unREASONable by Arya Matthews

Track 38

Alexandra

During the bridge, I disintegrate. It’s too much—having to perform and hold it together in front of such a large audience when I want to grieve, the overwhelming music, Marshall.

Marshall is the worst of all. He said he wrote that song. For me. He also went as far in pushing me away as to make me believe that CJ was the one to compose it. I don’t know anything about him anymore. Worse than that, I still want to. I have to hear what in the universe is going on in his mind.

Still singing, somehow, I fall to one knee and prop my arm against it. The words pour out of me, releasing all of my angst and anger. It feels so good to let it all out.

It hurts so bad.

The song wraps up, and I hold the last note for a long, long time, until I run out of breath and my vision darkens. Great. Am I going to pass out after all?

If I do, it’ll be the end of Project Viper experiment for me. They don’t need a fainting weakling.

I force air into my lungs and rise to my feet. An arm encircles my waist—Marshall. CJ stands on my other side, his arm around my shoulders. His desire to do something different has changed my fate. Where would I be now if not for him? He saved my life by giving me this chance, and I will owe him forever, regardless of his recent stunt.

Marshall motions for the crowd to calm down. It takes a little while before he can be heard over the masses.

“Isn’t she just amazing? I wish I could sing like that.”

His hand is still on my waist, and he’s been smiling at me the whole time we’ve been on stage. Of course he’d do that. It’s a part of the performance. But he’s sung that song with me...

The crowd goes wild again, and I’m blinded by the camera flashes next to the stage. Marshall delivers a flourished bow and signs something to Graham. That’s right. We still have one more song left to sing, and they taught me all the stage gestures, but in my foggy state I can’t remember what they mean.

CJ offers me my bass back. Hands trembling, I take it and find comfort in the familiar weight. He claps me on the shoulder and mouths, “You got this.”

Graham launches into a barraging beat, and my mouth drops. He leads us into the intro to All Your Broken Promises. It wasn’t on the set list. Judging by a quick exchange of looks between the rest of the Vipers, they’re just as surprised as I am. I swing to face Graham, nearly tripping over a cord. He machine guns through the beat and flashes me a smile so quick I almost think I’ve imagined it.

This song is not for the crowd. It is for me—a Viper and a fan at once.

I tap my earpiece and squeak out, “Thank you, Graham!”

He smiles wider and nods with his chin, reminding me to play. The others can’t start until the bass goes.

I whip back toward the audience.

Zach’s fingers hover over the keyboard. Shane and CJ have parked themselves next to one of the amplifiers. Each has one foot resting on the rugged casing, picks hovering over the strings, ready to strike. Marshall taps out the drumbeat with his hand on his thigh. Black jeans, gray T-shirt, a white leather jacket that matches mine. When our eyes meet, he smiles and gestures with both hands for me to join him.

I give Graham a few more beats to make it an even number of measures before I jump in. One, two, three, four. Meanwhile, the performer part of me relinquishes control to the fangirl.

A host of blazing stage lights.

An ocean of people.

A galaxy of glowing phone screens.

My favorite song. My favorite band.

And in the center of it?

Me.

One, two, three, four.

I grab a new pick from the bass strap and lift it high.

One, two, three, four.

On the next one, I join Graham with a steady triplet pattern of crunchy, distorted, low Gs. Zach cues in the effects, then the guitars weave in their cunning, playful patterns. Fog floods the stage and swirls around our ankles, rising up to our knees.

Marshall sings as only Marshall can—dancing across the stage, breathing into the mic, throwing smolders left and right. He stretches on the floor until the fog engulfs him and spends the whole second verse concealed from everyone’s eyes, then sits up slowly, as if rising from the dead, wisps of fog slithering down and all around him. It’s a stunning visual trick, very clever. For a moment, I worry that the mosh pit girls are going to have to be airlifted to the nearest hospital en masse because they scream so hard.

I get a dramatic pause of my own when the bass drops out for a few words in the chorus, allowing me an opportunity to slide to Marshall’s side and send a wave of fog at him. He twirls the mic in his fingers once before bringing it to my face, his green eyes crumbling what’s left of my heart as we finish the last four lines together. I have a vague but grateful thought along the lines of how lucky I am that the last measures on the bass are simple. I play on autopilot, then lose all control of reality when Marshall brushes his fingertips across my cheek. My knees grow weak while the front-row fans shriek at ear-splitting frequencies. Marshall grins. His touch. Was it meant to be only a part of our performance too? I don’t want to know. I’ll take it and keep it in the deepest corners of my soul, whatever it means.

Marshall lowers the mic. Eyes still on each other, we breathe hard. My last note, deep and long, fuses whatever’s happening between us. I can’t stop smiling, overflowing with adrenaline and sizzling elation. Neither can Marshall. The rest of the guys surround us, bowing to our guests and hugging me, ruffling my hair, and doing high fives.

On jittery legs fueled solely by the remnants of the emotions buzzing through me, I leave the stage. Kiera and the girls exclaim something about our performance. I’m dying to go home, but we stay for the rest of the festival to listen to the other bands, sign people’s arms, shirts, posters, and pose for what seems like a million photos. It’s after we finally get to the dark and cool parking garage that I breathe out.

“We have to celebrate.” CJ picks me up and gives me a whirl through the air. “You nailed it. Nailed it!”

“I can’t believe it.” Laughing, I hug him.

“Better believe it, Matryoshka.” Marshall chuckles. He hasn’t used that nickname since the day he gave it to me. The other Vipers use it as an endearment, and Marshall did say I’m part of the band now…

Thinking about it all sends my heart into a fluttering fit. Cut it out, you stupid, love-stricken muscle. Stop betraying me. Just because Marshall and I clicked on stage, doesn’t mean we’re good in real life.

I untangle myself from CJ. The sooner we get home, the better. I need time to sleep and reset and not be around Marshall. He’s too confusing. My heart takes his attention as hopeful signs, and I need to put an end to that. Trusting him has burned me more than once.

But… I managed it. I allow the thought to circulate through my mind. I didn’t butcher any songs. I engaged with the band. I even did a reasonable job of the song CJ—wait, Marshall—wrote for me.

While the band loads into the minibus, I pace and nurse a bottle of water Kiera procured for me earlier. Marshall waits for me with one foot on the steps to the minibus, quiet energy in black jeans and a maroon knitted sweater.

“I meant it back on stage,” he says. “You were fantastic.”

He sounds so soft, almost proud. What do I say to that other than maybe thanks?

Tension drains from me, and I realize that despite tonight’s success and my dreams coming true, I’m not done crying for the day. Now I’m looking forward to my bed more than ever. A couple of pillows to drench with my tears and to squeal with excitement into, then a good night’s sleep.