unREASONable by Arya Matthews
Track 7
Alexandra
I stand on the path that leads from the guest house to the Nest’s main residence and breathe in. Portland autumn air is cold and crisp and quite humid, same as back home, yet so different. Portland smells different. Less pollution, less cigarette smoke, less garbage. Everything is different. My house, the food, the way I spend my time. My new home is definitely an improvement, as is the food. There’s no denying that joining the Vipers opened the doors to a lot of things. I have money in my bank account again—five thousand dollars that Connor referred to as pocket change—a fancy bass, and everything I can think of available at my beck and call. Everything but family or friends. The Beatles were right. Money can’t buy you love.
It’s been a little over a month since my arrival. Marshall still gives me a stink eye and acts apprehensive. No. He’s not apprehensive. He just plain hates me. When Kiera described the guys before I met them, she always praised his perseverance and good attitude. I’ve seen none of that. Well, Marshall perseveres. In his disdain for me. And his constant remarks on how I’m not a good fit for the band.
I can be. If only he had a little patience and gave me a chance. I’ll prove it to him. I want to succeed with the Vipers, but I also admire them as the band they were before I came. Energetic, overwhelming, and awe-inspiring. I want to be a part of that. Despite what Marshall believes, I’m not here to destroy them. I have no clue as to how I can convince him of that. He’s unapproachable.
Unapproachable yet cool. I watch him any time I feel safe doing so, trying to reconcile how his immense personality and soul-baring voice fit inside one human being.
A breeze runs over my bare arms. I shiver with pleasure. That’s different too. Wearing a T-shirt outside in Saint Petersburg at the beginning of October is madness. Here I can still bounce around in summer clothes. That’s worth smiling about.
When I make it to the main house and into the kitchen, the whole band’s already there for breakfast. Shane, Graham, and Zach have come back from Utah, and the guys are busy talking shop.
“Phew, you’re still here.” Zach hugs me. “When I didn’t see you last night at dinner, I was worried Marshall fed you to the wolves.”
“There’s an idea,” the disgruntled singer says before eating a spoonful of oatmeal.
He frowns at the bowl, full of delicious looking oats, berries, and seeds. Judging by the resigned sigh that precedes the next spoonful, he’d rather eat something else. Anything else. But the Vipers are usually diligent in sticking to their diet plan, so Marshall continues eating without complaints. If only he could do the same during our rehearsals. A girl can dream.
“I didn’t feel very well.” I hide my hands behind my back.
Playing hours upon hours for weeks after months of barely touching strings comes at a skin-splitting price. Never mind that my back is murdering me from the weight of my bass guitar. It’s awesome and all, but it’s monstrously heavy. It’s probably no big deal for someone as tall as CJ, but I’m in the lightweight category. It takes some serious effort to wield that axe. Add to that my fingertips that throb and peel. They’re ugly, but it’s a small price to pay for Marshall to stop glaring at me, a tiny pain compared to what my life will be like if I fail.
“Feeling better today?” CJ points to an empty seat next to him and moves a fresh bowl of oatmeal across the counter when I sit down.
“Yes.”
Fiona gave my hands a salt bath with a bunch of essential oils and a hand massage last night, so yes, my hands feel better. I’m not any less exhausted though. I eat my food and daydream of a nap.
Marshall ignores me. I should feel relieved, but his coldness stings. Everyone else talks to me and acknowledges my existence. They’re nice guys, if a little quirky in their own ways here and there. Like Graham. He’s not a talker. He’s a shrugger. How’s it going? A shrug. Want some food? A shrug. Does your thumb hurt? A shrug again even though he dislocated it during his trip to Utah and ended up needing a brace. I like him though. I like them all. Even Marshall. I’m curious to get to know the nicer version of him that he presents to everyone else but me. Again, a girl can dream.
After I’m done with my oatmeal, I relocate to an armchair in the living room. Once alone, I fish my old phone from Russia out of my shorts pocket and find the most recent video I have of my family. It was taken on Mama’s birthday.
