Louder and stronger with each note. Soon, the volume from her harp matches mine and I stop playing her melody and let my viola fade away.
The crowd catches on to the new sound, cheering her on.
I see a twitch at the corner of her mouth, and her breath grow shallow and her foot tap in time with the beat. It’s the same thing I’ve seen over and over again with my bandmates, when it stops becoming about us playing the music and letting the music travel through us.
She’s okay now.
I wander over to the guys, letting her shine center stage. Jez gives me a nod and I smile back.
Whatever happened, he knows.
And now he knows I know too.
Anca
“Anca! Anca! Anca!”
The crowd’s shouting my name so loudly that I can barely make it out.
I’m standing in the wings looking out at the stage and the guys are all holding their hands out to me, waving to me to come join them.
“Come on, let’s make a little more noise for our superstar guest harpist, ANCA!!!!!!!” Jez yells into the microphone!!! “My baby sister, everyone! A fucking prodigy!! And just in case you’re wondering, all you hot guys no, she’s not fucking available! I see you, I can smell your horny pheromones!!”
The crowd laughs and goes back to chanting my name. Hailey laughs and pushes me on stage and I almost trip on a loose cord. Marius runs over and catches me, takes my hand and pulls me to the front center of the stage. Jez takes my other hand and we all bow in unison.
“Merci, Paris!! A bientot!” Jez shouts, waving as we file off stage.
I press my hand to my chest, feeling how fast my heart is racing. I feel like it’s like a runaway train about to jump its tracks.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, to no one in particular. Everyone is running around backstage busy with their own jobs. Someone in the crew bumps into me and I crash against the wall.
“Oh my god, Anca, I’m so sorry,” he says before running off, an armful of cables threatening to trip him up
“Oh, it’s okay,” I say, but he’s already gone.
“Are you talking to yourself?” I hear Marius come up behind me and ask.
“No.” I scrunch up my nose. Trust Marius to be the one to catch me looking like I’m talking to myself. Like I haven’t embarrassed myself enough in front of him tonight.
“Then who are you talking to?”
“None of your business.” I glare at him, hoping he’ll drop it.
“Well, is it alright if I interrupt your conversation with none-of-your-business? I have something to ask you.”
“Um, sure.” Shit. Here we go.
“Come in here,” he leads me into an empty dressing room.
I sit down on the couch and wait for him to join me, but he doesn’t.
He stands by the door, shoving his hands in his pockets, one hand pushing back the seat drenched hair on his forehead.
“I don’t know how to say this.”
“Well, that’s a first,” I taunt him.
“Arghh!” He growls. Yup, that’s the sound I was expecting to hear.
“Force of habit, sorry,” I say remembering our pact to be civil. He just waves it away.
“Anca. Um, are you okay? I mean… what happened, on stage, at the start of your set? Does that… does that happen a lot?”
I bite my lip and look up at him. I consider lying, but then I remember the way he’d come to my rescue. The way he’d helped me, instead of yelling at me or making me feel bad that I could’ve ruined his concert, he’d just calmly helped me. He didn’t deserve a lie. In fact, none of them do. I shouldn’t have let it get this far.
“No.”
He frowns a little, but he lets me continue.
“It doesn’t happen a lot because… I don’t let it. I hardly ever perform for that reason. I have pretty bad stage fright.” I guess that’s one way to put it. I’m on stage, and I’m frightened as hell. What other explanation can I give him, without telling him everything?
“Oh.”
“But, I thought I had it under control, I had a doctor prescribe me a sedative and that’s helped in the past. I took one earlier but, I guess… I dunno, I guess it didn’t work. I’m… I’m really sorry, Marius. I’m so sorry.” I look down at my hands. I’ve fucked up everything. And now he’s here to tell me he was right about me joining the tour all along.
“No, no, no. Don’t worry about it. I didn’t ask you to make you feel bad. I asked you because… well, I know how it feels.”
I look up at him to see if he’s making fun of me, but his eyes are kind and soft.
“You do?”
“Fuck, yes. It’s why… it’s why I started meditating in the first place. And trust me I had it worse than you.”
“That doesn’t seem possible.” But I can’t help feeling better for hearing it.
“Have you projectile vomited then passed out in said vomit?”
“Um, NO.” Okay, that IS bad.
“Then yes, I had it much worse than you.”
“Wow. I… I didn’t always have it. It’s just, er, well, just something that developed over the last few years. I almost didn’t even graduate because of it. Whoever heard of a Music Performance major who couldn’t perform?” Someone who was trained to fear it, that’s who. I go cold at the memories teetering on my brain. Go away.
“Well, that’s understandable.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, yeah, you were performing because you had to. To graduate. Not just for fun, or for pleasure, right?”
Yes. “I guess.”
“And let me guess, you graduated top of your class.”
I blink before answering. “Maybe.”
“That takes a lot of pressure. And well, sometimes you’re not really sure if you’re playing what you want to, or what they want you to. When and where does feeling like a sell out or performing side show act start?”
I don’t say anything, I’m wondering how it is he can understand me so well. Not everything, but the part that matters.
“Anyway, I know what it’s like, that intense pressure. And being told to perform on cue,” he shrugs, like he’s made peace with it all though.
“Except you’re good at it. What am I going to do if I can’t perform? What kind of musician does that make me?”
“Firstly, did you not just hear the projectile vomit story? Secondly, you don’t have to perform in front of crowds to be a musician. Hey. Don’t scoff, look at me,” he waggles a finger at my sneering face.
“Um, I am looking at you.”
“Sorry, I was caught up in my speech, and they always say that in movies when they’re trying to make a point.”
I can’t help but giggle and look down at my hands, they’re red from wringing each other.
“Hey,” Marius says, this time his voice is so gentle it makes my heart soften a little, “no, really, look at me.” He lifts my chin with his finger, and I feel a little tingle where our skin meets. “If you never played another note again in your life, you’d still be a musician. But being a musician doesn’t define you, Anca. You’re also a sister and a friend and a smoking hot potty- mouthed witch,” he finishes with a smile. “But come on, this stage fright you’re experiencing is so not a big thing. I will help you.” He sits up straight and grins at me. “Trust me, in this case, it takes someone who understands the problem.”