Perfect Tunes - Emily Gould Page 0,25

Laura could see them looking up at her—the lights in this room were focused on the stage, but there were scattered spots on the audience, too, and she could see individual faces. They looked befuddled, but some of them—girls, mostly—were smiling. One girl, standing in front of her taller boyfriend who had his arms wrapped around her from behind, was beaming up at the stage. The dude behind her looked off to the side, too cool to even deign to notice whatever was going on.

Laura put down the toy piano at the end of the verse and picked up her guitar, letting the crowd noise rise into her silence. Callie looked over at her again, and without exchanging words both of them understood themselves to be on the same page. They launched into the chorus of the song with gusto, amplified louder than they ever had been before, shout-screaming over the pounding of Zach’s drums. They sang the chorus through again and again, getting faster every time. It sounded unhinged, but every time they did it they got a little bit better. By the fifth and final time, a few people were singing along. When they stopped playing there was a smattering of applause, and some laughter.

Were they laughing because the Groupies were ridiculous? Or were they just laughing at the spectacle of girls having fun, doing whatever they wanted in front of a huge crowd that wasn’t there to see them and couldn’t care less? It didn’t matter, Laura realized as she started playing “Can I Call You?” The point was for her to have fun, and for Callie to have fun, playing, and for the rest of their set that’s what they did. They marched all over the giant stage, told jokes, danced with each other, theatrically tossed their hair and leaped in the air like they were in a metal band from the eighties. The crowd never completely stopped ignoring them; near the bar, out in the room, the low hum of conversation still competed with their music. But that girl in her indifferent boyfriend’s arms in the front row eventually broke free of his grasp and stood a foot in front of him, eyes closed and dancing like she was in her own private universe.

2

At nine the night had barely begun at Bar Lafitte. There was only one table in Laura’s section: tourists drinking light beers who seemed lost and likely wouldn’t stay. A new hostess had seated them, correctly, at a table deep in shadow. Laura was glad she wasn’t a hostess anymore, even though it had been easier than being a waitress. The patrons could be disgusting, and she still avoided being alone even momentarily with Stefan. But she had begun to develop patterns of speech and thought that made her job easier and protected her real self inside a persona. Besides, she made much better money, which was useful since she was working fewer shifts, scheduling them around nights when the Groupies could play or practice. Being in a band made it easier to be a waitress, too. She could remind herself, in unpleasant moments, of her moment of triumph onstage in DC. That was the true Laura, the one who’d fearlessly converted a crowd; the Laura who had to laugh at a table of NYU seniors’ sexist jokes was earning money so that the real Laura could book studio time and finish her album.

She was standing by the service bar when her cell phone rang. She hurried to silence it—they weren’t supposed to carry phones, but everyone did—and surreptitiously checked to see the caller ID. Amanda. Out of curiosity, she dumped her table’s round of Bud Lights and then went out into the back alley to smoke a cigarette and return the call.

Amanda picked up on the first ring. “Oh, good! I caught you. Is this a good time to talk?”

“Not really, I’m at work. But I could talk later? Well, much later. Or tomorrow.”

“Are you sure? I have big news. You work at Bar Lafitte, right? I could come by and tell you in person.”

“I don’t know—it gets kind of busy.”

“Trust me, you’re going to be excited. I’m near there, I’ll see in you in twenty.” She hung up the phone before Laura could protest any more.

True to her word, Amanda came through the door about twenty minutes later, sailing past the hostess stand to sit down at the bar, where she made herself at home, ordering a cosmo and striking