We celebrated at home. Mama took half a day off, I skipped a whole day of school, and we baked and made a big meal with salads, roast chicken, and a tall cake. Papa came home from work with an armful of roses and a kiss for her. I was always embarrassed when my parents kissed in front of me. Now, of course, I wish I had watched them more and embedded into my heart just how much they loved each other.
In the video, Papa notices me filming and gives me a hug, sending the focus of the video to the corner of the entryway. I bite my lip and take slow breaths. I miss home. I miss my parents. I miss belonging and having someone to go back to instead of sleeping in an enormous house all by myself, with a constant, invisible reminder of how all of this can go away in five months.
“Marsh, remember that dumb trick you tried to do?” Shane’s chipper voice cuts through my cocoon of sadness, and I’m so grateful for him saving me from bursting into tears.
I look over my shoulder. Shane and Marshall sit next to each other at the kitchen island, shoulders touching as they hunch over Shane’s phone.
Squeals drift from the screen. Marshall laughs, his whole face aglow with delight. “Yeah. That was in Rome, wasn’t it? I was going for a backflip off that amp, but CJ stood right behind me.”
“That really hurt actually,” CJ says through a mouthful of food. “You almost broke my nose.”
Marshall laughs again. The tabloids like to write that CJ and Marshall are best friends. Watching them over the course of the past few weeks, I know it’s true. CJ treats Marshall with the same level of flippancy and camaraderie as he would a brother. Also with the same respect. They can be squabbling all day over a passage in the song, then eat dinner and watch basketball as they sit on the same couch and cheer for the same team.
Marshall’s eyebrow rises when he catches me staring. I love watching the Vipers. Love sharing that sense of belonging even if from a distance. There’s no belonging with Marshall though. He bites at the slightest provocation, like a snake. The name of the band suits him well.
I turn away and play the video again and again, and I realize that no matter how many times I watch it, it won’t fix anything. I can never go back. No one can bring their loved ones from the dead. My life’s here now, doing what I’ve never imagined in my wildest dreams.
> <
“Come on, Alex! When are you going to get that bit?”
Marshall’s exasperated tone cuts the song short. Again.
Graham trails off his drumming with a rattlesnake hiss over the snare drum.
I glare at the belligerent singer. I’ve been doing my best to not engage, but I’m too exhausted today to control my temper. “I got it right.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.” Marshall strides over to me.
CJ rises from his bar stool. “Marsh, dial it down.”
I take Marshall’s glare straight on. “I got it right.”
“No! The emotion is all whack. Dead. Are you asleep or something? Do you even like playing bass, Alex?”
“Alex is a boy’s name. My name is Alexandra.”
I swing the bass strap over my shoulder and thrust the instrument into his hands. Not good. Even though I want to kick him in the kneecap, I shouldn’t. If I start fighting with him, I’ll put the band in an uncomfortable situation of having to choose sides. It’s not fair to them or Marshall. They’ve been together forever.
Marshall tilts his head, brandishing that annoying smile of his. “Finally giving up?”
He’ll never quit trying to make me leave the band, will he? Why would he? He doesn’t know, can never know what’s at stake for me here.
“I need a drink,” I say through clenched teeth. “And I will be right back.”
I march out of the rehearsal room. When the door closes behind me, voices murmur, but I can’t figure out any of the words. Not that I care to. If I’m being honest with myself, Marshall had it right. My playing is barely there today, but not because I don’t like what we’re doing. My hands are on fire, every single joint groaning, and my back muscles hate me.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I jump in surprise. The screen displays CE as the caller ID. It’s only Connor. Although, I suppose, I shouldn’t say only. If not for him, I wouldn’t be here.
My papa met Connor when he went on a student exchange for a semester and stayed with Connor’s family. They became good friends. Connor even visited us in Russia several times when I was younger. When my parents died and I posted announcements on their social media accounts, he reached out to me asking if I was doing okay, if I had my school plans or my bills under control.
