• • •
Miami. The club is a lot smaller than we expected (No way does this hold five hundred people, unless they’re all wearing mandatory corsets.), but it’s still bigger than the Lane. It’s probably better that the venue is small. Less empty space if we don’t pack ’em in.
Our opening act consists of three high school freshmen who pretend to be playing instruments but are actually strumming along to background tracks they’re playing through their phone. They’re singing for real though. We know this because if the vocals were recorded, they definitely would have done another take.
“At least we won’t have any trouble competing with that,” I say to Mel and Clarissa as we watch offstage.
“We’re not trying to compete,” says Clarissa. “We’re trying to be the best Fanged Grapefruit we can be.”
I knew that.
As the opening act announces that they’re on their last song, Blake asks if he can talk to me for a minute. We walk to a private corner.
“You’re not going to mess this up for me, right?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
“You made me look bad the past two shows. I put my neck out for you, Rod. These venues expect one hundred percent commitment, and the last two places only got two-thirds of that.”
“Are you questioning my commitment?”
“No, but Mel and Clarissa are.”
“They may be questioning my ability to handle stress, but they’re not questioning my commitment. Nobody is more committed to Fanged Grapefruit than me. Nobody.”
“All right, all right. But you do realize that you weren’t awesome Friday or Saturday night, correct?”
“It’s already been discussed. We don’t need to revisit it.”
“I understand. But again, these gigs weren’t easy to set up. I promised a certain quality of product, and I need you to deliver.”
I clench my fists. “And I’m sure it’s a coincidence that you’re bringing it up now, minutes before we go onstage?”
“When else would I bring it up?”
“Anytime in the past twenty-four hours would’ve been better. I know what you’re doing, Blake. You’re trying to make me choke.”
“Why would I want that?”
“Because you’re trying to ruin my life.”
Blake laughs. “If I wanted to ruin your life, I wouldn’t set up amazing gigs for your band.”
“I disagree.”
“Seems like a lot of work. There have to be easier ways to ruin somebody’s life.”
“Don’t talk to me anymore.”
“Okay, Rod, I can see that I’ve upset you, and that wasn’t my intention. You’ll be great tonight. You won’t play any wrong notes, and you won’t accidentally switch around any lyrics. And your stage presence will be better than a robot. I have faith in you, cousin. You’ll totally redeem yourself.”
“This isn’t going to work,” I tell him. “It’s obvious what you’re trying to do, so your negativity can’t have any impact.”
“Good. I’m glad it can’t have any impact. Because the last thing I want is for you to go out onto that stage and do poorly. I’d never want to see a situation where Clarissa and Mel have to question your future with the band.”
“You’re still trying to sabotage me, and you’re still being obvious about it.”
“All I’m saying is that sometimes we squander the opportunities we’ve been given, and it haunts us for the remainder of our days. Clarissa and Mel don’t need it, but good luck to you.”
Fanged Grapefruit takes the stage. The lights seem brighter. They kind of hurt my eyes, but I don’t stop the show to whine about it.
“Thanks for coming out tonight! We’re Fanged Grapefruit! Are you ready to rock?”
The audience cheers.
Oh, by the way, it was Mel who said that, not me. Yeah, I know. I’m not happy about it either. He offered again, so I accepted through gritted teeth.
I’m ashamed to admit that I secretly hope he’ll mess it up (“Are you ready to tap dance?”) so that the fingers of blame won’t all point at me if the show goes badly. But he does fine. If I was in the audience and I heard his yes/no question, I’d answer yes.
Blake’s mind games worked on me the first time, and they worked on me the second time too. But they are not going to work on me a third time! I know what he’s doing. I’m immune.
Good luck to you.
See? That sentence, even in italics, doesn’t stress me out anymore. His attempt to psyche me out is laughable. Totally laughable. I’d laugh out loud about it right there onstage, but, no, that’s something a crazy person would do.
Good luck to you.
Yes, his words are playing through my mind on an endless loop, but that doesn’t mean they’re having an effect.
He threw me off because I was sure that he had plans to sabotage the show. Now that I know he doesn’t, I can ignore him and focus on…
What if he didn’t sabotage the first two shows so that I wouldn’t be prepared for the third? What if tonight’s the night he releases the rats?
There was no room in my car for a box of rats.
What if he had the box of rats delivered directly to the venue?
What if his sabotage isn’t related to rats?
He could do anything.
Anything.
No, he’s not going to disrupt the show. He played his silly little mind games before I stepped out into the way-too-bright lights that are hurting my eyes and making me a little dizzy, but that’s as far as he’ll take it.
I glance up at the ceiling. There are no buckets up there that might contain foul substances for him to drop upon the band or the audience during the show.
Am I succumbing to paranoia? Has Blake won yet another round?
What if I pretend to pass out? They can’t hold it against me if I collapse. They’d be heartless monsters if they got mad at me for losing consciousness onstage.
No, I probably shouldn’t do that. I should make sure this is the best show of all time.
I realize that Mel and Clarissa are staring at me. Oh, yeah, I’m supposed to be singing and playing now. My bad.
You
