Autumn

The day of a show brings on three things: cravings, anxiety, and more cravings.

I sit in the dirty bathroom serving as my dressing room, shipping my fourth chocolate shake. Butterflies swim in my stomach, the three chocolate shakes barely soothing them. It feels gross, but I sip on my third one in a nervous panic. The bathroom is small, smelling sharply of trash and cleaning supplies, which doesn't help my already nervous self.

Faye runs around the bathroom spraying a can of aerosol, making the bathroom smell more like a laundry room. "Almost done," she says, emptying the last of the bottle in the corner above the door, "This is a large bottle."

"Can you just get over here?" I snap at her, every muscle in my body tense. Goddamnit. I don't know why I'm this nervous. I've played so many shows throughout my life that the stage is practically a second home for me. Yet, my heart still races, and I can't control my shaking hands.

"Autumn. Hey, Autumn. You got this, okay? You've done this hundreds of times before." Faye walks over, taking my hands. She hugs me, and I finally start to cry on her shoulder. 

I don't know why I'm crying. Of course, I don't seem to know a lot of things lately. Could it be that every little thing reminds me of them? An old sweater of my mother's in the back of a closet, the engraved guitar pick that Dad got me for my tenth birthday, a random family portrait found in a box in the attic could set me off within a second. Even tonight's show will have me wishing that my dad was in the audience, face alight and happy, or that my mom was also here, brown hair gleaming, swaying to the music.

They were horrible parents. But, god, I miss them more than anything. 

"Do you need another shake?" Faye asks.

"I'll be fine."

I take a deep breath of Faye's lavender shampoo and exhale a shaky breath. My eyes are still watery, and it's a good thing that I haven't done my makeup yet because tears carve wet, sticky paths down my cheeks. She hugs me tighter and I cry one last time before pulling away, wiping at my eyes, and turning to look at myself in the mirror.

I'm a full on hot mess. 

My eyes are red and bloodshot, green streaked with a deep red. My lips are cracked and dry, smeared with chocolate. My hair sticks up on one side and I try to pat it down, halfheartedly, missing and hitting myself in the face.

"Autumn, are you okay? Do you want me to tell Harley you can't go on?" Faye is talking right next to me but I don't hear her. I look back at the girl in the mirror. I don't recognize her. Her eyes turn cold and she nods at me, telling me it's okay. I can be strong. I can be brave.

I can go out there even when I don't want to.

"I'm fine," my voice comes out scratchy, and it's more of a whisper, but it comes out all the same, "Make me look presentable. I have a show to get to."

Faye grabs her makeup brush and I swear I see a ghost of a smile pass on her lips.

I can do this.

"Are you ready?" Harley whispers. I've rejoined the band, all traces of tears wiped from my face. The boys are standing at their respective instruments, heads turned expectantly towards me. We're standing behind a makeshift screen reaching all the way up to the ceiling. It's dark, and only a few floodlights are around to help me see, bathing all of us in a soft, blue glow.

"Yup." I whisper back. Harley hands me a pair of drumsticks, but I shake my head, pushing them back towards him. I pull out a pair from my back pocket, holding them up towards him. He nods, seeming to understand, and takes his place at the front of the group.

Walking over to the drums as if in a trance, I rub my thumb over the drum in my right hand. 

Believe you can, and you're halfway there. Happy eleventh birthday, Autumn. Love, Dad

I remember my eleventh birthday as if it were yesterday. Which, I guess, in a way it was. 

Mom and Dad were both happy then, as in love with each other as ever. Emery was in college then, so we had to FaceTime her, but it was okay.

We were all happy, still a family with no worries.

I remember Mom leaving the room for a second to get some water. Dad had gone over to our fluffy white couch at the other side of the large room. He had pulled out a long silver box with a white bow from underneath a cushion, walked back over and handed it to me. 

"Open it," he demanded. That was the thing about Dad. He never asked. As a star, he was used to just getting his way. 

I was naive. I always gave him what he wanted. 

I opened it. Inside was a pair of shiny, sleek drumsticks, brand new and smooth. I had just begun teaching myself the drums a few months before, and I had already gotten pretty good. Taking them out, I spun them in my hands, feeling the engraving at the bottom.

Believe you can and you're halfway there. Happy eleventh birthday, Autumn. Love, Dad

"Do you like it?" Dad asks. He sits next to me, putting a big hand on my knee. I leap onto his lap and wrap my small arms around him.

He doesn't hug me back.

The signs were there. I just didn't see them.

"Welcome to the Cobra Bar! Are you ready for Music Sunday?" There are cheers as the bouncer takes a megaphone and shouts to the entire bar. From the sound of it, there's about one hundred people, all stomping their feet and screaming. I take a deep breath as we're introduced and the screen drops. 

It's madness. A clean, beautiful kind of madness.

"Just like we practiced." Harley nods to me, and I pick up the drumsticks, counting us in.

One...

It's just like you practiced, Autumn. 