After I graduated high school, my parents asked me to research schools I wanted to attend a little more and give them another year to save up for the expenses, so I wasn’t enrolled anywhere and tuition payments weren’t a problem. I kept somewhat afloat working multiple part-time jobs. Delivery, sitting at cash registers in supermarkets, mopping floors. I was an eighteen-year-old in need of a full-time job with no work experience or any prospect of schooling, and my only real skill was singing. It was getting me nowhere. In fact, every day I was falling behind on my rent. My parents had left me nothing. At least no one could make me pay their debts.
The phone keeps buzzing in my hand, and I remember to answer. “Hello, Connor.”
I keep my voice low because the Vipers are not supposed to know about his involvement. Connor called me four months ago, checking up on me again, and I finally gave in and told him how desperate I had become. His response? No problem. He had heard from my papa that I was a talented musician, and he had a really close, really influential friend in the music industry he could talk to on my behalf and kickstart my music career. If it was something I’d be interested in.
I had plenty of interest, but trust this person I’d only met a handful of times with my future, my dreams, and my life? Go to the United States and leave everything behind? I thought long and hard about it. All of two minutes as I stared at my empty wallet and thought of how my measly paychecks from my measly jobs were coming in a week, and said yes. I was one step from rock bottom anyway.
“Good afternoon, Alexandra.” He sounds busy but in a good mood. Someone asks him an unintelligible question, and Connor says, “Just a second.”
He goes quiet, and I hurry to the kitchen, where I fling open a cabinet door, pull out two cloth bags filled with rice, toss them in the microwave, and punch in two minutes. I’ve seen the guys use the bags when they have an ache somewhere after a workout. I can definitely use some warm relief right now.
“Still there?” Connor asks.
“Yes.”
I look in the direction of the rehearsal room, holding my breath for one of the Vipers to come out. People always interrupt at the least convenient time. Kind of like Connor is right now. It’s not a good time to talk at all.
“Could I call you back in the evening?”
“I won’t take long,” he says. “I just wanted to check how you’re doing. Kiera tells me you’ve been holding your ground.”
Kiera’s been a liaison of sorts in this whole ordeal. I really don’t envy her.
“Oh, yes. It’s all great.”
Connor chuckles, and I can’t help feeling he doesn’t believe me.
The microwave beeps, and I jump again. Every little noise startles me. That’s because I’m keeping secrets from the Vipers. I’m not allowed to tell them how I got to be with them. I bet they have their suspicions. I bet they’ll ask me questions eventually, but even if they do, I shouldn’t confirm anything. It’s part of their deal when it comes to the new bassist—no questions asked. I wonder how much influence Connor’s friend has over Project Viper or The Label.
“Just remember, if you have any trouble with your new friends at all, you tell me. I’ll handle it.”
“I will. Thanks.” I will never tell anyone anything. I don’t need to give Marshall another reason to hate me.
“You’re going to stick around then?”
“Definitely.”
“Good. You should. I hear those five can be stubborn, but Kiera has no doubt you’ll tame them.”
I wish I had her confidence in the matter. “I bet I will,” I say instead.
We say goodbye, and I start the microwave over to make sure the bags are as hot as they can get. While I wait, I down a small bottle of green smoothie. Once the microwave beeps, I pull out the bags and sit on the floor behind the island, out of sight should anyone come looking for me. Wrapping my hands into the soft bags full of rice and heat, I sigh in relief and rest my head against the island side. If only I could wrap the warm bags around my soul.
The heat chases the pain out of my hands, and my mind clings to that lightweight bliss. My eyes grow heavy. To shake off the sleepiness, I fish out my list of tasks from my shorts pocket.
“Getting a drink, huh?”
Startled, I chuck one of the of rice bags at the intruder’s face. At Marshall’s face. Great.
He’s crouching next to me, lips tight, and a part of me freaks out that I’ve just made him even madder than before. A bigger part of me wants to send the other bag to join its twin.
“What do you want?” I snatch both rice bags and push them around the corner of the island, out of his sight.
“What’s wrong with your hands?” Marshall takes my left hand, my fretting hand, and turns it palm side up, seemingly concerned.
His touch feels hotter than the heat bags straight out of the microwave. The worst thing is that I can’t decide whether I hate it or like it. Something deep inside of me won’t shake off that idiotic excitement I’ve had since the photo shoot when Marshall Jones deigned to touch me. It doesn’t help anything. It does the opposite, in fact.
