SOMEONE REPLACED MY OXYGEN TANK
I DIDN'T NOTICE CAUSE THEY REPLACED IT WITH YOUR DREAMS
DREAMS OF BOTH OF US ON A NIGHT LIKE THIS.
IT'S SWEETER THAN HONEY. SO I JUST KEEP BREATHING IN

//

07: no air

Mamés's Guide To Performing.

1. Go blind. But not really. There's a piece of cloth in your back pocket. Use it.

2. Switch on real Mamés. Or off. It depends on the mood, the time, the music—

3. Sike. TURN ON REAL MAMÉS.

4. Don't think of anything— Lulu. Mel. The friends who wash off your blackness until you're colourless. The stone in your belly. The flower in your head.

5. Play. Duh. Sing too.

6. Think of everything. The circuit in your chest— on. The thunder in your bones. The earthquake beneath your skin. The planet, on its axis– revolving. Mel— the way she makes your heart sink and swell at the same time. Her heels on your throat. Her hand—in your heart.

7. Don't forget the lyrics. Etch them to the back of your lids. Sear them in your heart.

8. Don't just sing it, doofus. Don't just sing it— Obliterate it and the world. Destroy everything under the sun, moon and stars.

9. Rebuild the world. Feel the music in your skin, in your teeth. In your toes.

10. Let there be sight.

◒

The sharp sound of something other than his breath brings him crashing down. Mamés takes off the cloth from his eyes with shaky fingers, it is soaked. Just like his shirt, and underwear, just like his boots.

The room spins.

The adrenaline is still coursing through his veins. His blood is still singing, his legs are still trembling. The sharp sound is there again; louder, piercing, continuous. He recognizes it now: clapping. And for a second he thinks he's still dreaming, still performing, he hadn't imagined a crowd but maybe it had materialised on its own.

The only problem is that if he was going to make a crowd it would be more than just one person. He squints. More than just Ana.

Mamés is not sure if she's here. The closest he has ever come to taking drugs is having a joint at a party. It made his vision extra foggy and gave him a headache–but he felt light. Like a balloon drifting through the air. That's what he feels like now. Lightweight.

Her next words, though, bring him crashing down. Hard. "What. Was. That?" Her voice is a whisper but it envelopes the room. His ears are ringing.

It's her expression that does it. The complete disbelief brings reality crashing down. She's really here. She saw him.

OhGodOhGodOhGod.

Not only had someone caught his secret performance—his worst nightmare—that someone was Anastasia.

He's not sure how the nightmare usually goes; he can't remember it—anything under the gaze of her piercing eyes. She takes a breath to speak and it's like she is sucking all the air in the room. His body withers in the oxygen-less room—it's coming to him now; the fear. Fingers pointing, laughter so sharp it slices him in half. She opens her mouth again.

Mamés braces himself for the blow, but it never comes. Instead, she says, "That was amazing. No more than that...incredible? Astounding? Remarkable? Oh God, I'm just spitting out synonyms."

Her face is doing something weird; lighting up, opening up, stretching and stretching and stretching. It's a smile. A smile he has never seen before, not on her or anyone for that matter. How does one smile with their whole body? The air starts to vibrate. His whole body rumbles along with it.

Ana sucks in more air. "You said you only sing a little," she sounds accusatory. "This is more," the rest of the words are a whisper. "More than anything."

Mamés finally finds his legs and comes down from the stage, but it's more stumbling than walking—his legs are boneless. But he doesn't know if it is because of the performance or because she is still talking. It flies over his head mostly with a whoosh. But as he stumbles over to her, he picks up some words like—soul, upside down, star.

He thinks she's exaggerating. He thinks she's out of her mind. He thinks he doesn't want her to ever stop talking.

In front of her, he says, "How are you here? I saw you leave." And, he did see her leave, that is. He peeked from the kitchen doors, like the coward he is, and saw the whole group leave. Ana turned back when she reached the door, eyes searching. Some part of him hoped she was looking for him. A very tiny part.

