Authors: Katy Atlas
Right, she said sarcastically. And what exactly is the point of concluding our enormous, national tour with an acoustic show for forty people?
Blake sighed, not taking the bait.
By the way, she said as they walked down the hallway to get on stage, her steps a little wobbly but her voice concealing any traces of alcohol. You need to make a decision on the television show by Monday. We’re signing the contract then.
Blake was the only member of the band who hadn’t agreed yet. Jesse had gotten on board quickly, and Sophie had eventually agreed, too. I still didn’t really understand why they needed Blake to do it -- it wasn’t as if they’d be lacking for footage, with all the rest of them. Maybe Blake’s new bad-boy status was making the producers more eager to have him on board.
I tried to push the thought out of my head, watching Moving Neutral walk onstage for their last big show of the tour. The lights shifted from fuchsia to yellow to blue, panning out at the audience and then spotlighting the band. Blake snuck a look at me and then turned back to the crowd, a melancholy expression lingering on his face as he started the first song.
No one except April and Jesse went out that night, and true to his word, Blake took me to a trendy sushi restaurant in Hollywood for a late dinner after the show. We sat across from each other at a table in the back of the restaurant, picking pieces of edamame out of a dark ceramic bowl.
A few photographers had been outside the restaurant when we’d walked in, but they were obviously just picking a popular spot and hoping to catch any celebrity they could, not waiting for us specifically. As we’d pulled up, they were taking pictures of a skinny girl with long blonde hair, who I was pretty sure wasn’t actually even famous.
No one used my real name this time. In fact, they didn’t seem to notice me at all, just called out to Blake as we passed. I heard one of them ask where April was, but we just ignored it.
An emaciated waitress with puffy, overstuffed cheeks seated us, and I watched as she looked alternately bored by me and star-struck by Blake while reciting the restaurant’s specialties. I ordered green tea, the thought of alcohol making me nauseous after the night before, and the waitress looked annoyed as she walked away.
I told Blake about the photographer knowing my name earlier in the day.
I guess it really doesn’t matter, right? I mean, it’s not like they’re going to have any interest in me in a few weeks. I thought about my upcoming transition from Blake’s Santa Monica beach house to a closet-sized Columbia dorm room, complete with two-inch mattresses and a roommate whose name I didn’t even know. Or multiple roommates, I thought to myself, trying not to feel horrified.
No, he said, looking at me sadly. I guess it doesn’t really matter.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, trying not to talk about what was foremost on both of our minds -- me leaving. Finally, the waitress brought our drinks, and we ordered some dishes to share.
You’ll love the Kobe beef, Blake said, slipping an edamame shell into a second bowl, a busboy appearing out of nowhere to immediately scoop it up. It’s my favorite thing here.
Blake? A guy came up to our table, wearing black jeans and a grubby shirt and carrying a heavy, expensive-looking camera. Can I get a quick picture?
Sure, Blake sighed, setting down his drink and standing up.
Do you mind? the photographer looked directly at me, gesturing for me to stand up.
My eyes widened, and I looked to Blake questioningly. He gave a short nod and I moved next to him, trying not to blink as the camera flash temporarily blinded me. The photographer thanked us and walked away, a waiter following him with a stern expression.
Welcome to L.A., Blake said sarcastically, taking a sip of his beer and shaking his head.
I tried not to feel dazed, wondering if that photo would work its way into a magazine. Recovering, I realized Blake had given me the perfect opportunity to ask something I’d been thinking about.
Couldn’t you-- I hesitated, and then forced the words out, knowing I wouldn’t get a better chance to say them. Could you work on your new album from New York?
It was a last ditch effort, a product of my mounting desperation after realizing that Brett was right -- I was still going to Columbia.
Not with the rest of the band here, he said, giving me a sad look. I tried not to show my disappointment -- I hadn’t really expected any other response. I need to hear how it sounds with all of us together to know what’s working and what isn’t, he explained. I’m sorry, Case -- I wish I could.
I know, I said truthfully. I’m sorry -- I shouldn’t have brought it up.
The waitress set two giant platters in front of us, arranged with thin slices of fish and meat. I picked up my chopsticks with one hand, trying to change the subject.
This looks amazing, I said, faking a smile. What should I try first?
Sophie picked me up after lunch the next day, driving a silver convertible that looked brand new. She honked the horn from Blake’s driveway, and I ran outside and climbed into the passenger seat.
There was only one photographer sitting on Blake’s curb, and he snapped a few shots of me and Sophie as we drove away. It seemed like the attention was dying down, and I was hoping that the following week’s round of tabloids wouldn’t have a single member of Moving Neutral on the cover.
It was Saturday afternoon, so most of the traffic was heading toward the beach, not away from it. We covered the distance from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills in about fifteen minutes, and Sophie pulled her car into an underground garage before anyone could notice us.
Rodeo Drive looked about how I had expected it -- everything picture perfect and ridiculously expensive. Sophie led me into store after store, picking out things for each of us to try on. Women with fish lips stood behind the counters in trim black suits, frowning at us like we were unruly high school students wasting their time.
Sophie was right, I thought to myself. No one ever recognizes the drummer.
Neither of us bought anything -- me because I couldn’t have afforded it in a million years, Sophie because she said most of the really expensive stuff was for old ladies. Passing the windows at Cartier, we looked at rows of diamonds, sparkly under fluorescent lights.
We finally stopped for frozen yogurt at a shop off a side street, sitting down at one of the tables to rest our feet.
I can’t believe tonight is the last show, Sophie said, methodically licking all the sprinkles off her vanilla cone.
I know, I stabbed my plastic spoon into my oversized cup. I’ve got to buy a plane ticket soon.
