shared. I need to come to terms with him marrying someone else six months later. But not tonight.
Just when I finally block out my day, my phone vibrates against the wooden tabletop.
Jesus Christ, for fuck’s sake.
I grasp the phone, flipping it over in my hands, and see an unknown number has sent me a text.
Unknown: Where are you?
Seems a bit forward from someone I don’t even have saved in my phone. I ignore the text because it’s clearly a wrong number. Someone is probably trying to get some action by texting this late at night. I laugh, thinking about how a woman probably intentionally put the wrong number in some dude’s phone. “May the odds ever be in your favor,” I whisper into the nothing that surrounds me.
Lightly meeting the tip of my brush to the canvas, I gently start stippling the freshly dipped purple paint onto my dried work. The phone vibrates again and I jump, the noise yanking me from my concentration.
Unknown: It’s Bordeaux. What are you doing?
What could he possibly want? I check the time on my phone; it’s after ten.
Me: I’m at school.
