unREASONable by Arya Matthews
Track 2
Alexandra
My eyes won’t stop burning like they’re full of sand. After twenty-six hours on planes and in airports, jet lag from a ten-hour time difference, a crash course on local slang, a full wallet of new ID, credit, and insurance cards, it’s finally time to meet the band.
Kind of.
“Alexandra, stay close,” my guide urges as we weave through a thick crowd of diehard Project Viper fans.
“Okay.” I’m trying to.
The show hasn’t started yet, but the audience buzzes with excitement, which rubs off on me from packed, black T-shirted bodies. I’ve never seen Project Viper perform live. When I could afford it, my parents refused to let me go. Too crowded, they’d said, too dangerous, and the music was too mass-produced. When my parents no longer objected, Project Viper had moved on with their tour, and I had more pressing concerns than chasing after my favorite band.
Fiona, the assistant to the band’s manager who doubles as my helper for the time being, flashes her pass at two tall, barrels-for-biceps men guarding the perimeter of the stage. One of them checks his smartphone then nods for us to proceed.
“We should have a great view from here.” Fiona takes me to a small section of the arena floor barricaded from the rest of the crowd with chest-high metal barriers.
I have to say, I like her a lot. Fiona Knight is one of the first people I’ve met in the United States. She had waited for me at the airport along with Kiera Denver. When I saw her, I wondered why Kiera brought along a runway model. Fiona’s got a slim, confident physique, dark skin, a short crop of curly hair, and eyes marked with golden eyeliner. I feel like an ugly duckling without a chance of ever becoming a swan next to her. Appearances aside, Fiona kindly answers all of my questions, no matter how mundane or dumb, and it feels like we’ve been friends our whole lives.
I spot a young woman and an older man with cameras and clutch the pass that swings like a dead weight around my neck. These people have a reason to be here. They are professionals. I’m just a fan brought to witness my idols in action through a set of circumstances that still eludes my comprehension. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t deserve this fantasy treatment. But maybe I do. Maybe it’s fate paying me back for the absolute nightmare the last six months have been. I’ve barely breathed through them.
The girl with the camera darts past us, dropping a quick, “Hi, Fiona.”
“Hey, Jules,” Fiona responds. “Working with your dad tonight?”
But the girl’s already gone to the other end of the stage.
Raucous laughter accompanied by chants for the Vipers bursts from behind the rows of barriers, followed by curses and some liquid splashing on my arm. Beer. Gross. I wipe it off on my shirt.
Fiona does the same. “I hate crowds. And I hate beer. Smells like urine. I can’t believe people drink it.”
“You wouldn’t believe the kind of stuff people drink.”
“I suppose you’d know. You come from a place that’s infamous for its drinking habits.” Fiona eyes the rowdy group with a freezing scowl before turning her attention to the stage. “Have you seen Project Viper live before? They came to your hometown at the beginning of this tour.”
“No. And I’ve never been this close to any other performers either.” I wave at the nearly non-existent space between me and the stage. Excited goosebumps run up my arms.
“I suppose if all goes well, being close to them will become a regular thing. How do you feel about that?” Fiona shoots me a curious glance. “Do you want it to go well?”
What kind of question is that? “I’m here, aren’t I?”
The opening band spills onto the stage. They raise a swarm of excited cheers. Project Viper always has someone cool open for them. This time it’s Acid Churro Dreams. The mosh pit crowd dances, and their passion is contagious. My feet move too. The arena continues filling with attendees. The music threatens to pop my eardrums. Fiona gave me a pair of fancy electronic earplugs, but I wait to use them. First, I have to soak in the throbbing mass of sound around me.
Smoke swirls above me, so much like my mood. Hazy but on edge. Uncertain but entranced. Music drags me to the bottom of the ocean of my hopes and dreams and my simmering misery. Does anyone else ever feel this way about music? Does it steal their souls as well?
I’m standing really close to an enormous amp, and my ribcage aches. It feels like I’m breathing for the first time. I lean back onto the barrier, out of the way of people wielding expensive cameras, close my eyes, and listen. I’ve imagined this all wrong. I thought concerts like these were fun and exciting, like a party, and they are, but just standing here hurts in the best kind of way. This is a warning. If I do this, music will take my life and my sanity. It will take my all.
Fiona’s question comes back again. Do you want it to go well?
I open my eyes and stuff the earplugs in my ears. A million times yes. I need it to go well, not just want. Project Viper is the promise of a new life, a prospect that sends my heart beating faster as the taste of hope and something new teases my tongue.
The opening act wraps up their performance. My blood’s on fire with anxiety. The stagehands swap equipment, but my feet itch to run. What if The Label’s crazy scheme works?
Fiona taps my shoulder and leans in to shout, “Are you all right?”
I don’t want to shout back, so I just nod. I’m as all right as I can be because I don’t even know what all right is anymore. Is there anyone who does?
The stage lights flicker out. Darkness envelops the stadium. All around me, phone screens become thousands of bluish-white stars. A countdown appears on an enormous screen in the middle of the stage and two smaller ones to the sides of it. I hold my breath, suddenly wishing we were watching the concert from some less obvious spot. I’ll be noticed, and remembered, and my new life will be over before it even starts.
When the countdown reaches zero, the air vibrates with soul-shattering guitar chords and hypnotizing drumming. I know these chords and this beat. I’ve listened to this song thousands of times. Thousands. Hearing it live makes me want to squeal with the rest of the girls, but I clamp a hand over my mouth.
Marshall Jones runs onto the stage. Swinging a microphone on its cord, old-school style, he waves to the crowd. He’s only twenty-two, but his confidence is through the roof. Black jeans, an orange leather jacket with his customary gray T-shirt underneath, and…
That voice.
I bite my lip hard and remind my heart to beat. Come on lungs, breathe. I’ve seen countless videos of the Vipers on the Tube, who hasn’t? But Project Viper and Marshall Jones in the flesh are a miracle to behold.
The crowd sings along. I want to as well, but I won’t. I’m not here for the show. Well, I am, but I shouldn’t go crazy like the girls in the front rows of the mosh pit who convulse in hysterics and worshipping tears. I can’t judge them though. Marshall has a reputation among fellow musicians for being an intolerable show-off when it comes to his vocal range, the strength of his “pipes,” and being a maniac on stage. And rightfully so. His energy gives him a glow, like he’s a nuclear core ready to blow, like if he doesn’t sing, dance, jump into near-perfect splits, and run through the crowds with reckless abandon, he will go off.
And I’m to stand on stage next to him and be the Vipers’ new bassist and backup vocals.
I’ve agreed to attempt the impossible. The world loves Project Viper with their unfathomable Marshall Jones and his enthralling voice. Who am I to intrude on their hard-earned fame? I’m just a nobody off the street. They’ll hate me. They’ll shun me and toss me out.
And they’ll be right to do so.