Rocked Up

“Like I said, this wasn’t my idea,” Lael says after a while, keeping her eyes on the road. “And I know you’re upset about it, so I’ll go to my dad’s office tomorrow and tell him I won’t do it.”

I don’t have the heart or energy to respond. I’m suddenly so tired of dealing with things like this. So I put my head back against the seat rest and watch the city pass by.

I have to admit, I’m strangely comfortable with Lael. When I first met her she was just a kid who used to stare at me with heart eyes. She’s still a bit younger than me but miles away from that kid that used to hang around me so shyly.

Her words are still hanging in the air, prompting me to say something.

“Good idea. Talk to your dad tomorrow. Call it off,” I tell her, still looking out my window.

Now it’s my words that hang in the air. I was probably a little harsh, but it needed to be said. I’m not going to take this girl on tour when there’s someone out there better suited for the gig. We strive to be one of the most bad-ass bands in the world and Lael is too…pretty.

“I will,” she says. “Like I said, this was not my idea. You don’t have to worry about taking care of the boss’s daughter for your entire tour. Not that I need taking care of, but it’s a stupid idea and you don’t have to worry about me being around.”

Lael’s tone is that of a teenager’s toward an authority figure. I give her a side eye and don’t entertain her with a response.

We’re not far from my old stomping grounds. The theater that I used to call home is just minutes away. I haven’t been there for a while, and with Mr. Robson having passed away, it feels like it’s time to walk down memory lane and say goodbye to my dear friend.

“Do you mind taking a little detour?” I ask.

“Where?” she asks with total attitude.

“The theater where it all started.”

“We can do that,” she says in a calm, sober voice, her expression softening as she puts on the turn signal.

We don’t speak on the way to the theater. It’s been ages since I’ve been on this street in the afternoon, and it looks different with the sun high in the sky. It’s quiet too. This part of the city comes alive at night and sleeps during the day. Lael’s able to park on the street almost directly in front of the theater’s main doors.

“Hungry?” I ask.

“Starving.”

We cross the street and get a couple Dilallo burgers. To my surprise, the couple working there are as lively as always. They remember me immediately, offering their condolences for my loss. Lael seems less than enthusiastic about the greasy white bag that they hand her, but I can tell she’s charmed by the hard-working couple.

Burgers in hand, we cross the street to the theater. The moment I enter the foyer, the smells instantly bring me back to my late childhood.

Then, stepping into the theater area I see it: Mr. Robson’s sound booth, looking painfully empty, flowers laid out all over his equipment.

I run my hands over the flowers that were obviously left by the crew but I know Mr. Robson would have hated having them near his equipment.

I let out a deep breath and close my eyes. I can hear his voice in the depths of my mind: Did they let you out of your cage?

“Are you going to be okay?” Lael asks.

I meet her eyes, warm and filled with concern. I make a promise to myself not to break down on her again.

“I will be. C’mon over here. These are the best seats in the house.” I direct her to the seats where I always sat at with Mr. Robson.

We sit down and look at the beautiful empty stage, save for an old friend, Ross Duncan, who’s on a ladder fixing some lights, the sound of his tools clanking filling the room.

We eat in silence for a while, though my mind can’t seem to focus on one thing.

“That is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” Lael says with a little laugh after she scrunches up the empty burger wrapper and drops it into the bag.

“Right?” I say, amused by the grease around her mouth. I pause. “So, what’s it like being the daughter of a tyrant?”

My question doesn’t seem to shock her.

“I don’t know, what’s it like working for one?” she replies, arching a brow.

I clear my throat. “It just surprises me that you want to be a working musician. Aren’t you supposed to rebel against your father? Become, like, a doctor or something?”

“My father hates that I want to be a musician,” she admits. “He sees them as the bottom of the food chain. No offense.”

I gave her a crooked smile and a thumbs up, supporting the claim.

She continues with a sigh. “It’s like I’m an extension of him rather than my own person. Sometimes I feel like a ghost—a guest in someone else’s life.”

I’m thinking of how Mr. Robson gave me a chance. I can’t imagine where my life would be if he hadn’t mentored me. And even though Lael and I grew up on different sides of the tracks, I can see we have some things in common. Most obviously, we’re both trapped under the spell of Ronald Ramsey. She’s bound by blood and I’m bound by legal contract.

Honestly, I’m not sure which is easier to break free from.

And yet, I know she’s sincere about being a musician. I can feel her youthful drive, know what she’s feeling by the way she’s gazing at the empty stage.

“The only time I can be the person I need to be is when I’m onstage,” she says. “That’s when I’m in control. I can self-destruct or I can shine.”

I finish chewing before saying, “Self-destruction is very nineties. I would shine if I were you.”

“I was born in the late nineties, so I missed that stuff,” she says with a shrug.

I imagine how Mr. Robson might react to Lael if he were here with us. He would have done everything he could to encourage her.

Suddenly I feel the weight of responsibility, as if Mr. Robson is standing over my shoulder.

I know what I have to do.

“Alright, young lady,” I say to her, and she scrunches up her cute nose at my choice of words. “Why don’t you come for an audition? I won’t tell Switch or Calvi who you are. You’ll be just another bass player auditioning. And I’ll go with whatever they say. That way this has nothing to do with your father. It’s based on your talent. It’s what’s fair for all of us.”

A smile slowly crosses Lael’s face, her eyes still looking at the stage. In an easy, confident voice she says, “I can do that.”





Chapter Four





Lael




“I can’t do this.”

Christy turns around from the stove, stirring the giant pot of cabbage soup she made last night. “You can do this,” she says calmly. “Why are you getting all freaked out now? You were as cool as a cucumber an hour ago.”

“Because,” I tell her, standing in the kitchen doorway, unsure of where I should go, what to do with myself. “An hour ago I wasn’t an hour closer to my impending doom.”

Christy snorts and goes back to paying attention to the soup. “You’re so dramatic, Lael. What happened to the positive, confident ball-buster that I know?”