June 2006

Overcast Summer was an opportunity. We weren't getting paid; we weren't near the main stage; we were up so early that people surely wrote us off as shit ... but it was an opportunity. That's what I kept telling myself, anyway.

"Are you even listening to me?" my older sister, Alejandra, whined in Spanish. She'd been whining like that all morning, and I could only stand to hear her for so long.

"I'm trying not to," I admitted with a laugh.

She whacked my arm with her slipper. "Listen to me, dummy!"

I dropped the clothes I was attempting to pack on top of my bag and stared down at her hard. Alejandra was filled with a lot of rage for someone so damn small. The massive, curly black hair that reached her hips didn't help any—she looked like a whole child, still too small for her own head. Her honey brown eyes narrowed into slits as we exchanged glares, a pastime of ours for as long as I could remember. We did most of our communicating through glares, and I could always tell just what she meant from her posture, the glint in her eyes, and the direction of her sneer. That day, she was fed up with me, and she couldn't wait for me to get the hell out.

"Pa wants you to call him while you're out on tour," she continued, still glaring.

"Why didn't he tell me that, then?"

"Because he was already talking to me," she spat venomously, whacking me again with her slipper. "Don't get mad at him for being worried about you. You give him reason to!"

Guilt flared like a hot fire in my chest at her words, and I begrudgingly returned to packing without a response. That didn't stop her barrage, though. She never stopped once she'd started.

"How many times does Pa need to tell you to stay out of trouble before you listen to him?" she continued. "This tour is a bad idea, that's all I'm saying. You're going to be around junkies, Rigo."

"I'm used to junkies. I'm not worried about them."

"You're used to them for the wrong reasons."

I stopped packing and met her gaze with a more serious glare now, the kind that said "you're pushing your fucking luck." Her own stare softened as she slipped into her Mom role again, rubbing my shoulder gently as I swallowed down my anger. Truthfully, I worried a little about how I'd fare without her there to keep my head on straight. I'd never been one to turn down a good time.

Alejandra continued softly. "Just promise me that if someone offers you any—"

"I won't take it. Only marijuana." At least I hoped.

Her shoulders rose and fell with an exaggerated breath. "I made some food for you guys. I'll grab it."

She glided out of my bedroom as I returned to packing, shoving my clothes in haphazardly because my focus had been sapped already. I couldn't afford the feelings that came along with every reminder of my slip-up, but they'd already started flowing.

I swore it was just a way to get cash, and next thing I knew, I was higher than my best customer. Worst of all, I dragged my little brother Joaquín into it. My dad and sister were devastated. Everyone else expected much worse. I guess I earned that.

With one final sigh as I stuffed the last of my clothes in and zipped it up, I slung the bag over my shoulder and hurried out to the living room to say goodbye. The guys were already waiting in the van, and we had a three-day trek ahead of us to get to our first stop in bumfuck, Iowa. But I couldn't rush off without seeing my mom.

"There's enough rice to last you the whole three days as long as you're not pigs about it," Alejandra called from the kitchen. "Tortillas too."

She came around to the living room with two big lunchboxes filled to max capacity as I dropped to my knees before the ofrenda. It was situated in the corner of the living room, standing year-round for our mother, whom we lost sixteen years before. I was so young when she died—three years old—and yet the pain of losing her stung just the same every day.

Her smile was soft in that black and white photo, her eyes relaxed. Beside her stood Alejandra, nine years old and with the goofiest smile. In her arms was a two-month-old Joaquín, and on her right knee sat me, three years old. There was a light in my eyes back then. Happiness. I didn't know the hell I was in for yet. All I knew was love.

"She'll take care of you," Alejandra whispered behind me.

I blinked away the tears that welled up as I gazed at our last family photo. "I know."

🎵🎸🎵

Overcast Summer ... An opportunity ... Those words buzzed around my skull for three days straight as I drove, refusing to let me feel as pessimistic as I was about this. We were just four Mexican kids from San Diego who started a band for the hell of it and managed to win a battle of the bands gig while we were high off our asses. It was pure luck, and yet with every mile we put behind us, my mantra made it feel more and more like fate.

We belonged there, and big things were going to happen. I knew it.

"What the fuck are you smiling about?" Diego sneered from the passenger seat.

His foot tapped the dashboard distractingly as he reclined over his cousin Jaime's lap—which Jaime never had the balls to say anything about unless I got him fired up first—and he looked at me so hard I could feel it. I shot him a quick glance, and his deep brown eyes were narrowed over that giant Aztec nose he had. He ordinarily kept his black hair slicked back and his face clean-shaven, but the days in the van had beard hairs prickling through his light brown skin and his hair greasier than normal. I turned back to the road with an exaggerated shudder.

"Nothing now," I scoffed, returning my eyes to the road.

"Good. You should be as miserable as me without my damn weed."

"No mames."

I woke up late that morning, but we still had time to make it to the venue. That wasn't what had Diego's panties in a bunch, no—he'd just realized we probably wouldn't have time for a pre-soundcheck blunt. He was high-strung as all hell without it, even worse than me, and that fifteen minutes we lost meant the end of the world to him. To top it off, he was too scared to smoke in the van, so that meant glares. Lots and lots of glares.

"We'll make it," Mateo called out reassuringly from behind me. "There's always time for a blunt, trust me."

Mateo was talking out of his ass as always, but he was right. We managed it. We made it to the venue just in time, rolling by the screaming queue of fans who were all there for Unsent Souls and didn't even know who we were. Just the thought of those undeserving fucks killed every last ounce of my good mood. We didn't stand a chance on a tour they were headlining.

