renaissance (bonus track)

Any last thoughts on”—Edwin looks down at his notebook—“Gabrielle?” It’s not a good sign if Edwin has already forgotten her name. I shake my head. Gabrielle had my least favorite kind of voice. She sang like the world was ending, and only vibrato could stop it. It’s the kind of comment I would usually say out loud, but I’m too tired to be snarky.

We’re bringing in a new lead female vocalist, now that ours has decided to flee the country. That’s an exaggeration. Lilah got into grad school in Italy. To study opera. I’m trying not to think about it, or my own unfinished applications to go back to school, but it’s hard to not think about Lilah when we’re literally trying to replace her.

Auditions are brutal, and by now, on day three, we're all exhausted. We didn’t have to do this in college. We were sitting on a blanket in the quad, me playing ukulele while Lilah and Edwin sang, and Zane drummed on his thighs. Maybe we were high. We probably were. But someone said, “We should form a band,” and they couldn’t have been serious, but two days later in a more sober moment we decided why not, recruited Lilah’s girlfriend, Jasmine, to play keyboard, and that was that. In six years, we’d never had any lineup changes.

It hadn’t been difficult, not really. We all silently agreed that the band mattered more than any personal crises that might threaten us. When Lilah and Jasmine broke up, we were fine. When Zane and Edwin tried dating and failed miserably, we were fine. When Edwin and I disagreed on titles or lyrics or melodies, we were fine. Two years in, we released our first album (we even called it everything is fine) and skated along on that success for another two years, playing small venues and listening to people chant our names. We didn’t let it go to our heads, and we were fine.

Now, though, someone had broken us in a way we couldn’t mold back into fine, and we had to pay for Lilah’s further education with our sanity, by sitting in Zane’s stuffy basement and listening to sopranos and altos trying their best to sound like they belonged with us.

Some of them were okay. Edwin even stood up to sing a couple times, which he only does for people he likes. None of them blended with him as perfectly as Lilah, though. And even if they could, we weren’t just looking for a voice. We were looking for someone to sit in the studio for hours, someone who could listen to their own voice repeatedly and laugh when they heard a mistake or a particularly overambitious run. Someone who wouldn’t get annoyed when Edwin broke three guitar strings in one sitting.

Even if we do find someone like that, I still don’t know how they’re going to catch up, when we’ve all known each other for years now, have the group coffee orders memorized, and know exactly how long our rest stops take. What if we find someone, and we think they’re a perfect fit, only to learn that they extend our rest stops by seven minutes?

“Casey. Hey, Casey!” I snap to attention and turn my head. Everyone is staring at me.

“What?”

“You spaced out,” Zane says.

“Oh. Sorry. Just thinking about Lilah.” That’s not even true.

“Well, stop thinking about her,” Jasmine says, a little too harshly. She thinks the rest of us can’t possibly miss Lilah as much as she does, even though they broke up over a year ago and we all met Lilah way before she did. We don’t say so, though, because what would be the point? We learned a long time ago not to pick dumb fights with each other.

“Moving along, then,” Edwin says, in a not especially subtle attempt at changing the topic. “Next audition is in 5 minutes.”

“5 minutes? You know what that means!” Zane jumps up from the couch and starts beatboxing. Edwin rolls his eyes. He pretends he doesn’t like Zane’s improv breaks, but he’s always the first one to start singing over Zane’s beats. He chooses long, droning notes to start, and Jasmine’s fingers fly over the keyboard in a quick, jazzy melody. I’m not much of a singer, but I don’t feel like hoisting up my bass or tuning the guitar, so I do my best to harmonize with Edwin.

I love this about my band. I love that even when we’re joking around, we sound good, and that we can diffuse the tension of auditions with our own music. It dissolves into laughter as soon as Edwin switches to his opera voice, and it’s only when there’s a knock on the door that I remember we shouldn’t be laughing about opera, not now that Lilah has left us for it.

