Chapter 2

Darryl Nelson

“So, you can sell your own merch. All you need to do is get someone to man the table for you, and you get all the money from anything you sell. You’ll get all your accommodation paid for. Mostly we just stay on the buses and travel through the night to the next venue, but occasionally we get nights in a hotel so you can have a proper shower and shit.” Smit and I glance at each other, and I’m sure my expression mirrors his—a mix of excitement and apprehension.

“You’ll maybe make a little bit out of the actual tour, but nothing to write home about in the grand scheme of things. However, the exposure that being on tour with The Sons of Hyperion will get you is worth more than money in the grand scheme of things.”

We sit, huddled together on the expensive leather couch of the manager of ‘Sons,’ while he continues on; most of the shit he’s spouting goes over my head. Mikey, our pseudo-manager, nods his head, asking questions that I’m sure are pertinent. However, all I can focus on are the gold and platinum records that line the wall behind his desk.

That’s what I want. Ever since the first time I stood in the wings, my ears covered in huge headphones, watching my mom and her band out there performing for thousands of screaming fans, I’ve known that’s what I wanted to do. I know I am lucky to have parents who support me enough to let me skip walking in my graduation and let me essentially bum around the country for a couple of months.

We haven’t even discussed my future plans post-tour, but I know that serious talk is bound to happen sooner or later.

Finally, the contracts get signed, and the itinerary is given to us. Vibrating with excitement, Smit practically bounces down the steps of the nondescript office building that houses the record label to which The Sons of Hyperion are signed. It is also the label to which my mom and Mikey’s band were signed back in the day—Mikey proudly points out the poster of them in their prime still gracing the lobby wall.

“I still can’t believe this is fuckin’ real, man!” Smit throws his arm over Evan’s shoulders and shakes him, knocking his beanie askew.

“What does he mean about merch?” Evan asks in his quiet voice, pushing our dumbass friend off and pulling his beanie back into place.

“Like t-shirts and shit, I guess.”

“Where are we gonna get stuff like that?” I question, knocking out a cigarette from the carton.

“My folks say they’ll cover costs for anything we need like that,” Smit shrugs nonchalantly. Being an only child works out well for Smit; his folks do anything for their precious child. They even foot most of the bill for our crummy EP.

“We should probably get some more copies of the EP printed, too,” I add, drawing the smoke deep into my lungs.

“You,” Mikey rumbles, swiping the cigarette from my lips. “Sonny Jim, are supposed to be living the clean life now.”

I flip him off as he starts smoking it. “I promise no drugs or alcohol. Not that I’m gonna go all straight edge and stop everything fun.”

“Look, I’ve had you all entrusted into my care by your parents; I’m not about to let you fuck it all up by being dumb kids.” He runs a hand over his short, graying hair and blows out a lungful of ~my~ smoke. “Man…I never thought I’d be going on a tour again. Those damn buses…” He shakes his head, chuckling.

***

Mikey drops me home, Smit and Evan still in the back of his car. Smit still excitedly talks about all the fantastic things that are going to happen for us now, and Evan slumps down in his seat under the barrage of his friend’s verbal diarrhea. My family is in the neighboring back garden, as per usual. I wave to my dad and George, where they are bent over her phone, laughing at something dumb, probably, give my mom a peck on her cheek, and squeeze Vinnie’s shoulder as I walk past and push open the back door to Stevie’s house.

Carrie and Stevie sit on the faded sofa together; Stevie’s red hair covers her sister’s shoulder as she rests her head on it. I creep closer, feeling a little guilty for eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Look, you guys have shown you can survive without seeing each other every day. I mean, you went four years without talking! These few months will feel like a breeze,” Carrie says.

“But that’s the big difference, isn’t it!” Stevie sounds upset as she straightens up. “We thought we hated each other. Now, we’re properly together, and we won’t be able to see each other every day, and Darryl will probably meet some hot rocker chick and fall in love with her and leave me all alone again!”

“What?” I can’t help but chuckle at her chagrin.

“How long have you been there?” Her cheeks blaze with embarrassment.

“I’ll let you take this one, pipsqueak,” Carrie stands up and pushes past me, ruffling my hair like she always does. I roll my eyes at her, dropping down into her vacated seat, liking the way Stevie rolls into me slightly as the well-worn cushions dip under my weight.

“So, tell me more about this hot rock chick I’m gonna meet.” She attempts to hurt me with a punch to my bicep, pouting as she does so, making me laugh. “Stevie, I promise you, being apart isn’t gonna change anything between us. I’ll call you every single day; we won’t miss out on anything that’s happening in either of our lives.”

“The sensible, reasonable side of me knows this, knows we’ll be alright,” she snuggles into me, wrapping her hands around my arm and resting her cheek against my chest. “But the irrational side is screaming terrible, awful things at me.”

I breathe her in, knowing I will miss that soft patchouli scent when I am gone. Pressing my lips reverently against her forehead, I reply. “Well, I’ll just have to kick your irrational side’s ass, because we’ll be as good as ever, even with a few miles between us.”

***

The ringing in my ear isn’t the cool one caused by loud music, but the depressing one of my girlfriend not answering her phone. I look at the time with a frown—I know it’s the graduation ceremony today, but I would have expected that to all be over hours ago now.

It is the day of our first-ever show as the opening act for The Sons of Hyperion, a band that all three of us admire. Smit bounces off the walls with excitement—I am seriously worried that the dude may actually give himself a heart attack—and Evan quietly bops his head to whatever music he has blaring from his headphones, his fingers twitching over the invisible bass on his lap.

I struggle to find my own chill or my own excitement without speaking to Stevie. Even though she is miles away, I want her to be a part of this momentous experience with me. I hit redial for the tenth time but got the same non-answer. “Fuck!” I shout, throwing my phone down on the floor.

“You’re obviously getting paid more than us if you can fuck up your phone like that.” I look up at the smirking girl lurking in the doorway.

“OHMIGOD! Holy shit! You’re Dalia Montreux, lead singer of Meliora!” Smit brings his hands up to his mouth like the pussy little fanboy he becomes around musicians he likes.

“I know I am,” she says, amusement lacing her voice.

“Are you the support act for Sons?! Am I gonna be on the same lineup as Meliora!?!” I shake my head as he squeals—actually fucking squeals—when she nods with a smile.

“And you all must be the unsigned opener… Methods of something.”

“She knows our band name!”

“No, she doesn’t,” I snort, and she smirks in my direction. “Yeah. We’re Methods of Dissent.”

“Well, good luck out there.” She walks over and picks up my phone, handing it back to me with a wink. “Break a drumstick.”

I watch as she sashays out of the dressing room, her shapely waist accented by the plaid shirt she has tied around her swaying hips. Dragging my eyes away from her retreating figure, I glance down at my phone, cursing when I see the smashed screen. ~Guess there will be no more phone calls tonight.~