"We left for some drinks but I came back to take a dump. The tall guy with the purple durag let me in, after telling me about a hundred jokes. He looks like you. Not physically, like from the inside. It's like you're related but I know you're not, because I asked..." She trails off, almost like she feels she sounds foolish. She doesn't.

Mamés finally understands why she is so greedy with the air. Why won't she be when she has so many words trapped inside her? The way Mamés has music inside him, dancing in his veins, trying to leap off his skin, always bursting to come out.

"I get it," he says, because he does. He is always finding long-lost family members in odd places, a trailer park, a workshop (that's where he meets George for the first time), and an empty parking lot. They share no blood ties but they are family.

"I think he forgot I was inside and turned the lights off later. I wasn't worried though. There's a window in the back that I could've used to escape. Sadly, the door was open so I came out and saw you. Okay, your turn. Do you do this often?"

"Yes. I mean no. I—" There is a smile crawling on her face. "You're enjoying this aren't you?"

"Can you blame me? You're adorable."

Adorable. Ugh. He sighs. "Not that often. It's supposed to be a secret, for my ears only." He looks pointedly at her. "Like singing in the shower. Private."

"That is not how I sing in the shower or anyone else for that matter. It was incredible, your voice is so beautiful, Mamés and the way you play. Wow. But why is it a secret? Do you have stage fright? Is that why you covered your eyes?"

"No. No." How can he explain this? She leads him by the arm to a table while he organises his thoughts, "Not stage fright. I speak to crowds all the time. Okay, not all the time. I have the same amount of stage fright a normal person has. So no hurling at people for me."

"Okay not stage fright, then what? Performance anxiety?"

Why do you care? "Moot point. I'm in a band. We play every other Saturday."

Her eyes widen, the room seems brighter, and his chest gets tighter. "Really, that's cool. You have to tell me where so I can come. I want to see you sing."

"I don't—" he cuts her off. "I don't sing. I'm part of the band, I play the guitar. My best friend's the lead singer."

"Oh," did he imagine it or did her face just fall? "He must be really good then if—"you aren't the one singing, he completes the rest of the words in his head.

"She is."

He's not telling it right. For once he doesn't know how to put his feelings into words. There's the nagging feeling—she's practically a stranger. What does he know about her? Part-time college student, intelligent, part-time director (apparently), beautiful, full-time busybody, 19, beautiful and has a mean taste in music. It's not enough, not nearly enough for Mamés to spill his guts but he does. Maybe it's her undivided attention—the way she waits for the words to drop so she can pick it up and keep it safe. Or, maybe it's because she called his voice beautiful—no one's ever said that to him (his parents don't count) it's everything, her smile fans around the whole room, hugging him tight.

The words just climb out of him. He tells her how much he wants to make music—more than anything but he's scared. He doesn't tell her about the sixth-grade talent show. His duet with Mel. His first real performance, the excitement in his belly kept him awake for days. But, in practice, their voices never sounded right together. Like trying to force two puzzle pieces that didn't fit together. But their mothers still pushed them to participate. Until ten minutes before their performance Mel tells him: He's the problem. His voice makes the song sound wrong. Wrong. He sat it out—feigned a belly ache. Mel won first place as a solo act. Since then, he's always been worried about the wrongness of his voice. He tells her about his YouTube channel—a new fragile thing. His first video was recorded and posted on his phone by his sister, Amy without his knowledge. He got four hundred subscribers overnight. It didn't take much convincing for him to keep going. Little short covers in the darkness of his room with just his glow-in-the-dark guitar once every two weeks. He tells Ana of his suspicions about his two thousand subscribers and how he thinks Charlie has a hand in it—

"Wait, wait, wait. Let me get this straight. You think the 2000 subs you have are a product of your best friend's little sister's crush?" It sounds crazy out there in the open. "That's crazy Mamés. No one does that."

He did.

They filmed their first video, of their band, the Hart Beats, when they were thirteen. It was a grainy clip filmed on Billie's dad's old camera, in Mel's garage. The back of the room where the instruments stayed was shrouded in darkness, a lone light bulb shone directly above Mel. She said she felt iridescent. Mamés felt invisible. A peeling wallpaper in the background. After one month of zero activity on the video, Mel grew miserable and one night later after a particularly tearful conversation, he made ten accounts, subscribed; and gave a litter of comments. Mel was ecstatic. He never told her. He steadily kept on making accounts over the years. Apart from the obligatory fan base in school most of the subscribers were him.

