Сара Пинскер - A Song for a New Day

“Are you okay?”

“Panic attack,” said someone else. Voices floated to her, but she couldn’t turn her head to see who’d spoken.

“Give her some room.” Luce grabbed her elbow and guided her back to the chair in the alcove. “Sorry, I didn’t realize. Look, if you can walk with me, there’s even more room over at the side of the stage. You can have it all to yourself. You don’t need to help us. We can handle our guitars.”

Rosemary shook her head. Searched for her own voice. “I’m going to stay here, if that’s okay. I wanted to help. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll check on you after the set. I’ve gotta go play.”

Rosemary nodded. Settled back into her chair. Closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure why crowds had never crossed her mind as a possibility. Of all the concerns she’d had when she applied for this job, she’d never considered that aspect. Underground club? Sure, I’d love to. She had pictured bands playing for her, but in her imagination there were never crowds. Never real people.

What had someone said a moment before, a panic attack? Maybe she was a person who got panic attacks in crowds. She’d never had one before, so she couldn’t have known. Her career as a scout for SHL would be brief if she never actually saw the bands where they played. On the other hand, she’d made it through the first two bands without trouble. She would have been fine if Luce hadn’t tried to make her walk across the room. No, that wasn’t fair, either. She only had this alcove to herself because of Luce. She would have panicked way earlier if she hadn’t had this space.

“Do you need some fresh air? You look like you need to get out of here.” The cello player stood at the table. Her hair still fell in front of her face, her voice low and warm. “That’s not a pickup line. Seriously, people have passed out from the heat in here before. Come upstairs.”

“I shouldn’t.” Rosemary looked back at the alcove. “I told Luce I’d watch her stuff.”

“Nobody needs to watch that old swag; anyone who’d want it has it already. It’s an honor system around here anyhow.”

Rosemary’s cheeks burned. She might as well have NEW HERE tattooed on her forehead.

“Come upstairs,” the cellist repeated. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

“I really, um—” In the alcove, she had space all to herself. It would disappear the second she moved. If she stayed in place, all she had to do was wait until the entire crowd had left and then step out again and never come back.

The cellist tucked her hair behind her ears. Her face was all concern, all planes and angles. A constellation of pox scars marked her forehead and cheeks. She peered closer at Rosemary. “Oh. The crowd. You don’t want to deal with the crowd. Come on, honey. Let me help.”

“I want to hear them play,” Rosemary said, but she let the cellist shift the table so she had room to get out. She let the woman take her elbow, fought the urge to pull it away. The cellist stood on the outside, forming a buffer, letting Rosemary have the space between her and the table, her and the stairs. Then they were at the stairs, up the stairs, and there was only one other person descending, and then they were in the narrow kitchen on the first floor, and closing the door on the crowd in the basement.

The cellist opened a cabinet, pulled out two glasses, spotty but clean, filled them both with tap water. She handed one to Rosemary, then opened the fridge and pulled two small yellow apples from a large bucket, offering one of those to Rosemary as well. Rosemary took the fruit and followed her to a back door, where they took one step down to a rickety porch. Two people talked in low voices at the far end, passing a joint between them in the near darkness. The cellist gestured Rosemary to the lone deck chair.

The other woman folded her legs to sit on the stoop, then pulled purple plugs out of her ears and stuffed them in her back pocket; Rosemary wondered why you would go to a rock show and then block out the sound, but decided to save that question for another time. The night air was cool in comparison with the basement. A siren wailed in the distance, and a dog matched its pitch. From the basement, a muffled “One-two-three-four” marked the beginning of Luce’s set.

“I want to hear them play,” Rosemary said again.

“Go ahead back down if you want.” The cellist waved long fingers at the door.

Rosemary didn’t budge. After another silent minute, she realized she’d been rude. “Sorry. I should’ve thanked you. And introduced myself. I’m Rosemary.”

“Nice to meet you, Rosemary. I’m Joni.” She offered a hand. Rosemary steeled herself for the contact. Joni’s hand was big enough to envelop hers, strong and warm. “So where are you from?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never seen you before. You obviously hate crowds, and your clothes are trying way too hard, like you read some article on what to wear to a rock show. No offense.”

It was hard not to take offense, but it wasn’t so far from the mark. “You’re right. I’m not from here. I came for the music.”

“And you didn’t know an audience was part of the deal?”

“I didn’t… I knew… I didn’t know it would bother me.”

“Which means you’ve never been to a live show before. Small town?” Joni took a bite of her apple.

“Very small town, and I’m pretty positive no bands are playing.”

“Are you? There’s nobody you can picture playing in their garage? Nobody they talked about with euphemisms like ‘oh, he’s a troublemaker’?”

“Nobody local to me. There were only a couple of kids from high school living anywhere near me. Anyway, even if there was some band making music in a garage, they’d be totally isolated. They wouldn’t have what you have here. This is amazing.”

Joni nodded. “It is amazing. I’d sure hate to find out you’re here undercover to shut us down.”

Rosemary frowned. “Wait, what? You think I’m a cop, too? Why do you all think that?”

“Nobody knows you, and you haven’t mentioned how you found us.”

“Look, if there’s some secret password, nobody told me. I told that Alice lady I’m not a cop. Aran Randall from Patent Medicine gave me the address. He said if I came here I’d see real bands playing for real people, like Before.”

A clatter from the dark alley at the back of the yard, like an animal knocking over a trash can. Rosemary wasn’t sure what animals cities had. Raccoons? Possums? Coyotes? Cats? It distracted her for a moment.

“Aran Randall? Really?”

Rosemary sighed. “That’s another thing. Why does everyone here roll their eyes when I mention his name?”

“Because he’s a taker and a deserter. He borrowed money, went out to western Pennsylvania and knocked on the door at StageHolo until they answered, and left his band behind.”

“No! He plays with his band. Patent Medicine.”

“Sweetie, those are a bunch of hired hands that took the place of his real band. StageHolo told him they weren’t photogenic enough, sent everyone home but the Great Aran Randall.”

Rosemary started to protest. Then she thought about Patent Medicine, with their relentless good looks and studied moves. The bassist. That was what bands were supposed to be, as far as she knew, but they were nothing like the bands she’d seen tonight.

The other woman shrugged. “He had the right, but it was still a shitty move. He’s good enough that he might have been able to fight for them.”

“Maybe he did.” A stubborn loyalty surged in Rosemary. Aran had taken the time to talk with her when nobody else had. “Maybe he tried but they didn’t let him, and he thought he’d be better off getting popular and then helping his friends here.”