Has Blake talked about coming to visit you, or anything like that?
Nope.
He will.
I was grateful when her phone rang, because I wasn’t so sure. The night before had been a perfect opportunity for him to say something -- anything -- about what would happen to us once I was in New York, and instead we’d just stared at the platters of sushi as if there was nothing to say.
April, Sophie’s voice sounded excited. What’s up?
I looked at her quizzically, trying to listen to the other side of the conversation.
That’s great -- yeah, really fun, Sophie said, and then hesitated, her face taking on a worried expression. What do you mean, late? She paused, looking at me and then down at her watch. Okay, I’ll tell them. But hurry, okay?
She snapped the phone closed, and put the rest of her cone into my empty cup, throwing them both away as she walked out of the store. I followed her onto the street, turning as she led the way back to the parking lot.
What did she say? I asked, too curious to let it go.
She’s on a date with Jake Foster -- you know, the guy from the Superman movie?
I nodded, feeling mostly excited. April on a date meant less scrutiny on her and Blake -- and, hopefully, that April’s mood would improve for the show tonight. That’s great, I said, confused.
It’s not great, Sophie said, looking frustrated. They’re at his beach house in Malibu. She was calling to say she’s going to be late for the show tonight.
I stood outside the car, waiting for Sophie to unlock it. How can you be late for your own concert? I asked, wondering out loud. What happens to the show?
Hopefully she’ll just miss the sound check, Sophie said, giving me a smile that didn’t look at all certain. It never ends, right? What a nightmare.
She shifted the car into gear and drove in the direction of the venue. I looked at the digital clock on the dashboard -- it was five thirty. The band was supposed to be there by six, and the show started at eight.
At seven thirty, April still hadn’t arrived. Sophie tried calling her again, but came back into the green room a moment later, shaking her head in defeat. Usually Derek was backstage with us by this point, but he hadn’t shown up yet either -- and none of us were looking forward to telling him that the band was still missing a lead singer, half an hour before the show was supposed to start.
This is so typical, Blake said, not looking up from the guitar he was tuning, plucking the strings aggressively. It’s our last show of the whole tour. She couldn’t have scheduled her stupid date for tomorrow afternoon?
Jesse looked at him, irritated. I think she’s trying to date as much as possible, since you made her a giant laughingstock this summer. It’s damage control, Blake.
We’re going to need a lot more damage control if we have to cancel this show, Blake said through gritted teeth. Or if she falls off the stage because she didn’t bother to mark any of her steps this afternoon.
Please, Jesse said. April could do this show in her sleep. She’ll be here.
I looked at him closely, trying to see any sign that he was worried too. But Jesse was barely paying attention, unwrapping a miniature Snickers bar and biting into it. Sophie was sitting next to him on one of the couches, looking down at her phone as if she was trying to will April to call.
Minutes ticked by without anyone saying anything. Finally, at quarter of eight, Derek walked into the room.
Everybody ready to go? He looked around at each of us. April still in hair and makeup?
Sophie looked like she’d just swallowed a bug. No one said anything, and Derek looked around, his eyes narrowing.
Where’s April? he repeated.
She said she was running late, Sophie finally croaked out.
Derek looked from Sophie to the clock. She was supposed to be here an hour ago -- how close is she?
Again, no one seemed to want to answer.
She’s in Malibu, Blake finally snapped, and Sophie looked relieved, at least, that she didn’t have to say it. She’s on a date -- Sophie’s been trying to call her for a half hour, and she’s not picking up.
Derek pulled out his cell phone and hit a button to dial a preset number, gripping the phone tightly and holding it to his ear. He listened for a few seconds and then exhaled, sighing deeply into the mouthpiece. April, hey, it’s Derek. You guys are supposed to go on in fifteen minutes and no one’s heard from you. I assume you’re on your way, so, um -- just give me a call when you get this, okay?
He hung up the phone, looking around the room. Shit, he said under his breath, and then glanced at me. Sorry.
I wanted to laugh, and choked it back. No worries, I said quietly.
There wasn’t an opening band for the acoustic show, and we were only a few minutes away from the time the concert was supposed to start. I could hear the hum of people just outside the door, the sounds of the audience arriving, taking their seats, the low background music playing over the theater’s sound system.
Derek looked back at the door he’d come in through, and then down at his phone. You guys-- he said, and then hesitated. This is really a bad night for April to flake out. He looked down at his watch. It’s partly my fault, I should have told you about this earlier.
Told us what? Jesse asked, looking closely at Derek through his glasses.
Casey, Derek started, and I sat up nervously. Remember when I told you we were going to have a production company record one of the acoustic shows, for a DVD?
I nodded, remembering the show in Chicago when Derek had told me to keep that bit of information to myself.
Well, the plan was to do it tonight, he looked nervously at Jesse. We only finalized it with the record label a few days ago. I thought it would be a cool surprise. I’m sorry, guys -- if I’d just told you, probably April would be here.
Sophie looked at him, her mouth partly open in shock.
It’s not your fault, Blake looked up, annoyed. April should show up for our shows, even if she doesn’t think they’ll lead to a DVD.
He had a point.
So. . . Sophie asked, her voice timid. What happens if we cancel the show?
Derek looked at her, his face serious. It’s a big waste of everyone’s time, that’s what happens. And money. Good luck getting the label to do this again. Damnit, he said, not bothering to apologize to me this time.
Jesse crossed his arms, looking at Sophie with a worried expression. She was playing with the laces on her shoes, not meeting his eyes.
Maybe she’ll show up, I said, trying to lighten the mood. Why don’t you try calling again?