Did he feel guilty? Yes, there's a heavy rock in his stomach, stronger than gravity, holding him, no—weighing him down. Would he do it again? Yes. If it made her happy.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

"You're in denial. For some reason, you're afraid to admit to yourself how good you are." She is staring at him. Past skin, bone and tissue. Staring right at inside Mamés that is always off, right at the real Mamés. There is nowhere to hide under the gaze of her amber eyes. It's dizzying.

"And, I am going to prove it." She says.

"What?"

"I am going to prove it Mamés. I am going to make you a star and that's a promise."

●

They enter her house like they are breaking in. Quiet. Quiet. Quiet. Mamés tiptoes past the dark halls and potted plants. Even his breath is quiet. His heart on the other hand is a different story. It's so loud, a raging cyclone in his chest, he's sure the entire neighbourhood can hear it.

Keep quiet and take your shoes off, Ana said to him when she unlocked the door. He finds out why when they burst into the living room and see Boss sprawled on the couch. Asleep. Snoring. She's hugging something—long, black, slim—and everything in him tells him it's a sword. A fucking sword. He recalls Adam's words; she's good with a blade. Mamés imagined a pocket knife, not a full-blown katana. His stomach churns.

He averts his eyes when they make contact with her pink hello kitty panties. Instead, he focuses all his attention on Ana's hand in his. His hand swallows hers. He's never noticed how big his hands are until now. But, although his hands engulf Ana's. She's the one holding him—his hand is lost in hers. Warm. Tight. He tears his gaze away.

Up the stairs, more walking, turning and walking. The hall seems never-ending until it does. She opens a door, at the end of the hall.

At first, he doesn't have the words to describe it. Her walls are red, not normal red, but blood red. Cut open a vein red, crime scene red. But other than that it's minimalistic—a table, a chair, a small bookshelf, a bed (no frame), a record player, a wardrobe and a door.

The emptiness rubs him off the wrong way for some reason; he can't decipher anything about who she is from this. Suddenly he wants to find out all he can about her. Everything. Anything.

Who are you, Anastasia?

She makes a beeline for the cupboard and starts rummaging through it.

"How long have you been in Rochford?"

"Tomorrow makes it one month," she sounds distracted and doesn't look up.

"And where are you coming from?"

"That's a doozy. Are you talking State or Continental?"

"I don't know. Both?"

"Okay. Originally, I'm from China. My parents found me on the streets singing for money. My mother," she says this with a dry tone, "fell in love with me at first sight and followed me back to the orphanage. They adopted me and four months later I'm in LA."

"Oh wow." He's getting greedy now but he doesn't care. "Do you miss it?"

"China?" she shrugs. "Mostly, I don't remember it. I was seven when they found me. I don't remember much of it. But, my dad tells me the orphanage wasn't a conducive environment to raise children. I, along with some other kids, were severely malnourished. My dad later made a trust fund in my name to rebuild the orphanage and feed the other kids." Admiration colours her tone, fluid and warm.

"He sounds like a great guy."

"He is. The best dad I could ever ask for."

He can't help but think of how similar they are. Adopted parent, fathers they respect and love and from the same place too. Wait. "Do you speak Chinese?"

"是," She says. "That's one thing my dad would never let me forget."

"我猜我们有很多共同点," Mamés says. I guess we have a lot of things in common.

Ana looks at him for the first time. Her mouth drops open, surprised, appreciative. It's exciting. Meeting someone, someone like Ana, discovering layers and layers they had to offer. "Aren't you just a ball of surprises?"

To be fair, he tells her his own story too. Mother, pregnant at seventeen. Biological dad, a prick. Married George at 20, Mamés was three. Spent eight years living as a Chinese (African) American before they got divorced. Still considers them his family and the best thing that ever happened to him.

"He sounds like a great guy," she's throwing his words back at him.

