Best Of Everything (23 page)

At 7:50 Amber leads us to the side of the stage while the roadies prep the instruments, Jay’s guitar tech tuning his bank of guitars, the drum guy adjusting mics. Doug is pretending to be one of the road crew, and has on a black hoodie and some sweats as his disguise over his red stovepipe pants.

The stage is dark except for the faint glimmer of the crew’s flashlights, and at precisely 8:00 Amber announces that it’s time. Doug strips off his sweats like he’s the keyboard equivalent of Superman, and then we’re taking the stage as music blares over the loudspeakers.

The crowd cheers when Simon swats his snare a couple of times, and then someone’s announcing us with one of those fake Vegas boxing match voices.

When the lights go on all at once, we open with one of the standards from the record. The stage is decorated like a living room, with a couple of funky old-style table lamps on either side, three ratty Persian carpets nailed in place, and an open guitar case in the middle of the stage with a handwritten sign that says “tips.” The whole vibe is hippie era, and by the time the first song is over, the audience is stomping and applauding like we’re the headliner.

After two more fully electric numbers, the roadies bring out stools. The band joins me sitting near the edge of the stage, Doug with a second acoustic guitar. We do the rest of the set unplugged, which makes it feel like we’re in a small room instead of a concert hall.

We get two encores, and when the lights finally dim and the crew starts breaking down the gear, everyone knows we’ve won the night. I almost feel sorry for the second band, a trendy blues-inspired act with a single in the top forty, and I realize that maybe Bruno wasn’t completely kidding when he said he wasn’t looking forward to having to follow us.

Backstage is controlled pandemonium; Tracy, Ruby, Saul, and about a dozen record company staffers are all waiting for us. The sense of enthusiasm is palpable, and Terry’s talking with Saul about the latest preliminary numbers from her secret source that says our first single will place higher on the charts than they’d originally thought just that morning, and that downloads are setting records.

After a good half hour of assurances that we’re going to be huge, Terry pulls me aside, out of earshot, and scans the dressing room as she speaks in a low voice.

“We won’t know for sure until the concert’s over, but remember we were thinking a couple of hundred shirts?”

I steel myself for the worst. “Don’t tell me we’re staying in a tent instead of motels.”

“I should just let you torture yourself, but I don’t have it in me. We’re already at 650, and we should see double to triple that by the end of the night. If this keeps up, we’ll sell through everything we ordered for the whole tour in a week or so, which presents different problems, but good ones – bribing the manufacturers to run the presses all night, that kind of thing.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Honest?”

She nods. “Absolutely.”

I look around the room at everyone that helped make this happen. I should feel incredible, but all I can think of his how much better this would all be if Derek were here. I know I’m taking my crowning moment of triumph and trashing it, but it’s the truth.

The second band finishes its set and the response is warm, but there are no encores – everyone wants to see the headliner now. Bruno stops in and gives me a hug as Ruby and Terry take pictures with their phones that I know will be on Facebook and Twitter in five minutes.

Bruno grins as he shakes his head. “You stone killed it, Sage. I mean, wow, and remember, I’ve been on tour for almost eight months and have seen it all. That was the best set I’ve seen since I started doing this.” He nods at Saul, who beams back at him, then returns his attention to me. “Come on over to my dressing room. Let’s run the song one more time so I’m solid on it.”

His band’s room is easily three times bigger than ours, and stocked with a full buffet replete with champagne, shrimp on ice, the works. He glances at it with a fatigued look. “Help yourself. Ninety percent of this will go to waste.” He looks over at his guitar player. “Yo, Jerome. Give me one of the acoustics, would you?”

The guitar player complies and we take seats near the door while the band members sip their drinks, make cell calls, and act generally blasé about playing to a sold-out house of thousands. I wonder whether I’ll ever get that bored with it, and decide probably not.

We try the song and it sounds great. Bruno experiments with some different vocal riffs, and we come up with an extended a cappella section in the middle, Bruno keeping time by thumping the guitar with his palm.

