Angel and Jon, both sprawled on top of Penny’s made bed waiting for their own cuts, groan in unison, while Angel performs a convincing mime of wringing someone’s neck. It seems they don’t need any, either.
Penny, who has zero context and very clearly needs it, lowers her scissors. “Am I missing something?” she asks.
I exit the offending message and shove my phone back in my pocket. “It’s just my mom. Apparently there was some sort of article about how we’re stressed out on tour and that’s why the Berlin thing happened, and it said my breakout is more evidence.”
She’d sent it to me a couple of days ago, and, of course, I couldn’t help but scan it. It’d been super harsh, too, zooming in until the handful of pimples on my forehead and chin were pixelated as hell and taking up most of the screen. That’s what I get for swapping my rigorous, stage-makeup-melting cleansing routine for make-out sessions with Zach, I guess.
“What, these two little things?” Penny asks, coming around to view my face with a critical eye. “That’s not because you’re stressed, or because you’re drinking tap water. It’s because you’re a teenage boy.”
“Well, in Veronica’s defense, we also happen to be stressed,” Angel says, bicycling his legs in midair while he lies on his back. “We aren’t allowed downtime anymore, in case you haven’t heard.”
“‘In Veronica’s defense,’” Zach repeats, slapping the notebook on his legs for emphasis. “Not a sentence I was ever hoping to hear.”
“Hey, that’s your mother-in-law now,” Jon jokes. “Show some respect.”
“Oh, I’ll show her respect,” Zach grumbles. “I’ve even been writing a song for her.”
Angel perks up at this and rolls on his side to look at Zach. “Is that the one you were writing yesterday? Something something ‘I’d throw you to the wolves but you’re too gross for them to eat’？”
“It’s ‘the rot in your soul might’ve spread to your flesh,’ but yes, actually.”
“Aww, Mom got a song written for her before I did?” I blow away a strand of hair that lands on my face. “Where’s the romance?”
Zach hesitates, all innocence. “I … did you want a song?”
My heart swells. How anyone can be so freaking sweet and eager to please, I’ll never know.
“Do it.” Jon laughs. “You guys are just sappy enough Dad might let it appear on the next album.” Then, he launches into Zach’s part in “Unsaid.” “You’re the explosion that tore me apart, and I’m sorry to say that you’ve reclaimed my heart—” He glances at Angel and gestures for him to join in. “Ruben,” they sing together in perfect harmony, in place of the word “baby.”
Zach looks like he wants the ground to swallow him up.
“Personally, I like the wolves song,” I say. “We should petition for it.”
“If that song gets on the next album, then they have to use my song, too,” Angel says, dragging himself to sit upright with his legs crossed.
“You wrote a song?” Zach asks, his tone half interested, half wary.
“Yeah, this morning.” Angel clears his throat. “A lady from South Carolina, shoved garlic up her vagina. She claimed it was natural—”
“And you’re done,” Penny says quickly, tapping me on the shoulder to vacate her chair. “Angel, you’re up.”
Angel glares at her as he rolls off the bed. “Rude.”
“Keep working on it,” Zach says drily, going back to his notebook as I sit on the floor beside him. “Sounds like it has real potential.”
“Some people,” Angel says in a wounded voice as he lowers himself gingerly into the chair, “just don’t appreciate the avant-garde.”
* * *
I think I’m a little exhausted.
I think maybe we all are.
It’s not that the energy of this concert is horrible, per se. More that the vibe backstage was flat. I guess it’s not that surprising, considering how long it’s been since we had a break, but I have to admit I’m grateful that next week we’re mixing it up a little. No live shows for almost a week while we film the music video for “Overdrive.” It’ll still be work, but it’s a change from the robotic monotony of promo, show, hotel room, repeat.
All we need to do is get through a few more shows, tonight included.