Page 20 of Filthy Rock Stars
“Are you dying?” he asks, talking fast. “Are you so nervous and so excited that you feel like your brain is made of lightning bolts?”
I laugh as I buckle up. “Not exactly, but kind of. I barely slept last night.”
He starts driving. “Will you play some of your album for them? Maybe the song with all the lasers?”
“Absolutely not. With any luck, I can make it through this audition without mentioning my album once.” I shake my head. My chest gets tight as I imagine playing my keyboard for the hit band. “I’m not going to join the band. This is just about trying something new.”
Damian clicks his tongue. “I’m pretty sure you’re a secret keyboard genius, but whatever. We’ll let the rock stars decide.”
I know I’m talented. My dad says that I basically sat down at a piano when I was a kid and started playing without lessons or anything. But I’m far too practical to think that I’m going to make a career out of my music.
For a blissful hour or so most nights, I sit at the keyboard and play. I summon new worlds in my imagination, return to old, familiar songs, and challenge myself with new material. Music helps me think and feel. It moves something through me, creating a space where the rest of the world can’t intrude.
But loving something doesn’t mean I’m truly, uniquely good at it.
At a stop light, Damian shoots me a glance. “Auditioning is pretty out of character for you. I’m impressed! Where’d you get the courage?”
I hesitate. Damian was there for me after the Smith breakup, and I’ve spent countless afternoons at the game shop talking with him about his sex life. I trust him, but I haven’t mentioned Solo yet.
He purses his lips. “Ooohhhh. There’s something going on!”
I laugh, and I guess because I’m nervous and tingling and about to meet a bunch of rock stars, I finally confess. “I’m hooking up with someone.”
“Finally!”
“Hey. It’s not like I’ve been totally celibate. Don’t erase the guy who didn’t know how to kiss.”
“And how long ago did he lick your lips?”
I mumble my answer. “Like, almost a year.”
“Exactly. So, what’s the new guy like? How long have you been hooking up? Does he appreciate how funny you are? And did he put it in your butt yet?”
I laugh. “He’s mysterious. Two weeks. I think so, and no. But we can’t talk about the details right now! I’m about to play my keyboard for Kissing Dirt.”
“You’re about to audition for Kissing Dirt!” Damian yells, then flips on his car stereo, straight to one of their songs as he laughs gleefully.
An electric rock ballad fills the car, and I ride the high of the moment. Damian gets me properly hyped up, and when I arrive at the location Fox sent me, my heart jumps in my throat. The old auditorium looks like it was built a century ago, and after walking around the block a few times to avoid being early, I rap on a side door until someone lets me in.
A man with a clipboard takes my name and marches me backstage, and a heavily tattooed woman walks by with a guitar like a metal band would use in the eighties, gigantic and electric blue. I try to give her a smile, but she scowls back.
Okay. Potential rock stars aren’t friendly with each other. Got it.
This audition is rapidly careening from exciting to terrifying again.
“Is there a green room or something?” I ask the man. “I’d like to warm up on my keyboard before I meet the band. Maybe there’s a sound tech I could check in with, too?”
“No,” he answers, still looking at his phone while we walk. “Full day. You’re on.”
I realize we’re right behind the stage, and my eyes bug out when I see the entire band, set up with their instruments and waiting.
Holy shit. I’ve loved this band for years. I’ve sung along to their songs in the shower, played them on a loop, cried to them. And now they’re only feet away from me.
The man’s words catch up to me.
“Excuse me?”
Mare, the lead singer, turns and looks directly at me. “Is our next guest here? Come on out, sweetie. We won’t bite.”