Page 63 of Disharmony

“I don’t know what you did to annoy her, but we all know she only made out with him to annoy you,” I point out. “I know it’s no excuse, but Conor was high as fuck. He didn’t really know what he was doing.”

“He can do what he wants. It’s not like we’re together.” Leila shrugs and plays with the rings on her finger as we stop to claim our space near the stage. Her words say one thing, but the look on her face tells another story. “Have either of you heard from the twins? Are they coming tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Cookie replies. “They’ve been acting weird since the party. If they come, maybe everyone can make up?”

“I don’t know about that,” Leila mutters as McCallister strolls onto the stage to kick off the night.

His tropical patterned shirt almost blinds me. He thinks it makes him look younger, but it only shows how out of touch he is.

“Welcome to Camp Harmony’s first official open-mic of the summer,” McCallister says. “I’m sure you have heard the news that the Lionhearts will be performing tonight and opening our show.”

Campers crane their necks to see whether they can catch a glimpse of the Lionhearts. Cookie has explained to me before how there’s a private room to the left of the stage behind the curtain where special guests and staff eat. God forbid they slum it with the campers.

McCallister’s lip curls in disapproval as he waits for the applause to die down.

“Open-mic nights are part of Camp Harmony tradition,” he continues. “This stage has hosted the biggest artists of this century. Many start out here. Enjoy your evening and remember, I’ll be watching.”

It’s nerve-racking enough to perform in front of the world’s most musically talented young people without having his judgmental ass assessing your every move.

McCallister leaves the stage and takes a seat at a table alone, reserved just for him. Deafening clapping and squealing erupts as the Lionhearts emerge from behind the curtain to take the stage.

Zach wears a white T-shirt and jeans, a predictable casual and clean-cut style. His red hair is swept to the side, and he waves at the crowd, playfully gesturing for everyone to quiet down. The cheering only gets louder, and his grin widens. He knows how to make a crowd eat out of the palm of his hand.

Damon looks every inch of the bad boy image in a leather jacket and sunglasses. Rumors have been flying since his public break-up with Alexa Frost, and covering his eyes only attracts more speculation. Damon props his sunglasses on his head to show his eyes aren’t bloodshot from lack of sleep. He winks at someone in the front row and picks up his electric guitar. Alexa is better off without a cheating jerk like him.

Levi drags a stool across the stage to take a seat like an awkward spare part, using his guitar as a shield. His baggy flannel shirt is too big, and his sandy hair looks longer than usual; the length Dad would say needed a haircut.

Zach taps the microphone twice. I want to clap my hands over my ears to drown out the piercing screams—it’s not like he’s tapping on their clits. I’m used to heavy metal growls, not high-pitched chicks obliterating my ear drums.

“Thanks everyone,” Zach says, “we’re only going to sing one song tonight because we want to hear you guys.”

A collective sigh of disappointment follows, but it gives me instant relief to know I only have to endure a few minutes with them. I frown as McCallister joins them, dragging two stools across the stage. His sweaty brow signals his annoyance at having to act like a stagehand, but it’s good to see him doing real work for a change.

Zach takes a seat, as does Damon, who picks up his guitar. I’ve watched videos of them headlining festivals and performing in packed stadiums in the largest venues on earth. Zach is the lead singer, but the others sing too. Damon gets more solo verses than Levi, and I’m not sure whether that’s a reflection on ability or because Levi is more comfortable behind a guitar. They all must be instrumentally gifted to have gotten accepted into Camp Harmony, but they usually dance over a pre-recorded track in their performances. Seeing them sitting down is unusual.

“We’re going to be singing something new tonight,” Zach says. “Something that may not make it onto our next album. It’s different, but we hope you like it.”

Silence descends over the mess hall. Instead of being supported by autotune and fluffy remixes, Levi and Damon play their guitars, creating an intimate multi-layered effect. It’s raw and feels strangely vulnerable. They play effortlessly as their fingers gracefully sweep and pluck the strings with comfortable ease.

Shit, I know those chords.

My heart beats faster. It’s the song Levi and I worked on together. When Zach opens his mouth to sing, I momentarily forget which band I’m watching. His voice is liquid gold, smooth with a suppressed, gravelly edge, which doesn’t come through in their recorded material. He grips the microphone, breathing life from his voice into the room.

He’s good… really good. It also sounds oddly familiar. Damn, I really need to stop listening to their old albums for research purposes. Zach builds to the chorus and Damon harmonizes. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as both guitars stop, and Zach sings my words back to me:

“Her eyes hold secrets that she’s keeping,

But I want to take her home…”

Levi’s magnetic green eyes meet mine. We share a look of understanding as he and Damon join Zach to repeat the sentence again. This time, Levi’s voice overpowers Zach’s and it’s mesmerizing to watch. If they can make this kind of music, why isn’t this what they’re famous for?

Levi looks away from me as Zach moves onto the second verse. Are they performing the new song because of my advice about trying something new, or is it a coincidence?

When the song ends, the Lionhearts file off the stage. I swallow down a lump in my throat. What the hell is wrong with me?

Cookie turns to me and Leila. “What did you think?”

“It’s not their usual material,” Leila observes before I have a chance to say anything. “They should stick to what they’re good at.”

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