Page 30 of Charm City Rocks
Caleb shakes his head. “Give me my iPad. You need to see something.”
Chapter16
A few days later, Margot is thinking about fifteen minutes of fame: the Andy Warhol thing from the sixties. The members of Burnt Flowers used to talk about it all the time. Anna and Jenny were convinced that their clocks were rapidly ticking, and after some symbolic quarter of an hour everything would go poof, and they’d be four nobodies again. Anna joked that she’d open a restaurant called the Gunn Show, and Jenny figured her dad could get her a job selling life insurance in Trenton if she somehow managed to hide her tattoos, particularly the one on her collarbone. Nikki thought that was all bullshit, though.
According to the lead singer, they were on their way to becoming icons, the first all-female rock band to go nuclear and, more importantly,staynuclear. U2 with uteruses, an edgier R.E.M. in short skirts, Zeppelin with curves and on less coke. She went on about their staying power—about becoming multigenerational entertainment powerhouses. “That’s how goddamn good we are,” she toldSpinmagazine. “I’m personally here to give fifty years of rock-and-roll misogyny the middle finger. Better get used to it, too. If fucking Jagger can prance around stages in tiny T-shirts athisage, you think I won’t be able to? Just wait.”
Margot didn’t talk to the music media as much as Nikki did, because her attitude was that nobody wanted to hear from the drummer—anydrummer. When she did talk, though, she preferred to talk about the music, because that was what she loved. “My dream was never to be famous,” she toldMojoonce. “The day my dad set my first drum kit up for me, my dream was to be in a band. To make music. Being famous just makes me anxious.”
When the issue ofMojocame out, Anna read that quote aloud to the band. The four of them were eating sushi together in the deep, dark depths of Madison Square Garden before a rehearsal. “Interesting point of view from the only one of us currently married to a movie star,” Anna said. Jenny laughed and said, “Busted,” while Nikki looked down at her little block of raw tuna—suddenly, it seemed, unable to meet Margot’s eyes.
As Margot walks now through her neighborhood, she wonders what Andy Warhol would say about social media. He’d probably talk about reality stars and influencers and artificial fame and about how made-up it all is. Well, artificial or not, Margot is aware of the extremely real fact that people are looking at her more than usual.
Poppy texted earlier that Jimmy Fallon talked about her last night in his monologue, and thatGood Morning Americaplayed “Power Pink” as they went to commercial. Poppy called it the “next stage of viraldom.”
And these are just the things Poppy told her about. Margot doesn’t know that the episode of the Netflix documentary that features Burnt Flowers is the streamer’s third most watched unscripted program. She doesn’t know about the vlogger who’s figured out who Billy Perkins is and is currently telling the world. She hasn’t found out about how Urban Outfitters is selling “Team Margot” T-shirts for $34.99.
Did you watch the video I sent you or what?
Poppy asked her that over text an hour ago.
No, Margot hadn’t. Watching videos of yourself is a slippery slope. Because there are always more of them, like bugs camped out under stones.
“You rock, Margot!” a woman shouts from across the street. She gives Margot devil horns with her fingers. Two guys recognize Margot while she stands waiting for a light to change. They’re holding hands. One of them openly stares, the other apologizes. “Sorry, he loses his shit around famous people. Love that jacket, by the way.”
“Thanks, guys,” she tells them.
Lawson was better at being famous. Mostly because he loved it so much. He made friends with the handful of photographers who lurked outside their apartment. He brought them donuts. Margot would squeeze his hand in a vise of anxious energy as their flashbulbs flashed. “This is part of it, love,” he told her.
Her phone buzzes. Rebecca Yang again. She considers answering but doesn’t. When Rebecca’s name disappears, her daughter’s pops up again with a new text.
Are you ignoring me?
Margot sees the video file again, attached to Poppy’s previous text. She holds her thumb over the image from YouTube. The last video she watched of herself—her MTV meltdown—is still burned onto her brain.
A guy wearing a sweater passes. It’s not a cardigan, but she thinks of Billy anyway. Cardigans don’t work for everyone, but they work for Billy, and she imagines him letting her wear one of his. It’d be too big for her, of course, but it’d be so warm.
“Jesus,” she says to no one. “What’s wrong with you?”
The light turns red again. She’s been standing there spaced out like a drunk tourist through the walk signal, so now she’s stuck for another cycle. There are people to her left and right. Someonewhispers to someone behind her. Four blocks up, one of Lawson’s billboards looms over the street. She knows that it’s there, because she’s been avoiding it for weeks.
The light turns green again, finally. “You know what?” she whispers. “Fuck it.”
—
In New York, a few blocks in any direction can mean a wholesale change of climate. Going this way, it’s windy and cool, so Margot buttons her jean jacket. She looks at her phone and nearly crashes into a sign about street cleaning. Finally, holding her breath, she taps the video.
Her reaction to seeing herself is visceral, like rain down the back of her shirt. She barely hears the audio, but she can see by her drumming that it’s the last few seconds of the Prince cover. Only Emma and Margot are visible. Emma is facing Margot, singing and playing, while Margot drums. Emma jumps, strums one last time, and Margot lets the cymbals crash and reverberate to silence while people cheer.
Whoever took the video follows Margot with their phone, zooms in on her as she walks offstage. There’s Billy in his cardigan.
It’s funny how dumb our memories are. She’s been thinking about him a lot, but she’d forgotten exactly what he looks like. She remembered his sweater being black, but it’s more of a gray. He’s taller than she thought. His face is nice—friendly. She watches him as he waits for her to talk to the bartender. It was the moment when Beth offered her free Natty Boh for life. Then, when Billy holds his right palm up for a high five, Margot sees what Poppy was talking about.
“Shit,” she says.
Yes, Margot Hammer is capable of smiling. But the smile she sees on her phone now is so big and bright that it causes her tostop walking. She looks up to get her bearings, which is when she sees the giant billboard of Lawson. Along with not smiling much, Margot doesn’t laugh often either. She has to now, though, because there are currently two men on scaffolding removing her ex-husband. They sway in the breeze, fearless in their helmets and straps, chiseling away at his face.
“Hello, you bastard,” Margot whispers, then she opens FaceTime.
