Page 9 of Out of the Blue

“Great. Hunte doesn’t come on for a while, so I’m sure you’ll be able to catch them. Something special’s happening at the end, and you don’t want to miss it.”

I don’t care, so long as the food and booze remain plentiful throughout the night. Still, I have to be polite. “I’ll find you when I return to let you know everything’s set.”

After swiping two more slices of flan, I trudge out of the party. The festivities go on around me and I’m sidelined. Again.

Chapter 4 - Trent

Icheck the full-length mirror once more to confirm everything’s in place, the blondish overtones in my dreads catching the light. The green room here at Madison Square Garden is larger than most apartments I’ve visited. Wish it would get me jazzed, but my nerves have taken center stage.

I bounce on the balls of my feet. Tonight’s it for my band, The Light Rail. If we can get the audience behind us, then previously locked doors will swing wide open.

“Can you believe we’re here, dude?” And … I land on my heels. Dwight pounds a beat on my shoulder, above my misinformed tat. “Right?”

“It truly is hard to grasp.” No lie.

“Wish your mother were here to see this.”

I twist my mouth at his unknowing irony.

He clamps his hand on my shoulder. “We all miss her. But she’ll be in the front row with us like always.”

If only he knew.

But he doesn’t.

No one does.

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve stewed over what I learned from my mother’s diaries. After my encounter with Hot Chick in the bar, I haven’t left my house other than to attend rehearsals with the band. Since we’ve all been laser-focused on tonight’s event and making sure our sound is the best it could be, no one’s noticed anything off about me.

I rub my arm and can’t get myself to say anything concerning the woman. “We deserve this break. It’s what we’ve been working toward forever. One night, less than one hour, to change our lives.” I offer a weak grin. “We got this.”

“Bring on the fame and fortune.” He makes air motions of da-da-da, ending with crashing on his imaginary cymbals.

My lips quirk upward in time with the pterodactyls gathering in my stomach. “That’s the hope.”

Joey joins us. “I peeked through the curtains, and the arena is filling up! Can you believe it? We’re going to open for Hunte, and all their fans will hear us first.”

“It’s sinking in now,” Dwight replies. “What do you think? Bet ya twenty the place will be thirty percent full.”

“I’ll take your bet. My guess is it’ll be closer to fifty.”

The two shake hands as Maurice walks over. “What’s this bet about?” Since we usually bet on everything from the first one of us to be served at a crowded bar to the first song a band will play, he’s well versed in the routine.

Joey answers, “How full do you think our crowd will be? Dwight here took thirty percent, and I got fifty. Get your bet in now!”

Maurice chuckles. He’s always been the least optimistic of the group. “I’ll take twenty-five.”

Six eyes zero in on me. I don’t have a clue, but I’m not going to ruin this for them. Shrugging, I chime in, “My guess is sixty.” Might as well go for the gusto, even if the thought of performing before so many people makes an unusual lump catch in my throat. Dwight shoves his fist forward. “A Jackson on the percentage, as tallied by Apex.”

Two other fists pile on top of his. As soon as mine completes the tower, Dwight releases his, causing a four-car explosion of all our hands.

Joey pulls a piece of paper out of his back pocket. “So, we’re starting with ‘Hurts Good,’ followed by “Let Me Give You A Sweet.” Then we’ll play our usual set, ending with the song that got us here, ‘Yes, You’re a No.’”

The two other band members voice their approval of our song list, while I simply nod as the flying dinosaurs travel upward and lodge in my throat.

“We’ve got this. This is what we’ve been practicing for our whole lives. We’re going to bring downtheMadison Square Garden. The crowd—no matter its size—is going to love us.” Dwight ends his speech by elbowing me in the stomach. “Right, Trent?”

I’ve never felt so conflicted in all my life. I should be the one screaming from the rooftops about our good fortune. Yet I’m feeling suffocated by all the strangers here to see us perform. Against my will, my mind returns to the cops knocking on the door to tell me Mom was killed in the mall shooting. My gut tightens. We haven’t performed live since that awful day.

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