Dylan pushed past me and strolled toward the dressing room. He shoved his hands into his pockets. A few seconds later whistling rode the air toward me. I knew the tune instantly, Hank Walker’s hit “Perfect Son”, a song about trying to be everything your parents want you to be and failing.
It wasn’t on the set list, but it was one I knew well. It was Dad’s favorite, and by default, one of mine too.
Daddy’s belt left marks,
But those faded.
Daddy’s words left scars
That deepened.
Perfect son, perfect boy,
Never explain
Never complain.
Just be the perfect son.
There was no such thing, as Hank sang. But maybe Dylan didn’t know that. Maybe Dylan wasn’t given the option to be flawed. Maybe it was none of my business.
I followed him to the dressing room, not sure if I should say anything else and knowing I wanted to talk to him again. I opted to keep my distance. It wasn’t my place to be his friend. I was just here to sing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rehearsals were brutal. Mr. Walker snapped at every little detail from our shoes (apparently flip-flops weren’t appropriate for the stage) to our clothes (neither were shorts). Pamela gave me a dress code for the rest of the rehearsals. It was ridiculous and had nothing to do with my voice.
They ran longer than planned too. But that didn’t really surprise me. We had a week before our first show and it felt like we needed a month. I didn’t have time for anything other than school. Sleep didn’t matter either.
Friday drew near and we were no closer to being a cohesive band than before we meet. Crystal, she totally preferred that over Ruth, and I didn’t seem to have issues at least. Our vocals were spot on and we harmonized well together. The last night of rehearsals was the worst. We hadn’t even gone through the entire set list once yet and he still screamed that everything was wrong.
“Jesus, Dad, chill out,” Dylan said leaning back against an amplifier. He may have looked cool and composed, but there was tension in his neck and jaw. “Or do you plan on stopping during the show to tell Mike he’s straddling his bass wrong? Or Heath that he can’t throw a drumstick during a solo?”
“My reputation’s on the line not yours,” Hank snapped. His voice echoed through the empty theater. The veins popped in his neck. “You’ve already ruined yours.”
Dylan snorted and glanced away. If Hank’s words hurt, he wasn’t about to let his father know. “Whatever, Dad. We need to go through the entire set tonight. Record it. Text us how we failed tomorrow before the show. Tomorrow can’t be our first run through in front of a sold out crowd.”
Hank’s face tightened and I expected him to blow.
“He’s right, Mr. Walker,” Pamela said, still not letting anyone else know she’s Hank’s niece. She was determined to be professional and get by on her own. “We need to do the run through. The video cameras are ready, but we can’t stop.”
“Fine,” he said, pointing at Pamela. “Go record this ramshackle performance.” He turned toward me. “Hit your damn notes.”
My eyes widened. I was hitting my notes and my marks. Of course, the dancing was just swaying in time with the music. It was all rather boring, but the feel of the stage and the sounds of each note filled me like nothing ever had before. My gaze found Dylan’s and he just shrugged. We hadn’t so much as exchanged glances since our conversation earlier in the week.
“You were a little sharp,” Crystal said loud enough for Hank to hear. He smirked and my face burned. Damned if I was sharp. She was flat and I opened my mouth to tell her just that when she added, “Maybe soften your tone a bit so you stop trying to overpower me.”
“Yeah, do that,” Hank added.
“Oh bullshit,” Dylan said, still leaning against the amp with his arms crossed over his chest. His Gibsen hung nonchalantly off his hip. It was solid black with chips along the edges as if he’d tried to smash it but had failed. “Cameron’s hitting her notes and not trying to overpower you, Crystal. If anything, it’s the opposite. Stop trying to drown her out. Now can we just go through the damn set.”
Hank shook his head. Whether he wanted to argue with Dylan or not, I couldn’t tell. I shot my would-be savior a small smile, but he wasn’t looking at me. His focus was solely for his father, waiting for the battle he knew was inevitable. My chest deflated. Dylan hadn’t stood up for me so much as he stood against his father. I was just a pawn to make his point, to prove he was right and his father was wrong.
“Hit record, Pamela,” Hank said into the microphone with his back to the rest of us.
The lights dimmed and it felt so real suddenly. Dylan opened the set with a slow guitar riff. I’d heard it before, but never with the lights down, never with the show about to begin. The lights slowly turned up, spotlighting Dylan then Mike, Heath, us, and finally narrowing to show Hank in center stage. The band launched into a raunchy song called “Third Wheel” and I lost myself in the moment. Crystal and I harmonized and didn’t overpower each other. The band never missed a beat or a note or a mark. It was flawless.
Except for Hank Walker.
Halfway through the encore, his voice cracked and disappeared for a bar. We played on, acting as if nothing had happened. But it had and everyone in the theater had heard it.
Hank Walker lost his voice.
CHAPTER SIX
Finally Friday. Only one more week of my high school career and technically not a full week. Two and a half days then graduation. It was also day of our opening show. We