I’m so caught up in that guilt that I don’t register who has walked through the door until Edwin announces, “This is Emily,” and I look up and into the nervous face of my former best friend. She meets my eyes only for a moment, doesn’t nod or smile or indicate in any way that she knows me.

Why didn’t she tell me she was auditioning?

Edwin starts to introduce himself. Emily perches on the keyboard bench, her shoulders rigid and hands clasped in her lap. I see Jasmine and Zane exchange a tiny look; they’ve already judged her, and they don’t think she’s a good fit. Too uptight. Jasmine introduces herself. Then Zane. And then it’s my turn, and I have to make a decision.

Emily is calculating. Not in a cold way. She just always considers all the possible outcomes before doing anything, while also being the tiniest bit reckless. Which means that if she’d wanted my bandmates to know about us, she would have told me. For whatever reason, this is how she wants to do things, and I owe it to her to play along. I owe her at least that much.

It’s my turn, and I put on my usual audition smile, the one that says nothing is out of the ordinary and I definitely didn’t write my first ever songs with this girl in middle school. It’s not the smile I want to give her after all this time, but when she sees it, her shoulders relax. I’ve made the right call. I can still read her. “I’m Casey. I play bass, some guitar, and write a lot of the songs.” Before Edwin can correct me to say I write most of the songs, I add, “What are you going to sing?”

What I did to her wasn’t that bad. We had started to grow apart in high school anyway. She was always with her boyfriend, and I was busy with orchestra. All I did was forget to reply to a text she sent me during our first year of college. I thought of her from time to time, but I’m not a big texter, and I figured we’d see each other on breaks. If she had tried again, I would have responded. I just…didn’t know how to start a conversation.

After we released our first album, she texted me again. She had listened to it; I suspected more than once. She was so complimentary, and I didn’t know what to say. I hate compliments. Whenever I write a new song, I email it to Edwin or throw the sheet music at him and run away, to avoid his gushing.

When I was a kid, everyone always called me a little genius. Said I was brilliant, in art and music. What do you say to that? “Thanks, I know”? Do you take the humble route and deny it, adding humility to your repertoire of good qualities? I usually didn’t say anything. The words got stuck in my throat, especially because I didn’t believe a word of it.

I still don’t believe it, even now, when I’m supposedly successful.

A genius wouldn’t have to practice the viola until her fingers bled. A genius wouldn’t give up the violin for the viola, and then the viola for the bass, because it was easier to make first chair that way. A genius wouldn’t ignore texts from the only person who never called her a genius, someone who was a genius in her own right.

And now she’s here, in my rehearsal space, about to sing—

“—an original song.” She doesn’t look at me, and I hope it’s not the one she recorded on her phone and texted to me two years ago. I don’t think I could keep up this act if she sings that song. “May I?” she asks, gesturing towards the keyboard. Jasmine nods. She sits and adjust her hands, and I count the seconds until she says, apologetically, “I can only play chords.”

“That’s fine,” Edwin says. “We’re not looking for a keyboard player.”

My stomach clenches as she plays the first chord. I’m nervous for her, but I know I don’t need to be. Maybe I’m nervous for myself, because if they like her as much as I know they will, things are going to get awkward very quickly. She starts to sing, and I try not to lose myself in her voice, so I listen to the lyrics instead. It’s a new song, one I haven’t heard before.

It’s about me. This song is about me. Or maybe not. Maybe I’m reading into it.

No, it’s definitely about me.

Shit.

Of course, no one else could possibly know that, and it’s not like they care about the lyrics anyway. As I expected, they’re in awe of her voice: Edwin has dropped his pencil and is smiling like he has a secret; Jasmine is nodding with her eyes closed; Zane’s mouth is agape.

I’m not surprised when Edwin stands and goes to sit next to Emily on the piano bench and starts harmonizing with the final chorus. She fumbles on the keys when he does, but her voice doesn’t waver. They sound perfect, of course. How did I not think of this before? Of course it’s Emily we’ve been searching for.