"He is," he serves back. "The best dad I could ever ask for." He's grinning, wide, teeth and everything.

Ana makes a happy sound. She's found what she is looking for. It's a key. Not exactly what he was expecting,

"Are you ready Mamés?" her eyes are devilish.

He swallows thickly. "What are we doing here Anastasia? Why did you bring me here?"

She ignores him and unlocks the door at the side of the room. She looks back at him, her hand on the knob. Her eyes are glinting. Are you ready, Mamés? She asks again but this time with her eyes.

"No," he says but it comes out as silence and she opens the door. It reveals a small room probably the size of his bedroom, filled with instruments; keyboard, drums, guitars. Shelves and shelves of vinyl. A mic, speakers and other equipment he has no name for. Whoa. It's a makeshift studio.

"You might want to wipe the drool off your face." She is watching his reaction.

"Why did you bring me here?" he repeats the question, this time with awe in his tone. Dear God, he is caving.

"I'm going to prove it to you. Undeniable proof that you can't refuse." And, Mamés comes to the irrefutable conclusion that she's dangerous, no one's eyes are supposed to shine that brightly. "Let's record a song."

Mamés laughs nervously. It's an awkward jittery kind of laugh. "Look, I know I can sing okay. I get it. Let's just end this right now I know—"

"No Mamés no. You don't know. If you did, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Do you know 4 in 5 people can sing at least enough to carry a tune or make you want to bob your head? But, few people sound like you do. Very few. So just trust me. It's just me and you—no little sisters with crushes. I'll prove it to you. So, let's record a song. Okay?"

Her back is facing him and although he couldn't see it he knows she's smiling, it slips through his shirt and dribbles over his heart.

Mamés could listen to her talk all day. The way her mouth moves over her words, the way her tongue rolls, turning all her vowels sharp and her consonants paper soft. Her words are magic. She's magic.

"You're like the actual real deal," she says. He has never seen anyone react to his singing like this before. He has never been conceited enough to think that he is such an amazing singer. He knows. He knows that there must be a million and one of him littered all around the universe. In that grand scheme of things, he is just the same as millions of other people.

But, Ana makes him feel one of a kind. It's a feeling he fears he may get addicted too fast. But, somehow he doesn't care.

"Okay."

Ana whips around to face him, her eyes are electric and he can taste the excitement in the air. He gulps it down like its juice. It's delicious. Addicting.

"That song at the restaurant. I don't think I have heard it before. It is an original, right?"

He likes the way she says it. Like she has an archive of songs in her body, and after scouring through them she doesn't recognize his.

He nods.

"Give me your phone."

Why is his life always filled with bossy women?

He unlocks it and hands it over to her. Mel's face smiles up at her. "Pretty," Ana notes. She ignores photos, which is usually the first place people (girls) go to snoop, and makes a beeline towards his recordings. He opens his mouth to protest but she has already opened it.

Over fifty recordings are laid out in the open.

"Wow, talk about jackpot," Ana says and his cheeks burn.

"Pick one. Anyone. But make it a good one, it's your debut after all."

It is. It is. The fear is melting in his stomach giving room for excitement. He decides to go with what he sang at the restaurant. It isn't his favourite but now that she's heard it it's becoming special, Blank Canvas.

Her equipment is new and efficient and looks like it is worth hundreds of dollars.

They spend all night working on it.

Mamés teaches Ana the melody and she mixes things up on the beatbox. It takes four tries before it is perfect.

"Let's start easy. I am going to post it on Soundcloud. Do I have your permission?
He nods and Ana presses a button on her laptop. Hard.

"It's out there in the open. I hope you're ready, starboy. Nothing is ever going to be the same again."

It sounds like a lyric, and he files it in his head for later.

It's a quarter to two when he gets home. In his room, on his bed, Mamés notices her number saved on his phone. Right on top.

A for Ana. Like it has always been there.

Wait—Ana! Only friends and family are allowed to call me that.

The smile starts from within, a glorious warmth that makes his head spin. Mamés falls asleep with a smile.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

this chapter and subsequent chapters are dedicated to saf. thank you so much for all the behind the scenes help, saf. ily ❤︎