I’m surprised when a couple of his band members clap when we’re done and then come up and introduce themselves. All very down to earth and not nearly as scary as they struck me when I first saw them – serious and aloof. I help myself to a soda and am eyeing the shrimp when an imposing man in a black tour T-shirt, a radio crackling in his hand, pushes through the door and announces that it’s time for them to hit the stage. Bruno introduces me to Martin, his road manager, and tells him that I’m going to be doing the encore with him.

Martin nods as he shakes my hand. “You were great tonight. Bruno’s a lucky guy.”

Bruno laughs. “We’re just doing a song, not going on our honeymoon.”

Martin’s face doesn’t change. “That’s how it starts.”

I follow them to the stage and watch them move to their instruments. The audience cheers when they make out the band in the gloom, and then all the lights go pitch black and the announcer does his thing. When he gets to Bruno’s name, a single overhead spotlight blinks on, bathing Bruno in its glow. A collective gasp sounds from the crowd, and then the band is playing the first notes of one of his hits as the stage lights slowly rise, coloring the players in orange and red and blue.

Bruno’s show is as professional as they come, the timing perfect, even the moments of seemingly spontaneous banter orchestrated to perfection. I wonder whether my act will ever get that polished, and decide that it doesn’t matter. Bruno does something completely different than I do, so it’s pointless to compare our approaches – he’s a showman, all movement and drama and peacock strut, whereas I’m, well, just me.

An hour and a half later, the set is over and the applause is washing over the stage in breaking waves. Martin’s waiting with towels and water bottles on a small cart, and the band troops off as the road crew fiddles with their gear, Bruno laughing with Jerome as they near.

“So? What did you think?” he asks me, blotting his face with a towel.

“You were great. Listen to the crowd – they’re going nuts.”

“This is nothing. You should hear them in Mexico City. Or Moscow. Now
those
audiences know how to make some noise.”

He tosses the names out so easily, like subway stops, and I realize what a huge undertaking I’ve begun. If sales do well, which it’s already looking like they will, by the end of my tour I’ll have played all those cities too. I think back to my little spot near Peaches & Cream, at how excited I would get if I saw the green flicker of a bill in my case instead of the shine of coins, and shake my head. If this is a dream, I hope I never wake up.

Bruno looks at Martin. “Think we’ve kept them waiting long enough?”

“Your call, boss man. But the sooner you wind this up, the sooner we’re out of here.”

“Good point.” Bruno gives me one of his professional smiles and glances at his band. “Okay, listen up. What we’re going to do is take the stage like usual, and then I’m going to invite Sage out. Martin, have the boys bring two stools. Jerome, I’ll use your Martin acoustic, all right?”

“Sure thing, Bruno,” Jerome agrees.

“We’ll do the song, and then, Sage, you take a bow and leave us to feed the animals. That work for you?”

I nod. “Yup.”

He studies me. “You ready to do this?”

“No time like the present.”

“Now
that’s
what I’m talking about!”

The band returns to stomping and cheers. Bruno stands center stage, basking in the attention, and then holds both hands out, motioning for the audience to quiet down. Amazingly, it gets quiet, and then he’s saying that tonight’s a special treat because the most talented new artist of the year has agreed to perform a song with him.

My heart’s hammering in my chest as he calls my name. Two roadies hasten from the side of the stage with stools as I make my way to where Bruno’s waiting, and I offer the cavernous stadium a wave and smile as I approach him. He turns to Jerome, who brings him a guitar, and then we’re sitting side-by-side in front of the monitors while another roadie brings a second mic stand for me.

Bruno starts strumming, slower, not as bouncy as the original version of the song, and then we’re in it, my voice intertwining with his over the verse and harmonizing on the chorus. When we get to the a cappella part, with just our voices, the crowd begins clapping in time. Bruno catches my eye and nods, and we extend the section twice as long as we had planned. By the time we finish the song, we’re both smiling and laughing.

The audience response is deafening. I do a small, clumsy curtsy and offer another wave, and then Bruno hugs me and I’m headed to where Martin is standing by one of the light towers. I see Terry standing behind him, for once not on the phone, her face as placid as a mountain lake.

“So? What did you think?” I ask her.

Her demeanor cracks and she offers me a big grin. “I think you stole the whole show. That’s what I think.”

