Page 10 of Backstage

Luke looks at me with despair in his eyes, and perhaps a little pain and defeat. “For now, let’s face the biggest problem—not crumbling like you did when you were fifteen,” he tries to suggest.

“No way. I don’t want to undermine the little bit of mental health I’ve managed to regain with Dr. Sue. You need to find yourself another bass player,” I say spitefully.

I hate being so cranky with him. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s helped me my whole life, but I’m trapped, and fear makes me say things I don’t want to.

“You can’t spend the rest of your life hiding because you give that asshole power over you, do you understand that or not? This is the chance you’ve been waiting for! To take the bull by the horns, face your fears, and become the musician you’ve always dreamed of. It’s not just a matter of exposing yourself to people like Brad. Lil, you’re terrified of living!” he cries out almost desperately.

A slight knock on the already open door makes us turn, and Evan, the Jailbirds’ manager, appears. Clearly, he overheard our entire conversation. His face betrays awareness and, perhaps, regret.

“Excuse me for intruding, but your friend is right,” he says directly to me. “This is a chance to solve the problem that’s bothering you, and we are the solution. Come to the office over there, let’s talk about it together and, if we don’t find a solution, you’ll be free not to sign the contract. I have no interest in having you sign a piece of paper that could prove to be a failure both for you and for us, but give me this chance, give me the chance to show you that we can help each other. I don’t mind saying that, hearing you play, I thought I’d just discovered a gold mine. I’ll be honest with you; you’re exactly what every record company is looking for right now. I’d be a fool to let you run without at least trying to find a solution. But you must be convinced enough to try.”

His words hit me like a punch in the gut. I can see in Luke’s eyes all the hope he’s managed to reveal, and all the terror and despair of seeing an opportunity like this fade away. I can’t say I’m not flattered. However, I know perfectly well that right now, he would do anything to convince me. I see no way out: mine is not stage panic. It’s a mental and emotional instability that I’m afraid will lead me into a self-destructive spiral like the one that almost killed me when I was fifteen. I don’t know if this time I’ll have the strength to recover from it.

“I’m a hopeless case,” I whisper, too weakly for my taste. I wish I was stronger.

“There are no hopeless cases, just people who need the right times and the right paths to overcome their fears. Do you really think rock stars were all born to be on stage and the center of attention? Maybe one in a thousand may love that situation, but I can guarantee you that the other nine hundred and ninety-nine had to find a way to overcome all the crap linked to success and fame. Getting on that stage exposes you to the good and the bad, but I can guarantee you that I am here to protect you and make it worth it.” The knowing smile on Evan’s lips is convincing. My guilt about the band doesn’t help.

“Lil?” my friend’s voice is so full of hope that I make a considerable effort to convince myself to go back to that room.

“Okay, let’s talk about it, but I do not promise anything,” I say in a much firmer tone of voice than before.

Luke’s smile loosens the knot I feel in my throat, but Evan’s makes me realize that he too, in his own way, cares about this meeting. Maybe he really saw something in us that’s worth giving a try.

*

We go back to the office, and I go back to my chair, which has been put back on its feet. I take a quick look at the faces in front of me, which are intrigued but not incredibly angry, apart from Damian, the band leader, who has an indecipherable expression. I linger a few seconds more on him, and now I understand why women line up to get into his bed. He’s the classic brooding rock star that every girl wants: handsome and breath-taking with long, dark hair flowing down his back like a mane, brown eyes topped by a pair of eyebrows that seem to challenge you, and a scar over the left one that interrupts an otherwise perfect line to mark his status as a bad guy. The long, thick beard makes him look much older than twenty-five and his dark complexion dotted with tattoos shows evidence of a hard life. And that physique...so statuesque and muscle-tight it almost makes his short-sleeved shirt explode.

I realize that I’m staring at him and my face flushes with shame. I move my gaze just enough to briefly meet that of Thomas, the drummer, who gives me a half a sympathetic smile. The fact that I’ve been caught staring embarrasses me: I’m not one of those fainty little girls with big eyes who fall at men’s feet.

Evan breaks into my thoughts with a question, summing up what he’d heard in the rehearsal room: “If I understand correctly, your problem is with someone who makes life impossible for you, right? Are you afraid people are gonna come after you because of the media exposure you’re gonna get?”

“Well, even Simon shits his pants every time he meets the paparazzi, but he solves it with two fingers of liquor every half hour in the two hours leading up to the press conferences,” Michael laughs. I find myself smiling at his disarming confession.

“Thank you very much, Michael. You’re making me look like an alcoholic,” scolds the bass player. He turns to me. “I swear, it’s just a sip an hour or so before I face the press.”

I notice my bandmates next to me relaxing a little bit with their jokes, and I feel guilty for what I’m about to do. My return to this room must have restored their confidence.

“You guys really don’t get it,” I say by taking the phone out of my pocket and getting the attention of everyone present, including Damian, who, I must admit, intimidates me quite a bit.

“Is that really necessary, Lilly?” Martin asks me in a hesitant voice. He knows where I’m going with this.

“Should I wait until I’m on tour? They’re gonna find out sooner or later anyway.” I’d rather put my cards on the table right now, get my bandmates to change bass players, and let them keep playing. It’s the best solution for everyone.

I look for Brad’s account on Instagram and turn my phone to the others, scrolling through the pictures of me when I was fifteen. “These are from a junior high school field trip.”

“You’re not there,” says Simon with a wrinkled forehead and a puzzled look.

I burst out laughing, leaving them all a little lost. “Oh no, I’m here. See the fat girl in the bad clothes? Yes, that’s me.”

I look for another picture in his account. “These were taken during mandatory swimming hours before I jump in the water,” I explain as the five faces in front of me look at me with the same pity I see in everyone who realizes how I used to be. “Here, let me read one: ‘When you go to school and fear for your life. #bomb #huge #tsunami #flood.’ Want me to read you some more cute captions? Because there are some really interesting hashtags describing my size. It might be instructive to learn how many ways you can say fatty without saying that word.”

My heart is pounding furiously in my chest when I see myself again in a bathing suit. They wanted me to face the problem? Well, I’m doing it, proving to them that it can’t be solved in any way except by removing me from the equation.

“And these started showing up when he saw the first skim of the hundred bands you chose. What do you think will happen when I get on that stage?” I ask with tears threatening to flow. Not tears of sadness, but of anger because my life sucks and I will never be normal. Or rather, I can only be a normal person because if I try to do something special, there will always be someone ready to knock me down and trample me.

“So, this asshole posts embarrassing pictures to thousands of his followers every time she does something noteworthy?” Michael asked Luke.

Luke is just nodding in his chair.

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