Page 6 of Backstage

“What the hell’s wrong with my face?” Martin asks, pretending to be outraged.

Our guitarist is the vainest one in the band, and he has every right to be with that model face, his acne from puberty giving him a break after high school. Martin, with those big hazel eyes and square jaw, and a tuft of dark curls around his face, could model for a famous brand. Me, Luke, and Taylor, on the other hand, are definitely more anonymous. Luke has sweet, almost angelic features with big blue eyes and blond hair; Taylor has the face of a classic nerd, even if he does hide two striking green irises behind his thick-framed glasses. Me, on the other hand, I’m just your average chick: long brown hair, green eyes, and a long, slender neck. No one turns around to look at me when I walk down the street, and I’m okay with that. The only one in our group with a face for the stage and glossy magazines is Martin.

“No, Martin, your face is perfect. It’s Luke who’s being a dick,” I say honestly.

We fall again into a comforting silence, each immersed in our own thoughts and dreams, sipping cheap beer until it is Luke who breaks the silence. “Do you really think our lives could change if we win this contest?”

“I think so. I mean, we’d get publicity, we’d get gigs, not only concerts but also for other types of events. These things throw you into a dimension we can’t even imagine,” is Taylor’s response. I look at him, surprised: I didn’t know he had ever taken this lifestyle seriously.

“Can you imagine what we could do with all the money the Jailbirds have?” Martin’s dreamy question follows.

“I’d buy an apartment for my parents, so we wouldn’t have to live in that dump with the drafty windows and heating that goes out when it’s cold.”

Luke’s words hit me like a moving train and make me feel even more guilty for hoping to lose the contest. That’s what we all aspire to in the end, not so much the women and guys we could have, the good life, the cars, and the parties, but to give a decent roof to the families who raised us and supported us when we decided to become musicians. We never lacked anything. They never pressured us to get a real job. We’re not on the verge of poverty, but an extra wage at home would be good for all four families.

“So let’s win this contest, shall we?” The words come from my lips with a mixture of fear and hope. Two opposing and conflicting feelings that tear at my chest and make my heart jump at the thought of what might happen.

*

“Where are you going at this hour? It’s ten o’clock! Do you want to go out again?” my father whispers from the couch, trying not to wake my mother, who fell asleep, like every night, after the first five minutes of TV, with her head resting on my old man’s shoulder.

“I’m going for a run to clear my head. I’ll be back soon, I promise,” I lie.

If we win, I have to find the strength to withstand the media pressure and to do so, I can’t give any reason to those who want to criticize me, physical appearance included.

“You didn’t eat much at dinner. I don’t have to start checking on you again, do I?” he asks me with apprehension crossing his face.

I feel guilty seeing him like this. They both aged suddenly ten years when I started to show the first consequences of the Incident; it’s clear that my father is terrified that I might fall back into that dark tunnel.

“No, it’s just that I ate a lot of crap with Luke and the others in the rehearsal room. I wasn’t hungry when I got back.” The truth is, one cappuccino and three beers is a total of 737 calories, and if I’m not careful, I risk losing the balance I’ve managed to create with years of patience and the help of a good therapist.

“Okay, but don’t be late.” He smiles at me, never taking his eyes off my face as I smile back and leave the house in my heavy sweatshirt and sneakers.

If I have to get back earlier, I’ll have to run faster to cover the same route I do every day or I’ll never be able to keep up with the schedule that keeps my weight under control.

When Evan threatened to make us watch every single video for the contest, he wasn’t kidding. Not the thousands of uploads filtered by some interns the record company recruited, but the hundred which made it through the selection process.

We listened to all of them, three times each, and chose ten to put on the site. The fans’ reaction was very positive, actually. Now, we’re still sitting in this damn office with a monitor in front of us and headphones in our ears to decide which three to bring into the studio and play live—a nightmare that has lasted for days and seems to have no end.

“If I hear the song one more time, my ears will bleed,” Simon says, leaning back in his chair and faking a spasm, or at least I hope he’s faking it.

We laugh desperately because we’re all feeling the same way. I used to love this song, now I wish I’d never written it. It’s the worst feeling a musician can have.

“Well, get ready with the bandages because we’re gonna be here all night if we have to. They want to make the announcement about the top three winners tomorrow morning, and won’t tolerate any delays,” replies Evan, annoyed, who has also been forced into this torture for hours.

While we deal with the music part, he has to figure out if the bands are a “commercial product” that could bring revenue to the label. However, our manager is a magician in this respect, the best in the industry. He’s a few years older than us; he was still a kid when he discovered us in one of New York’s infamous clubs when we were just over 18. We were his first real assignment, the first band to sign under his name as management. We grew up together, and I’ll never stop thanking him for the trust he put in us when we were nobodies.

“This one, no, too much like what we do. They have good skills, but they don’t seem to put much of their own into it. Since we’ve got nine more, I’d say we start skimming.”

We all agree with Simon, and well before we expected, we’re selecting the three finalist bands.

“So? Now, what’s going to happen?” I ask, exhausted while sipping a fresh cup of hot coffee.

“Tomorrow, we’ll make the announcement on the website and contact the bands to let them know. By the weekend, we’ll have all three of them in the studio. We’ll have them play ‘Jude’ and one of their own songs,” Evan explains.

“So, we don’t have plans until the weekend?” I say, amazed.

“Yeah, Damian, you can go fuck someone until your dick falls off,” he says, making everyone laugh. I’m laughing, too, and I’m letting him believe it.

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