The summer before, they were nobodies like us. Then they got signed to a major label and everything changed. They got on the radio, TV, magazines, and even the front of a fucking cereal box. "Rock-O's?" Seriously?

All that, and they weren't even good. They were overproduced and mainstream. You couldn't even pay me to listen to the garbage they put out. Not that I had a fucking choice—that summer I'd be listening to them every god damn night and not getting paid a cent for it unless we managed to sell something at our merch tent.

Fuck this, actually. I wanna go home.

But I couldn't, because that merch tent money was better than nothing and fuck, did we need the exposure. So I bit my tongue as we unloaded our gear and marched toward the main stage—their stage—because our stage pieces arrived late and wouldn't be ready for soundcheck. I didn't know what they looked like, really, but I kept my eyes peeled for any particularly stuck-up-looking gringos.

People bumped into me left and right, and after the fifth person, I was getting downright pissed off. I dropped the last pieces of our gear and hurried down the stage left stairs, slamming full-force into yet another person at the bottom. With that one, I was fed up. I turned a glare on the unfortunate idiot who bumped into me.

"Watch where the fuck you're going," I growled as he steadied himself.

He was a lanky-looking kid with a baby face and dirty blonde hair that stuck out under a black beanie he wore despite the eighty-five degree weather. He had on black cargo shorts, a plain red t-shirt, black running sneakers with visible white socks on his ankles, and a black sports watch—definitely not rockstar material. He stared back at me like a deer-in-headlights.

Pinches roadies.

"My bad, sorry," he muttered nervously.

"Chris, you coming?" someone called from the stage behind me.

The idiot looked past me with relief. "Coming!" he called back as he slipped by.

"Mamón," I muttered in irritation as I headed to meet up with my bandmates, standing as far away from others as possible.

I could smell the reason for their distance before I even got to them: Diego finally got his weed. With a smirk, I stuck my hand out expectantly as I approached. Between more hushed complaints, Diego took another drag from his blunt and passed it over.

I inhaled deep and held it for a moment, not caring that it didn't really make a difference and basking in the subtle burn of my lungs. "When is our turn?" I asked, exhaling it all finally.

"Right after this," Mateo answered absently as he typed on his phone. A baseball cap sitting backward on his head held his shoulder-length brown hair out of his face.

I handed the blunt back to Diego and slid my phone out of my pocket as my head began floating and all my stress melted away. There were loads of unanswered texts, and most of them were from women who would call themselves my "girlfriend." I wouldn't have called them that, but I didn't see a reason to destroy the fantasy too soon when we had so much fun.

There was one in particular that sent me lots of pictures—she was the closest thing I would call to a girlfriend. Her name was Daniela, and as soon as her name popped into my head, so did her body. Before I even comprehended it, I was typing out a message to her, asking for a picture.

I stared at my phone, waiting for her response for what felt like an eternity. Time always moved slower after a smoke, and I was practically bouncing with impatience. Finally, she responded with an image. I clicked into it eagerly to see her on her bed, topless, and with one arm draped over her bare chest.

Lower your arm, bb, I typed in spanish.

"You're not gonna watch, dude?" Jaime asked me, ripping me out of the mind bubble I'd created for myself with THC particles.

I rolled my eyes and looked back at the half-naked woman on my phone. "It's a bunch of gringos, what is there to see? I can listen."

"But it's Unsent Souls, güey! They had a number one on the radio for months."

"Mhm."

"I think it's still number one in Mexico. They're like, legit now," he insisted.

I looked at him with feigned surprise. "¿En serio? Well, that changes everything," I said sarcastically.

He rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the stage. I glanced back and saw that the band was now on stage. I glanced back at my phone to be blessed with another picture from Daniela, this time with her arm moved down just slightly. I laughed to myself and sent a text back.

Lower it moooooore mami.

The guitars blared as Unsent Souls started up their first song. I'd never heard any of their songs besides the one that went gold, so I didn't recognize the one they were warming up with. I didn't really care either, regardless of how much my bandmates seemed to.

My phone chimed again, and I flipped it open eagerly to another picture from Daniela, this time with her arm moved over slightly so that her fingertips just barely covered her nipple. Esa maldita... I started typing a response just as the vocals cut through the guitars on the speakers, and I froze.

His voice was like honey and velvet, and for a moment I felt myself numbed to the world around me as if it was the only sound that mattered. It was no secret that recordings were nothing compared to the real thing, but there was something much bigger that was missing from Unsent Souls's recordings: that voice. It was clearly the same vocalist, but in person his voice had so much more soul; so much more power. It was unlike anything I'd ever heard before, especially in this genre.

My phone slid into my back pocket as I started walking closer to the stage with my full attention on it. I almost did a double-take in my shock. The lead singer was the idiot I'd bumped into backstage! He was up there singing with his eyes closed like some nervous kid. This guy was a fucking loser. He didn't even look like he belonged up there. How in the hell was that voice coming out of him?

I could feel Jaime stop beside me, but couldn't tear my eyes away from the stage to acknowledge him. "What's the singer's name?" I asked him for confirmation.

"Chris, I think," he said. "You like it?"

"Un poquito."

I heard him snickering and met his grin with narrowed eyes. "You're so stubborn, güey. Admit it. You like them too."

"Shut up."

My phone dinged again, but this time it didn't feel like there could be anything more tantalizing than watching this siren trapped in a loser's body. He effortlessly belted out notes that I would have bet any amount of money no other singer on this tour could hit. My gut buzzed with something like excitement, and although I couldn't decide anymore if I liked this guy or hated him, I knew I wanted to know more about him.

He stepped away from the mic and wiped sweat from his brow as their first song ended. With his eyes finally open, the sun illuminated the little blue oceans he had for irises.

No, I didn't want to know more about him. I needed to.