I close my eyes as my part approaches and start out in a softer whisper than him. “He left the only home he’d ever truly known. She asked: where we headed, he said.” I look over at Stokes as he smiles at me with approval and encouragement in his eyes, and I smile back.
“We’ll figure it out,” he sings louder, like a promise to me, and we both sing with a smile, “Wheels on the red roads, headed West. Leave those ghosts all behind—”
“Hey, hey.” Cline raises his hand and I stop singing before Stokes stops strumming.
“What?” Stokes asks with an edge to his voice I’ve never heard, or can’t remember hearing at least.
“You sound fine together, country vibes notwithstanding.” Cline waves us away, his arm loose and flailing. Is he drunk? “Regular Johnny and June. Nothing like you and Pash, Stokes, but it’s fine. You guys agree?” Cline turns to Lucie, and she nods with a smile. I let my shoulders relax as I turn to Royal who gives a nod and rubs his palms against his jeans, uninterested. “Right, fine. Now we wanna hear Lynda on her own.”
“Sure. I can sing one of my songs?” I ask, pointing to the notebooks on the table.
“Nah, let’s have her sing one of Pascha’s,” Cline says and grabs a forest green notebook from the side table. “Any one of these. A cappella.” He turns to Stokes. “Just to whatever tune she wants in her head. I want to hear her sing those words, ‘cause I’m still not convinced.”
Now I’m the one who needs to convince them? None of them seem grateful for my potential help besides Stokes.
“Okay, just a bit of one of her songs,” Stokes says, picking up the forest green notebook from the table and handing it to me. “But doesn’t she sound great, guys?”
“Can’t tell until she sings our style of music on her own.” Cline takes a sip of his beer as I flip through the pages of one of Pascha’s notebooks.
I just want this over with and as I scan her words, their voices fade away. Smudge marks blur some of the words. She’s left-handed. Five words catch my attention.
Sweet words, dripping with poison.
I tap my palm against my jeans, a slow and methodical rhythm, similar to some of the music on their latest album and close my eyes.
What does this one feel like? my dad would ask.
Like sugar-coated truth—stripped of pleasantries. I open my eyes to explore Pascha’s truth on the page.
“Sweet words, dripping with poison.
Soft whispers, piercing through my ears.
Light touch, dark aching pain. Smell of blood, sweat, and fear.
Take, take, ‘til there’s nothing left but a memory,
I won’t spend, another breath, or my energy,
Find me,
in a ball on the floor,
can’t take anymore,
Take, take, ‘til I’m gone.”
I peer up over the notebook, scanning from Lucie’s blinking stare, Royal’s raised brows, Stokes’s proud smile, and Cline’s closed eyes opening to focus on mine.
“That was great.” Stokes claps his warm hand on my shoulder, shaking me from my gaze with Cline as he grabs his beer bottle, taking another swig.
“Really good,” Lucie says. “Different than how Pash does it, you’re softer, but good!”
Royal shrugs. “She’s got my vote. We done here?”
“Yeah, whatever, she’s in.” Cline stands and gulps down the rest of his beer.
“Three shows. You’re sure you’re in?” Stokes asks me as Cline stalks by and ducks down by the mini-fridge again.
“Yeah,” I say. “Under one condition.”
There’s only one thing that’ll make singing with this group worth it.
Cline closes the door to the fridge empty-handed and stands, scowling at me. They all stare, waiting.
“I get to sing one of my own songs.” No one reacts, and I turn to Stokes. “At least one.”
He presses his lips together as Cline shakes his head, his shaggy dark hair falling over his forehead. “No new songs. Jamie booked us based on our current set list.”
“Yeah, well, we’re going to have to make a few adjustments without Pash anyway,” Stokes tells him. “Listen, we’re lucky to have Lyn. Let’s just let her do her song.” I can’t tell if his flippant tone is condescending toward my music or an effort to minimize the consideration needed to make the decision for Cline.
Cline scoffs and turns to Lucie and Royal, but neither moves. “You guys are fine with this?” He points to Lucie. “You wouldn’t even read her shit.”
“Hey!” Stokes shouts as Cline’s words snap at me like a rubber band.
My dad’s words, always percolating below the surface, bubble to a simmer, stirring his voice within me, whispering, Lynda Loo, my baby boo, you’re just not cut out for this.
“I was getting to it,” she hisses and steals an awkward glance over at me before staring at the floor. “I’m cool with her singing her own song if she wants.”
“What do you want us to do, man?” Royal asks, grabbing his sticks. “She left us hanging.”
Cline shakes his head and closes his eyes. “She could still be back.”
“You joking?” Royal huffs, leaning his fists on his thighs.
“And it’s my fucking fault, right? Fine,” Cline shouts at them. “Let her sing whatever song she wants. How about your wheels song you two just did there? Got anything like that? Maybe you could do a rendition of ‘The Wheels on the Bus!’ This’ll be great.” He passes me, raising his brows and opening his eyes wide before opening the door, shaking his head again. “I’m going to the house to get more beer. If she has any other demands, it’s a no from me, for whatever that’s worth to you guys now. However much I have to pay for what’s happened, I guess, right?” he slurs and slams the door behind him.
A cool draft of damp night air bites at my skin.
“Don’t take it personally,” Lucie says with a sigh, looking up at me from her perch on the couch. “We’re just going through a hard time right now. They were together since she