Emboldened by Edwin’s move, she adds an extra chorus and repeats the verse. We would have cut anyone else off after a single chorus. It’s not just her singing. It’s the song itself. It’s sweet and scathing and haunting all at once, the kind of song that transports you and makes you feel like it was written with you in mind.

In my case, it was.

Finally, she gently lifts her hands from the keyboard, places them back in her lap, and turns to us, her expression a pleasant mask. Zane breaks into applause and Jasmine elbows him. Edwin has a huge grin on his face, the likes of which I haven’t seen since we played our first show back in college. Knowing Edwin, he’s probably a little in love with her. It’s kind of hard not to be.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

“We have your contact info, so you’re all set.” Edwin’s tone is brisk; he’s back to business. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you.” She smiles at us and goes to the door.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Zane throws his head back and lifts his hands in victory. “She’s amazing,” he begins, and I know he’ll ramble for at least a few minutes. I zone out and my eyes drift towards the piano. Her jacket is still laying next to the bench.

I know she didn’t leave that jacket by accident. Emily doesn’t forget things. “I’ll be right back,” I say, crossing the room to pick up the jacket. “Maybe she didn’t leave yet.”

Outside, she’s not even in her car, just leaning against it. She straightens when I approach. I hold up the jacket. “Looking for this?”

She doesn’t meet my eyes. “We both know I left that on purpose.”

“Yeah.” We’re both quiet. Eight years since we’ve seen each other, and this is the best we can do. “Why didn’t you tell me you were auditioning?”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

“Oh, come on, give me a real answer. Not a sarcastic one.”

She purses her lips. “Okay, fine. “I wanted them to like me for me. Not because they like you. And…I didn’t want you to tell me not to come.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know. It’s been so long, and I don’t know anything about you. You left. And you never—”

“I didn’t leave. You left. You moved to another state. I didn’t go anywhere. You don’t know anything about me? You know enough to find out that my band was having auditions and show up without telling me and audition with a song you wrote about me.”

She’s doesn’t argue, which means I’m right. “I have to go back in,” I say, throwing a thumb over my shoulder towards the door. Even though this isn’t how I want to leave things. Even though I have so much more to say.

“Casey?” she says timidly. I put my hands on my hips and lift my chin, inviting her to continue. “Are you going to tell them?”

It hurts so much to look at her, to hear her sing. I can’t imagine facing that hurt every day, in rehearsals and on stage. And yet, I want her in our group. I want to write with her again. Music is how I’ve always coped when I’m hurt. Like my once bleeding fingers, I know that this, too, can heal.

“I’m going to tell them I know you. And I’m going to tell them I want you in our band.”

She inhales deeply and closes her eyes. “Thank you. And Casey?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve missed you.”

“I…” Before I can finish my thought, I hear the door open behind us. I turn and see Zane peeking out.

“Casey? You coming back?” he calls. His voice drops to a loud whisper, the quietest he can get at this distance. “You know Edwin’s rule about talking after auditions.” I do. It’s very strict, and I could disqualify Emily just by talking to her about her audition.

“She’s coming! I was just saying thank you for getting my jacket.” Emily answers for me, an innocent smile plastered on her face. Then she winks, so subtly that I swear I imagined it. “See you soon, I hope,” she whispers, and then she gets in her car and pulls out of the driveway.

Zane looks at me curiously but doesn’t say anything as we walk back inside. We have a few more auditions to get through before I can make my case for Emily, not that I think I'll have any trouble convincing everyone. I zone out again during the auditions, but now I’m not thinking about Lilah. I’m thinking about Emily, and the hurt in her eyes when she said she’d missed me, but mostly, I’m thinking about her song. About the last line, which was the same as the first:

I’m not sure how it’s over when it never really started. I guess this time it’s up to me.

**author's note: this is sequel of sorts to my story 'the debut album', so if you're curious about these characters, I'd recommend reading that one as well**