Tone Deaf(14)

It’s been hardly one day since the concert, but everything looks different. The giant screen is off, and the only lights on the stage are the dim backup ones. There’s no audience, no sound vibrations or packed bodies. Just plain old silence.

I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and tap out a beat with my foot, driving my frustration into a steady rhythm. I guess I should just be happy I’m getting eight grand out of this. But I’m not happy; no amount of money is worth the sort of humiliation Jace flung in my face. A soft breeze ruffles my hair, but it does nothing to cool my flaming temper.

I look over the seats in the stadium, toward the lot in the distance where I parked. My dad let me borrow his old Pontiac tonight, like he sometimes does. My feet itch to run back to the car and drive away. This was a mistake coming here. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be giving in to Jace’s bribe. It’s not right.

Before I can convince myself to leave, I see Jace coming toward me. He emerges from one of the hallways right beside the main stage, moving like he has a lead ball chained to his leg.

As Jace approaches, his expression isn’t predatory, but instead wary, like he’s afraid of what he’ll see. He comes to a halt right in front of me. “Thanks for coming, Alison.”

“I go by Ali,” I say in what I hope is a growl. “Not Alison.” Only my dad calls me Alison.

I stare at his feet, not wanting to even see whatever scathing response he comes up with. I’m surprised to find he’s wearing a beat-up pair of Vans instead of some designer brand. Huh. I guess he’s not into the whole “famous and fashionable” thing.

Jace strides back toward the hallway he just came out of, motioning for me to follow. I stay at his side and try to keep my expression neutral. I can’t let Jace see that he’s getting to me. He’s not even apologizing for what happened last night. No, he’s just acting like nothing is wrong, like I’m just another obsessed fan who actually wants this tour.

I force in a deep breath. It’ll be over soon. I just need to get through it.

The guy from the tech crew who greeted me earlier meets us in the hallway. He’s scrawny and wears thick glasses, and I’d bet he’s hardly any older than Jace. But as he follows along with us, he gapes at Jace like he’s witnessing a god, and he keeps snapping pictures of us with his phone. Great. I guess those images will be the evidence Jace needs to keep away a media scandal.

We reach the sound room, hidden away just a couple dozen yards from the main stage, and Jace vaguely gestures around. “This is where all the sound controls are.”

I take in the equipment in front of me. Most of it I’m familiar with, but some of it’s different. I walk around the room, running my fingers over the analog mixer, the power amp, the signal processor. I still remember my piano teacher making me learn all the stage technology when I was little. I’d thrown a fit; I wanted to play music, not learn about boring sound systems. But he’d insisted, saying that part of respecting music was respecting the devices that help create it.

I trace the ridges on one of the processor’s knobs. The technology hasn’t changed much since I last performed, but now that I can never be a part of it, the equipment feels cold and foreign under my fingertips.

“You’re missing a monitoring system. How do you play without one?”

The question slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. I don’t really want to know, right? Right. I shouldn’t have a casual conversation with Jace, not after what he did.

Jace raises his eyebrows and walks over to me, his arms crossed firmly over his muscular chest. He pauses to pat a small analog mixer, like it’s a dog needing attention, and then says, “Most of this equipment belongs to the stadium, but we like to use our own tech for the important stuff. Like the monitoring system. It’s already been packed up for our next show.”

I take a step back. “So then you’re leaving soon.”

“Tomorrow afternoon, thankfully.”

I try not to wince. The way he looks at me with disdain as he says “thankfully” makes me think I’m the one he’s happy to be leaving behind, and not this city.

“When do I get my money?” I demand.

Jace looks toward the tech crew guy, who’s standing in the doorway. He’s busy taking another picture of us and pretending he isn’t hearing a word we’re saying.

“I’ll give you the check when we’re done with the tour,” Jace says.

“Forget the tour. You give me that money, and I promise to not go to the media.”

He laughs in my face. “I don’t trust promises, sweetheart.”

I feel like I’m going to explode. Sweetheart? Does he really think he can call me condescending pet names, after how he treated me? But I guess he doesn’t think that. He knows it. After all, he’s the one with the money and the leverage. I’m tempted to call this whole thing off just to spite him.

Instead, I take in a deep breath and ask, “Why do you use an analog mixer instead of a digital? Wouldn’t a digital mixer be better for punk music? Especially with all your guitars?” If I have to endure Jace’s presence, I might as well talk about something I’m interested in.

Jace blinks at me, and his sneer slowly melts into a frown. “You know about PAs?” he asks slowly. I can tell by the way he hesitates at the word “PA” that he’s trying to test my vocabulary.