They Mocked Me Backstage, Then I Took Her Lead Role

Everyone on campus knows my boyfriend plays guitar and my best friend sings lead. Most of them don't even know I'm in the band. I'm usually the one taking the pictures. "Higher, Grace," Brooke says. "You're cutting off Connor's hair." I lift her phone. She steps closer to him beneath the WESTBRIDGE UNIVERSITY banner. His arm settles around her shoulders before she asks. We're all wearing the same black band T-shirt. Mine just comes in a bigger size. "Perfect," she says after checking the picture. "One more on yours? Your camera's better." Behind us, someone tests a microphone. Across the auditorium, Creston's band is setting up. Connor glances at the stage. "Quick. We need to talk about the arrangement." I take the picture. They walk away before I can ask anyone to take one with me. I'm still putting my phone in my pocket when Brooke calls back. "Coming?" I follow them down the aisle. Connor is explaining where he wants to add another guitar solo. Brooke wants to hold the last note of her chorus longer. "You'll be playing over her last note," I say. Connor looks back. "What?" "If she holds that note, you need to wait before you start the solo." He smiles a little. "It's supposed to overlap, Grace." "Not the way you played it at rehearsal." Brooke touches his arm. "We'll work it out. She's just nervous." Then she turns to me. "You're lucky, you know. Most people would kill to sit in on these conversations." Connor laughs. "She tunes out halfway through." I don't answer. At rehearsal, I'm usually at the spare keyboard or a backing microphone. When they stop to argue, I keep my hands in my lap and wait. I've learned that offering an opinion takes longer than being quiet. That doesn't mean I don't hear what's wrong. By the end of the first half, everyone else can hear it, too. Three events. Three points to Creston. None to us. The scoreboard hangs above the stage, bright enough to see from the back row. WESTBRIDGE: 0 CRESTON: 3 There are still four points available after the break: one for the solo showcase and three for the final full-band set. We need every one of them. Across the stage, Dylan Shaw pushes his hair out of his eyes and leans toward the host's microphone. "I thought this was supposed to be a rivalry." A few people laugh. He looks over at Connor. "Maybe next year." Connor's jaw tightens. Brooke stares at the floor. I start to stand. Then I stop. For a second, I'm back in Grandpa's living room, sitting beside him at the piano. I'm fourteen. My first video has been online for less than a day. I want to play him the song. Instead, I show him the comments. The first few are about my voice. Then someone asks if the camera adds fifty pounds. Other people join in. Grandpa reads enough to understand. Then he sets my phone facedown. "You don't have to answer everybody who tries to hurt you." "What if they're right?" He looks at me. "About the song?" I shake my head. He opens the piano lid. "Then let's listen to the song." I reach for my headphones. The piano piece he used to play comes through softly, familiar enough that I know where every note will land. My shoulders drop. A stagehand waves us toward the greenroom. I lower my headphones around my neck. Inside, Brooke sits on the couch with her face in her hands. Connor stands beside her, rubbing her back. I take a bottle of water from the cooler, loosen the cap, and hold it out. "Here." She knocks it out of my hand. Water spills across the floor. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" I stare at her. "What?" "You've been sitting there all day with that look on your face." "What look?" "Like you know better than everyone." Connor bends to pick up the bottle. "Brooke, take a breath." But he's looking at me. I step back from the water. "I'm not the reason we're losing." Her head snaps up. "Nobody said you were." "You just accused me of enjoying it." "Grace," Connor says. "She's upset." "I noticed." "Then maybe don't make it worse." Something small and sharp catches beneath my ribs. Maya, our drummer, reaches for a handful of paper towels. "I've got it," she says quietly. Brooke watches me over Connor's shoulder. "You have no idea what it's like out there." "I know you couldn't hear the count-in because you were talking over it." Her face changes. "And Connor started his solo before you finished the phrase. Exactly like rehearsal." Our bassist, Evan, lets out a short laugh. "Great. Notes from the snack department." I turn toward him. "You asked me to pick up your lunch." "It was a joke." "You all ask me to bring food, find cables, print set lists. But the second I have an opinion, I don't belong here?" Connor straightens. "Enough." "No. You don't get to call me part of the band only when you need something." Brooke stands. "Oh, please. You barely play in front of people." "That doesn't mean I can't hear." "You think you could do better against Dylan?" I look through the open door. Across the hall, Dylan is laughing with his band. I've heard that laugh before. "Yes." Brooke folds her arms. "And when have you ever beaten him?" "I've beaten him before." The room goes quiet. Then Evan laughs again. This time, everyone hears him.