“Let’s hope it sells more shirts.”

She gives me a knowing look. “Quick learner.”

My dad is standing by the mixing board, Ruby next to him, a backstage pass hanging from his neck. He looks uncomfortable, and when I go to him, he puts his arms around me.

“I have the most talented daughter in the world,” he says in a soft voice.

“I don’t know about that, but you certainly have the luckiest,” I say.

“I’m so excited for you. I’ve never seen anything like your performance. This is the start of something huge.”

I look off at Bruno, shucking and jiving, then back to my father.

“I hope so, Dad. I hope so.”

Chapter 30

They say you can get used to anything, and that proves to be the case with being on tour. The night following our big debut we’re in San Diego, and then work our way up the state, doing shows in places like Bakersfield and Fresno before reaching the Bay Area. The van’s not as bad as Terry made it out to be, but it gets pretty claustrophobic after a few hours. The motels we stay at are crap, but I expected that. The worst part is Amber rooming with me, which I hate – I’m a loner, and don’t want or like company.

Terry calls every day with the numbers. My first single charted at number five on Billboard’s pop list, which is unprecedented for a new artist. Merchandise sales are strong, and she’s assured me that we’ll have our own tour bus in a few more days, which will improve everyone’s mood.

Derek and I talk every day, and he’s as excited by it all as I am – probably more. Breaking big was Derek’s dream, not mine, and while I’m not complaining about becoming successful, it would be a whole lot better if Derek was with me.

When we hit San Francisco, we do our street performance in the Haight, and I show the band my usual spot. I’ve got my stealth hat and secret agent shades on, but within ten minutes someone’s recognized me and I have to bail, leaving Jay and the rest of the band to do their thing.

A part of me is sad about having to leave, and I wonder how long it will be before I can’t go to a restaurant without being swarmed. Fortunately, if I’m not performing, I can modify my look enough so I’m just another teenage skater chick, invisible to anyone over twenty years old, in black jeans and Chucks.

Melody has been after me to get her onto the tour, and I finagled a place for her for four days as we do San Francisco, Concord, and Sacramento. I head over to her mom’s apartment, and when she opens the door she’s in full, frisky form, wearing a halter top and her usual painted-on low-rise jeans. A suitcase the size of a refrigerator lurks in the hall, and I eye it doubtfully as I hug her.

“So whassup, sister?” she asks.

I tell her about playing by Peaches & Cream and being recognized. She looks at me like I’m nuts.

“Duh. You’re only the biggest music celeb in the world. Whoudda thunk you couldn’t go unnoticed playing in your hometown?”

“In the galaxy,” I correct.

“The universe,” she declares, and we giggle.

“Isn’t this kind of a trip? I mean, can you believe it?”

“Dude, you won the frigging lottery. Enjoy it, and let Mama ease your troubles away.”

We spend the afternoon chilling, watching TV, talking about nothing. Eventually I check my watch and stand. “Call a cab. We’ve got to get going. Sound check. Unless you just want to come to the show later – sound check’s kind of boring.”

Melody shakes her head. “Are you kidding? I’m going to suck up every second of this. Nothing’s going to keep me from living
la vida loca
with my rockstar BFF.”

The taxi takes us to the venue in Daly City, bordering San Francisco. I get us past security and Melody follows me to the stage, where the band’s set up and waiting. I look guiltily at Jay and apologize for running late, and we blow through two songs, the sound man adjusting the mix for us so we can hear our vocals better. When we finish, I return to where Melody’s standing, every male eye on her.

“How did it sound?” I ask.

“Great. I really like the feel you guys have together.” She pauses. “Now where are all the shirtless groupie boys?”

I shrug. “We keep them caged until closer to showtime.”

“Probably smart. I’d be exhausted by nightfall.” She glances over my shoulder at the band. “Is it just me or have they gotten cuter?”

Some things about Melody are a constant, and I know better than to take the bait. “Come on. Let’s get back to the motel. What have you got in that thing, a body?” I say, indicating her oversized bag.

“I wanted to make sure I had enough outfits for the raging parties and the media appearances.”