“You push the strings too hard,” he says, rubbing my peeling index fingertip with his thumb.
Concerned, right. I yank my hand out of his grip and press it to my chest. “You’re one to talk. You can’t use your own voice right. Don’t think no one notices how you can’t get enough breath for that long line in Don’t Set Me Free. You cheat with the guitars to cover it up.”
He’s a fantastic singer, but face-to-face practice reveals what the recordings don’t. He’s prone to tearing through his vocal cords in certain situations, perhaps without even realizing it.
I expect him to start arguing with me, but he doesn’t even blink. It’s like I’ve said nothing at all.
“Maybe we should stop for today.” He sounds suspiciously sincere, but I know better. He’s just trying to find any proof he can that I’m a quitter and don’t belong with them.
I glare at him. “I’ll be right there.”
“You’ll make it worse.”
“Then get me a Band-Aid.”
Marshall chuckles. “You’re so stubborn.”
“Takes one to know one?” I use his shoulder to help myself get up, then hook a foot behind his ankle and send him toppling from his comfortable crouching position onto his behind. Forget you, Jones. I’m not giving up.
“Alexandra,” he calls after me in a calm, even amused, voice. His dark, warm, temptations-manifested-through-sound-waves voice. My body turns around even though I’m determined to ignore him.
Marshall’s on his feet, holding up a white square of folded paper between two fingers. “You dropped something.”
My list. Ice grips my shoulders. Did he see what it is? I don’t dare to go to him to take it back. Marshall has an unfair advantage over me when I have no power over him other than to be an irritation.
I approach him only close enough to be able to stretch out my hand. “Thanks.”
Marshall waits to return my list. I stand in front of him, like a beggar, cracking on the inside. Give me my list! But also…also… Give me your trust?
He places the paper into my hand, his fingers brushing my skin and sending lightning through my arm. Then he walks away. I squeeze the list in my palm. Darn you, goals. I’m never carrying you around with me again. Forget visual reminders of my progress.
I refuse to eat dinner with the Vipers that night as well. Another look at Marshall may just snap all of my restraint, and I’ll stab him with a fork or something. Or worse—I’ll cry. As angry as I feel about his constant nitpicking, the feeling of helplessness is starting to gain a strong hold of me. What if he never relents and never accepts me?
In the guest house family room, Fiona places a mug of thick hot chocolate on the coffee table in front of me. She brought over some immigration paperwork to sign, but I wonder if I’ll need it. The way things are going, I’ll be put on the first plane back to Russia the moment my six-month contract is up.
“Thanks for the cocoa.” I take a few sips then warm my hands on the mug. “Marshall always acts like I’m slaughtering their music. You’ve heard me play. Do I really sound that bad?”
Fiona has sat through a couple of rehearsals. Probably to inform The Label of our progress. She’s always straightforward with me, and I hope she’ll tell the truth this time as well, no matter how painful. CJ says I’m getting better on the bass, but I can’t help wondering if he’s being nice.
Fiona takes a long sip of her own hot chocolate. “You sound a little rough now and then, but not enough for Marshall to snap at you as often as he does. Why do you never tell him to shove it?”
“Shove it? I don’t understand.”
Fiona smiles. “Buzz off. Scram. Lay off. Leave you alone.”
I laugh at the list of synonyms she fires off without a moment’s thought. “I don’t tell him to leave me alone because I don’t want to add any more conflict to the mess.” Not that I’m succeeding.
Fiona shrugs. “I sort of understand it and sort of don’t. Still, it’s your choice, and I’ll respect it. But girl, you need to find a way to show him that he can’t intimidate you. You’re part of the band. You’ll be on the posters, tabloids, and social media posts. You’re not a faceless substitute bassist.”
“I know, I know. But how?”
Please tell me. You can have all of my money if you reveal to me how to conquer Marshall’s ire.
“That’s up to you to figure out. Just remember, your opinion is also important.”
I nod even though she’s wrong, of course. Who on earth needs my opinion?