Two...

Stop being so rattled.

Three...

You can do this.

The music starts and I don't feel anything. I pound the drums, just like we practiced, and add some stick twirls in between. The audience eats it up, and I smile weakly.

Forget about them.

After a while, it does become fun. We launch into one of my favorite Green Day songs, and I just drum away like nobody's watching.

They aren't watching me. They're watching Harley.

He's good, perhaps a little too good. We've only been practicing non-stop since Friday, and yet, he goes through everything like a pro. His eyes are bright, and he seems more alive then the empty, blank corpse walking through everyday life. I look back towards my drums before he catches me looking at him, but he doesn't care.

He's in a world of his own. I get like that whenever I perform. Lost in the music, not singing to your audience, but to yourself. I do that all the time when I play small gigs, but this crowd of one hundred is a little too big for me to lose myself in. Harley seems to have it mastered, eyes vacant, lips curled up in a smile.

That's what I've imagined his happy face would be like.

We finish our second song and move on to our third and final song. It's a slower song by Crowded House, one that Harley let me pick out.

"You've given us our music back. It's only fair that we let you pick a song," he said when I protested. I didn't ask what he meant by that. I just rolled with it, because I'm starting to learn more and more that with Harley, you don't get choices very often.

He just does something and you follow.

"And what if you don't like it?" I asked.

"Then I'll suck it up and deal with it." 

Don't Dream It's Over by Crowded House is one of my favorite songs. I often find myself listening to it all the time, so a few months ago, I finally got up and learned the whole thing. The song itself only requires drums a few times, so I put them away as Harley walks over to me and hands me the mic. 

Woah.

I had no idea that this was going to be happening. 

"Trust me." He mouths and I do. All of the boys step back except for Harley as I walk over to the front of the stage. 

The audience cheers as they see me and I smile, waving. Putting the microphone on the stand, I look over at Harley, seeing what he wants me to do with it. He motions for me to start singing and then strums a chord on the acoustic guitar that I didn't see him pick up.

"There is freedom within," I sing. Harley continues to play, not a care in the world, as the other boys begin to make their way off the stage.

"There is freedom without."

The audience sways to the music, looking raptly interested. A drummer singing is probably something many of them have never seen before. Not a single person has stood up to go to the bar, and not a single person has booed me off the stage yet.

My voice can hold the attention of anybody in its path. My singing is sweet and slow, calm like a lullaby. That's what tends to draw people in.

I turn towards Harley, his black hair flopping in his eyes as he plays the rest of the song. It goes by in a blur, and I feel giddy as I take my final bow with the band.

I could do this more often.

"Excuse me? Are you Mr. Davis and Miss Henningsen?" The band is clustered together at the bar, Jim Bean with beers in both hands, Jayden with a seltzer water at the bar next to him.

Harley and I are standing next to one another, three feet apart, not looking at one another. When the voice calls, we both turn at the same time to see a really hot man in glasses and a black suit.

He's definitely record label material.

"Yes. Who are you?" Harley asks, apprehensive, and for a second, I think his eyes dart to me. I'm probably seeing things. Jayden, Jim Bean and Louie glance at each other, exchanging a look that I can't really place. 

Just as quickly as it came, it went. They turn back to us, looking at us expectantly.

"Right, sorry. Luca Dupont. Pleasure," Luca nods at us, "Can we go somewhere to talk? Privately?"

"Wait," Harley says as I begin to follow him, "Tell us why you're here first."

"Mr-"

"Call me Harley." Luca opens his mouth like a fish, probably caught off guard for the first time in a while. He has the look of a man who has everything, and is never surprised by curveballs life throws at him. His brown hair is perfectly styled, suit perfectly tailored, glasses perfectly cleaned. The man is the definition of perfection.

I'm sure he's never been asked to explain himself to anyone.

"If I must," Luca clears his throat, hands fidgeting where he thinks we can't see, "Mr. Davis and Miss. Henningsen, the two of you are two of hundreds selected to compete in the Songbird Music Contest, taking place in Los Angeles in exactly two weeks."

"What?" I say, interrupting Harley. He closes his mouth, but I don't continue.

"It's a celebrity run contest, with three judges: myself, Mrs. Amelie Jenkins, and a surprise judge that we're not at liberty to reveal just yet. The two of you have been selected out of hundreds of kids in the country. I'll explain the rules a little more if you come with me." Luca begins to walk away, unaware that we're not following him.

I can feel the bands eyes on me but I don't care. "Harley, I-I can't." I grab his arm without thinking, and he looks down, eyes wide.

I've lost all sense of reason. But I can't go back to Los Angeles. It took me long enough to get away from there.

"I'll go with him, see what that contest is about. I'll let you know anything important," he replies, looking down at me. I let go of his arm, and he begins to walk away, but turns back quickly.

"It'll be alright Autumn," he says, waving at me, and walking away again.

"I hope so," I mutter under my breath, "I really hope so."