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Remy wrote in Val and Quiet Coyote’s name but didn’t bother with Celeste’s—because he didn’t know the names of her various gossip websites anyhow. This was by design: Celeste kept the names of her sites a secret from everyone, Remy and Val included. The fewer people who knew where she was on the internet, the fewer people could stop up the leaks she subsisted on. Plus it wouldn’t do her any good if her friends didn’t get hired by the rich and famous because they named her websites on their nondisclosure agreements. She needed those friends to keep on cleaning celebrity bathrooms or going to celebrity gyms or PA-ing on film sets.
Celeste really was a genius.
When Remy was finished signing his life away, Walter’s assistant introduced him to the rest of the band—Michael and David, middle-aged men on guitar and keyboard. The second guitar player, Parish—who apparently also played the banjo and fiddle for some songs—was the closest to Remy’s age, except for the backup singers, a collection of pretty young and (probably intentionally) ethnically diverse women. Remy committed all the musicians’ names to memory—he wanted to know them and for them tolikehim and remember him and later go to him to produce their solo albums.
“Let me know if you need anything,” David, the keyboardist, said. “Or Michael. We’ve been touring with Vivi since her first North American tour three—no, wait,fiveyears ago. God. When did I get old?” he said jovially, the lines in his freshly shaven face crinkling. “Anyway—”
A voice boomed over a speaker, cutting David off. It had to be Walter talking, though Remy couldn’t see where he was. “Okay, so, new guy’s here—Remy Young on drums, everyone,” he said. All eyes turned to Remy, each face glowing with the halo of the stage lights. Remy smiled and waved a little as he slid into the seat behind the drum set.
“And Ms. Swan has also arrived, so go ahead and set up from ‘Stay,’ folks. We’ll be marking first, but all in,” Walter-the-disembodied continued.
The dancers instantly arranged themselves; Parish, Michael, and David moved back across the stage. Remy licked his lips, tried not to reveal the twist in his stomach over not getting so much as a practice run-through before Vivi Swan—his boss—arrived. The show was ready—or at least, it was for everyone else. Remy had missed the music rehearsals, the tweaks, the lighting changes, the testing of a dozen different clothes under lights to make sure all the black pants stayed black rather than looking ruddy brown under a million watts of electricity. A roadie brought him a music stand with sheet music, which Remy didn’t need but appreciated all the same. He was hurriedly picking his way through it when—
“You’re the new guy!” a voice said cheerfully.
Remy turned, face expressionless, mind still a frenzy of triplets, and saw her. The real her, not the one on the magazine covers or Celeste’s computer screen. The actual Vivi Swan. She was wearing tall shoes and high-waisted pants, hair in a perfectly messy ponytail. She smiled, cherry-red lipstick revealing bright white teeth. She glowed—maybe from the lights behind her, maybe from something within her. It was hard to tell.
He’d never been starstruck before—not once, not even when he and Val were new to the music scene. They had no idea who celebrities were, after all, since most things pop culture were banned throughout their youth, and once they had a hit, they were too keenly aware of how fleeting and fragile celebrity was to be impressed by it.
But at that moment, Remy felt struck—maybe not starstruck but struck bysomething.
He shook it off immediately, regaining the decorum he’d been hired for. “That’s me. Remy Young. Thanks for the opportunity,” Remy said, rising and extending a hand over the drum set. Her handshake was strong, but her fingers small—they, like every part of her body, were long and willowy.
“Thanks for jumping in with us,” Vivi answered, voice still cheery. It felt trained, as intentional as her hair and makeup and clothing.
“No problem. Happy to help,” Remy said. “And I promise to stay off any skateboards.”
At this, Vivi laughed—too loudly, given the quality of the joke—and drew the eyes of the rest of the stage toward her. They applauded her arrival; she moved on and hugged the other band members briefly (Remy remembered that they’d known her far longer than he had) then was given a mic and a few last-minute directions from the choreographer. Orders called out, chatter on headsets, a few mic checks and squeals, then—
“Let’s go from ‘Be Mine.’ After the cross and transition—all good?” Walter asked over the speaker. Vivi gave him a thumbs-up, because the question was aimed solely at her—Remy’s entrance was old news now.
But this was what he was good at. Being the professional. Being the guy who’d studied the music, who knew it by heart, who knew exactly the way it sounded on the album.
The rest of the band turned toward Remy, waiting for a curt nod, a sign he was ready; Michael picked out three notes on the bass andcrash, they were playing the song. The band kept their heads toward him, guiding, waiting, maintaining eye contact without words or explanation; it was the perfect blend of the emotionless busywork of the studio and the excitement of playing music live. The notes became ropes that spun ’round their wrists and hands and heads, holding them together, tugging each along if anyone started to slide off the beat. Vivi’s voice joined in, but Remy focused on his hands, on watching the other musicians, on the beat.
He was here, and he was playing the drums, and he was doing it without his brother out front—and, so far as he could tell, nothing was falling apart just yet.
