It’s a crazy thought, but certainly one I’ve already had. I don’t expect Bears in Captivity to have a massive budget for design, but I know it will be a better haul than what I’ve been earning piecemeal. More importantly, there’s real potential for ongoing work with them. It’s a major score for someone so new to the industry. And Simone is right. With this foothold, networking with all the bands that come into Sounds will just get easier and easier.
So many people have showed up that there was actually talk of turning them away, and somehow, my flyer has received credit for the heightened interest. If I can bring more people in week after week, it’s good for Deiss, the bands, and my reputation. And it’s not just paper advertisements I can offer. Knowing Deiss, I wouldn’t be surprised if he does nothing to promote either the store or the shows. He’s more the type to rely on word of mouth, preferring the right audience to a large audience.
Maybe it’s time for a change, though. For his sake, and for mine.
The music winds down, and the lead singer announces the last song. Beside me, Simone shifts restlessly, causing me to grimace. I know what’s coming.
“It’s our last chance,” she says, confirming my suspicion. “Come on, we still have time to get up there.”
It’s not the first time she’s asked tonight. It’s not even the second. She’s desperate to get onstage and dance with the band. Apparently, it’s trashy if you do it alone but sexy if you do it with a friend. And her Friendsta following adores sexy but has zero tolerance for trashy.
“If you couldn’t get me to dance while wearing a Sandy costume at the PKA house, do you really think you’re going to get me to rush the stage at my future employers’ concert?”
I keep my voice even, but my irritation flares, at her but also at the rest of our friends for leaving us alone. I don’t know why Mac and Phoebe always have to run off together like they’re still a couple. And Deiss. He’s probably tucked back in some corner with a girl far cooler than me. I can’t believe I let myself believe he was attracted to me in this faux-rocker costume Phoebe has dressed me in. Never once in eleven years has he paid me less attention.
“Let’s get him up on the stage,” Brad, the drummer, says announcer-style into his mic, interrupting the lead singer. For a moment, I think he’s backing up Simone and trying to force me up there.
He waves his drumsticks at the crowd, urging on our cheers.
“Deiss, Deiss, Deiss!” he says rhythmically, pulling the audience into his chant.
My eyes widen as the chant builds steam, and I spot Deiss being tugged by Booker from under the stairs to the stage. Even across the dark, crowded room, I can see the way he leans back, as if he’s water-skiing, caught in the wake of a speeding boat. He plays it cool, though, once he’s on the stage with the light in his face. If I didn’t know him so well, I might even think he was amused. Even once it turns into a live commercial, with Mia bringing up the bass guitar and Booker announcing it as a Gibson Thunderbird （color: Tobacco Burst; price: $7500）。
Deiss isn’t amused, though. He’s mad. Madder than I’ve ever seen him. I can tell by his posture, by the depth of his voice when he begrudgingly agrees to play. I can feel it in the stiffness of his fingers as they move over the strings. The shaggy-haired guitar player pulls Phoebe up to dance, and Deiss doesn’t even smile. His face stays blank, betraying nothing, but I know.
And I get it. I get that this attention makes him deeply uncomfortable. But maybe it’s more than that. He grew up with cameras pointed at him and people telling him what to do and say. He did what he was told, and his obedience was rewarded with ten years of isolation.
He claims his stint as a child actor wasn’t a bad experience, and maybe it wasn’t. But what came after couldn’t have been good because everything about him is geared toward avoiding the limelight. It’s obvious, even in the choice of his instrument. He’s not center stage; he’s off to the side. He doesn’t follow the beat; he sets it. But he’s never joined a band because he doesn’t want any of this—not the eyes on him or the applause or the expectations.
“I knew I should’ve stuck with Phoebe,” Simone sighs, breaking me out of my Deiss-induced trance. “We’d better go take her picture.”
“Who?” I blink with confusion.
“Seriously?” She gestures toward the stage, where the shaggy-haired blond has abandoned his guitar to grind on Phoebe. If they weren’t so gorgeous together, it would be obscene. “She’s going to want this documented.”