Page 35 of Knox
If Kelsey didn’t go on tonight, she might never take the stage again.
At least that’s what the voices whispered, both in Kelsey’s head and in Glo’s and Dixie’s low tones as they’d stood outside her partially open door to her dressing room in the Rodeo Opry center in Oklahoma City.
The historic building was embedded with the soul sounds of the likes of Reba McEntire and even recently, Josh Turner. Its ornate carvings, the smell of history in the carpets, and even the coziness of the stage, flanked by deep red velour curtains, should have conspired to instill inside her the sense of safety.
Who would bomb the Rodeo Opry?
Kelsey sat at the wooden dressing table, staring at the amount of black she’d circled around her eyes, the way she’d pulled the top half of her hair up into a messy bun, let the rest fall in dark waves. She’d even added extensions for a dramatic effect. She wore a white sleeveless bandeau lace top, a thick leather belt, a flouncy brown skirt, and her favorite turquoise boots.
She picked up the hot rose lipstick, noticed her hand shook, and set it back down.
She glanced at her phone. Ten minutes before showtime.
I know you’re freaking out, and I get it, but…I need you to hold it together…
She didn’t know why she let Knox roam around her head, but somehow his voice inside helped her clamp down, find an anchor.
Mostly.
It would help if the explosion hadn’t followed her from San Antonio. If a group of reporters hadn’t camped out, waiting for her bus to arrive in Oklahoma City with probing questions about how she might be handling yet another tragic event. And was Kelsey feeling that—
That she would never really escape the random terror of life? The fact that at anytime, anywhere, tragedy could hit.
Even onstage.
Um, yes.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, staring into her own blackened eyes as she remembered the catastrophe during today’s rehearsal. When they’d started to work on it before San Antonio, she’d wanted to craft a different number for their finale, something that would let the audience take a small piece of the Yankee Belles home with them. A rousing sing-along, maybe. Kelsey envisioned the lights going down, having them leave the stage in darkness, the way they came on.
Which of course had been exactly the problem. The darkness.
But before the darkness happened, one of the overhead light pots dropped from the rafters onto the stage. Just one pot, but it somehow detached and shattered right behind Kelsey.
She’d been at the mic, sinking into the song, the twang of Dixie’s fiddle, Glo’s banjo brilliance, and was about to lead the would-be crowd in the sing-along portion, her hands clapping over her head, when the explosion sounded behind her.
Glass shattered, the boom shook the stage, and her note morphed into a full-out scream as she dropped to her knees, her hands over her head.
Even Dixie and Glo screamed, but she’d been the one who’d watched, almost numbly, as the road crew cleaned up the mess, as the stage manager checked the rest of the lights.
Just a random fluke. The rest of the pots were fine, and she’d forced herself to run the song again, her gut in knots as she enacted a smile, glancing at Glo, her fingers crazy on the fingerboard.
Kelsey raised her arms, started clapping through the bridge, cast first to Glo, then to Dixie, who lit her fiddle on fire. Then the song swung back to her, and Kelsey dove into the repeated chorus.
So, when life doesn’t make sense
when you want to run away
When the songs seem over
and you ain’t got nothing to say,
Stick around, boy, and give us a chance.
Take my hands…and let’s just dance!
She sang the chorus once, twice—then, just like that, the lights cut off, leaving only the starlight of a giant disco ball twirling overhead and at the very last moment, an explosion of silvery confetti.
They were supposed to sneak off stage, leaving the band playing, then quieting as the crowd took over. End the night hearing their own voices, letting the dance fill their souls.