Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(8)

Easy, I coach myself. I’m not used to having such a strong reaction to anyone. I turn away and amble down the sidewalk, knowing I’m the worst kind of hypocrite. Whatever Delilah does to that guy, she does to me, too. Times ten.

The difference between us, though, is that on Friday night I actually show up to hear her at the Coconut Club. I pay the bouncer a twenty-dollar cover that I really can’t afford, and I take up a position on the wall. The place is packed. Every table is filled, and every barstool.

There’s a band onstage already. A decal on their bass drum gives the band’s name: Pebble Yell. It’s the dumbest name I’ve ever heard, but the band is better than its name. Much better. They have a warm, nineties grunge sound that has the whole club in their thrall. The lead singer looks like a young Eddie Vedder, but sings with a silkier voice. And their lead guitar is a wizard.

And Delilah has to follow this act?

That’s when I feel my first frisson of nerves for her. And where is she? I scan the eager faces in the audience and find Delilah. She’s leaning against the opposite wall, down near the stage, a bottle of water in one hand and a guitar case in the other. She looks completely calm—like she doesn’t know she’s going to have to sound like that to keep these people in the room.

An all too familiar emotion rolls through me—a cocktail of excitement and dread. It doesn’t matter how talented you are or how much you deserve a chance. Sometimes the odds are stacked against you. I have the weirdest urge to cross the room and stand beside Delilah. To shore her up.

But I stay put, because that would just be weird.

Meanwhile, the audience is loving Pebble Yell. The people seated at tables are all leaning forward in their chairs. And the back of the club is so packed full of fans that the cocktail waitresses can hardly get through to hustle drinks. When the last, rich chord finally reverberates through the amp, nobody is ready for it to end.

The applause is like thunder, and half the room stands up.

Now I’m sweating. I don’t even know Delilah, but what if she bombs? What if the audience wants more of the grunge band and not the quieter tones of a female vocalist? Or—worse—what if Delilah sucks? What if she can’t carry a tune in a bucket?

That’s when I notice that about a quarter of the audience has decided that the party’s over. People are gathering their things and streaming for the exits. A fresh wave of unease rolls through me, as if I’m the one who has to get up on that stage and sing.

How do people do that, anyway? And why did showing up here tonight seem like a good idea? I could have spent that twenty bucks on fish tacos and beer. I could be lighting up a joint on the beach right now, walking in the moonlight. There’s enough failure in my life already. Who wants to watch a pretty girl go down in flames?

Not me, that’s for sure.

Speaking of failure—at this very moment there’s a voicemail on my phone from my agent. I’m avoiding listening to it, because I know it’s bad news. If she had good news, there’d be four calls and several text messages, not just the one call.

Listening to her message is unnecessary, because I already know what it will say. “Listen, Silas, if you just wait a few months, we might find a minor league team that’s struggling with its goalie lineup. And if that doesn’t work out, I could find a spot for you overseas. Germany or Russia, maybe.”

But that’s where the washed up hockey players go. I’m not ready to be a has-been at twenty-two.

Grumpy now, I eye Delilah’s audience with suspicion. People who were stuck in back before are filling in the empty tables. So at least that’s something. But they aren’t even looking at Delilah. They’re texting and drinking. One guy is feeling up his date, who looks annoyed. And another couple is fighting. They’re right in front of me, hissing at each other with angry eyes. Then the dude actually stands up so fast his chair tips over with a bang. He stomps away, while the woman sits there looking uncomfortable as we all stare.

She leans down and picks up the chair, shell-shocked.

Delilah doesn’t notice. She’s already seated herself on a stool in the middle of the stage. She’s adjusting her microphone. A single circle of light picks her out of the inky blackness. It glows brightly, giving her dark hair an ethereal purple sheen.

A man jumps up on the stage. He grabs the mic that Delilah has just taken pains to adjust and says—in a voice that sounds super-bored—“Let’s give it up for new talent, Delilah Spark.”

Then? He hops down even as he slips a cigarette out of the package in his fingers, as if to say Delilah’s set is the perfect time to step out for a smoke.

I want to kick him in the teeth, I really do.

Delilah looks entirely placid up there, though. She readjusts the mic and then tunes her guitar. From the expression on her face, she might be sitting in the middle of her own living room, calmly adjusting each pin and then plucking quietly.

Don’t singers warm up beforehand? Christ. This is going to go badly. A drop of sweat rolls down my back.

Some of the conversation stops but not all of it. I stare pointedly at a woman who’s yapping into her cell phone right now. “You’re where? At that place on the beach?” She doesn’t even notice my irritation.

And then some drunk near the front yells, “Bring the band back! They were fucking great.”

My hands ball into fists.