Page 39 of Disharmony

Claudia rolls down the window. “Have fun.”

“Thanks, Claudie,” Cookie says, and we all wave as her truck pulls away.

* * *

The Relic is a small-town dive bar venue. A line of people are waiting around the block to get inside. Cookie resembles a crow in a black feather dress, while Leila and the twins have opted for jeans and shirts. Not that your choice of clothes matters when you’re going to head bang in a mosh pit.

“No way.” I gasp and point at a parked black bus with unmistakable red flames emblazoning its sides. “It’s Buggy!”

“Buggy?” Conor raises an eyebrow, less than impressed. “What kind of name is that?”

“A good one,” I reply defensively.

He holds up his hands, realizing this isn’t a topic he should be arguing about. No one knows why the Basilisks named their tour bus Buggy, but it goes with them wherever they go. The giant beast takes up more than half the road. If I didn’t want to come off like a total fangirl, I’d totally take a picture next to it.

“This is not what I expected for a girls’ night out,” Leila says as we join the back of the line. It’s far from her usual scene as a house DJ, but she’s open-minded enough. “But anything is better than listening to Tiffany and the Lockets perform. I can’t wait to get outta that place.”

Cookie shifts her weight from one foot to the other and asks, “You’re not thinking of leaving early, are you?”

“I’m weighing my options, but I’m staying on my terms,” Leila says. I stay quiet about the shampoo incident and wonder whether she has any other plans in store. “I’m over the drama.”

“I feel that,” I murmur. “Tiffany’s been unbearable in rehearsals all week.”

My role as a backing singer is no better than being a human mannequin. All I have to do is bob along, hum and occasionally echo the last few words she sings from a song the twins wrote, which is far too good for her.

“The final show isn’t the end of the world,” Cookie reminds me. “Think about how many successful people come out of camp that aren’t featured on the show. Plus, you’ve got your own platform now where you can showcase your work. You don’t even need them.”

“Maybe,” I say out of politeness more than anything else.

What she’s saying is true for producers, songwriters, stage managers, aspiring agents, and DJs, but it’s not the same for vocalists, and social media won’t change that. Exposure to the right audience is everything.

“Let’s forget about Camp Harmony tonight,” Declan says. “Let’s kick back and enjoy the gig. I listened to a few Basilisk tracks on the way over, and I’m buzzed to hear them.”

As we near the front of the line, I panic there won’t be enough tickets left. Thankfully, I have nothing to worry about. If anything, they are under occupancy. Wilderton has a small population and an even smaller slice of it who are into heavy metal. It’s a strange choice of place for the Basilisks to perform, but it makes a good stop-off point if they’re passing through on the way to a bigger city.

Other concert goers in the line gossip about the previous shows they’ve attended. The Basilisks only tour every few years with limited dates, and diehard fans follow them to every show. Not performing often makes each gig more special.

The guy at the door doesn’t bother checking for ID and hands us the same wristbands as everyone else. When we get inside, it’s exactly as I imagined. Peeling posters cover the walls, and the floor is sticky under my feet. I’m at home among the metal heads. Here I don’t have to pretend to be Ashley Cooper, a wannabe popstar. I can be the real me. Just Ash.

A group of hot punk guys approach Leila immediately. Who can blame them? She’s stunning with a mysterious look that draws people in. Cookie, on the other hand, marches straight to the merch stand to quiz the unsuspecting sellers about the best way to make pins. She seems to take crafting seriously.

“Ash.” Leila grabs my arm and pulls me over to the bar to join her new friends. The punk guys order a row of shots for everyone and line them up. I watch like a hawk to make sure they don’t slip anything into them. You can’t be too careful. “Let’s do shots!”

“Sure,” I say as the punks introduce themselves to me. The one with a mohawk has a tattoo of an adorable piglet on his forearm that says friends not food, which instantly connects us, but I struggle to listen as he talks. How can I concentrate when the Basilisks are somewhere in the building?

“Here you go.” Leila passes me a shot, and I down it.

The licorice-tasting substance stings my throat, but I don’t wince.

“Hey, it looks like you started without me.” Cookie comes over to join us. Conor and Declan are both sulking at the end of the bar with a soda. Conor, in particular, looks annoyed to see Leila chatting to a sexy emo guy. “I think I’m going to start making buttons, you know…”

I don’t pay attention as she talks about the future of merch and take another shot. Then another. The liquor is cheap and nasty, but it’s helping to take the edge off my nervous energy.

The venue is busy, but not crowded enough that people are crammed like sardines. We still have enough space to move around. The stage at the front is small, and Ripper’s drum kit takes up most of the floorspace.

My palms sweat with anticipation as I keep checking the stage.

The lights dim, and people edge forward to get a better view as a support act shuffles out from behind the curtain.

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