Page 1 of Beneath Cherry Blossom Memories

Phoenix

Isolated

Johnny Depp once said in an interview that he prefers to keep his hair long because he can hide behind it. I can’t remember the details, but he'd said he would feel vulnerable in public—that having longer hair made him able to deal with people or something similar. It’s been a while since I’ve seen the video, but his words stuck with me.

I’ve always felt like people stare at me, even before I gave them a reason to. When I was in elementary school, the other kids used to call me Ghost. One time, this girl—Sammy, I think her name was—told me that I looked dead and that my eyes were creepy. My mom and dad thought it was weird that I’d always walk around with my hair over them. And, of course, in high school, I went through the emo hair phase because it covered my entire face if I wanted.

Dad hated it.

He hates most of the shit I do. The point is I always find a way to hide. Whether it's behind my hair, tattoos, resting bitch face, or whatever else I can use to my advantage. I don’t like being the center of attention. I don’t like taking pictures or catching my reflection in mirrors in department stores.So it’s shocking to me that I even agreed to do this.

I keep locking and unlocking my fingers together. My shield, aka my hair, is brushed back in a ponytail to keep my face on full display for the camera. Hunching over as far as possible while trying to appear casual isn’t easy, so I slip the familiar expression on my face to disguise how fucking uncomfortable I am right now. Beside me, Jorge leans back on the leather couch, spreading his legs and mentally stripping our interviewer. And on the other side are Michael and Devon. Kelly—our keyboardist—is sick as a dog, so she isn’t here.

I’ve never wanted the stomach flu so badly before.

“Are we good to start?” I forgot the interviewer’s name already. Not that I’m going to ask.

Glancing at Devon, I take in his giant green mohawk that looks sharp enough to impale something. Might not be strong enough to hold my body weight, though. He knows me pretty well, so he sighs when he sees me eyeing the long spikes.

“We’re ready,” Michael says.

That’s the thing about being a musician of any capacity. If you get the chance to talk about your music or band, you take it. Discomfort be damned, you suck it up and do it. We’ve done a few podcasts before, which was nice for me because I wasn’t recorded. All I had to do was be physically present and murmur an answer every so often. I’m the drummer—no one wants to talk to the drummer.

I swallow hard when the camera's red light kicks on, signaling that she’s recording us.

It brings back a slew of shit I don’t want to be thinking of right now, so I sink further into the couch, the leather creaking loudly under my jean-clad ass. Jorge is our frontman, and he’s the kind of guy that wakes up and shits rainbows. Sometimes, I wonder how the hell I ended up in a band with him, but then I remember he’s been my friend since I was seven. We grew up as neighbors, and his grandma used to force-feed me rice, beans, and menudo year-round because she said I was too skinny.

I’m thirty and still skinny. I hate to think what she’d say if she could see me now. Rosie was an awesome lady.

Shit.

The interviewer is already talking.

“---so your new album comes out on the 17th,” the interviewer starts. All I want is to dip the fuck out, go home and cuddle with Helios—my cat.

“Yeah. We’re really proud of it. Some of our best songs yet,” Jorge says enthusiastically and smiles widely.

Am I sweating?

I chew my cheek while she goes on. “Harrowed Avenger is the title of the twelve-track album,” she tells the camera and then twists back to face us, “with the release just days away and your tour starting next month, I suspect you’ll have your hands full.”

“We always do,” Michael teases, a lighthearted laugh bubbling free. “Always doing something.”

“And Jorge is always throwing new ideas at us. Squirrel brain.” Devon loves calling him that.

Shrugging, Jorge leans forward and, with absolutely zero humility, says, “I’m the idea guy. These assholes are the ones who make them come to life.” He slings his arm around my shoulder, and I tense.

The interviewer lady pans her attention on me. “Now that all the media has calmed down, the tour should be smooth sailing.”

Her passive dig at the shit that happened last year grates me like a raw nerve exposed to a rough surface. I knew it was a possibility that she’d bring it up. This is a huge reason why I didn’t want to do this interview in the first place. For someone who doesn’t like any sort of light being shined on them, I sure managed to get my face front and center all over the damned internet. My cheeks heat faster than I can help, and I nod slowly, with nothing to hide them. I don’t want to be here.

“It will be because everyone knows that Phoenix had no part in any of it. Wasn't his fault.” I did, and it kind of was, but I appreciate Jorge sticking up for me.

The interviewer nods curtly and shifts subjects. Thank fuck.

She gets the guys talking about our song calledIsolated. It’s the biggest hit we’ve ever had and our most popular on social media. I don’t bother mentioning I wrote it. That’s irrelevant because we are a collective whole. Yeah, the lyrics ‘n shit are important to me, but it wouldn’t be what it is without all of their input and tweaks. It shifts into how we came up with the name of our band, Dreadful. That makes Jorge go into the story about the first time his grandma heard us jamming in my garage and said it soundeddreadful. She’d said it in Spanish.Espantoso.We laughed so hard. The name just stuck.

“But that’s not the literal translation. Frightening is what it means. That didn’t sound as cool,” Jorge explains with a little shrug.

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