A few hours later, my chocolate locks are melted against the back of my neck and my feet are dragging as I walk with my best friend and four sizzling-hot rock stars along a row of tents. When the guys emphasized that the festival was ‘down South’ and that it was going to be ‘warm’, I had no idea it would feel like sunbathing on the equator. Distant music drifts to my sweat-sprinkled ears from the area where the stages are, but right now we’re searching for food. “Can I borrow your hair tie?” I beg Rowan. “Just for like . . . an hour.”
She shakes her head. “I told you to wear one. You should’ve brought one along.”
I throw both arms in the air. “And put it where? I’m wearing like fifty billion wristbands!” I’ve purchased one at almost every band merchandise tent we’ve stopped at because they cover my faded bruises, help me fit in, and are way cuter than I’d ever willingly admit.
Without warning, Joel steps in front of me and scoops me over his good shoulder. His other is still healing, but the stitches in his knuckles were removed yesterday, so he’s looking like less of a mess. “There,” he says while I hang upside down like a soggy noodle, “now your hair is off your neck and your feet don’t hurt. Stop whining.”
Adam, Shawn, and Mike all laugh, but I’m too busy enjoying the reprieve from walking to mind. “Thank God.”
Joel chuckles and carries me all the way to the barbecue pit, where he sets me back on my feet and we all get in line. I insist I don’t want anything, but Joel orders a sandwich for me anyway, and the band covers the tab before we commandeer a long picnic table.
Today, I taped neon-green flyers everywhere. Between the handouts and the ads I posted online, I’m hoping we’ll have a good turnout for auditions next weekend. I’m taking this project and my debt to the band as seriously as I’ve ever taken anything—I’m going to sit in on auditions and make sure to see this through. The sooner Cody is replaced, the sooner I can feel like he’s not missing, like he’s not going to pop back up and finish what he started.
“So are you having fun?” Adam asks Rowan and me as he puffs on a freshly lit cigarette, and I pull a smile back onto my face as I watch his free hand distractedly tug strands of hair from Rowan’s messy bun.
“Aside from the stalking, yeah,” she grumbles, batting Adam’s hand away while I chuckle. At home, most people are used to having the guys around. Fans ask for pictures and try to hang out, but they usually don’t lose their minds or do weird things like follow us around. Here, the guys are one of the smaller bands, but there have been a few diehard fans who have been hard to get rid of, including one weird little girl wearing a The Last Ones to Know T-shirt who screamed so loudly I thought she was going to pass out.
Adam smiles and leans in to kiss the corner of Rowan’s mouth, slow in a way that makes my cheeks just as red as it makes hers. I look away and add, “I just wish we knew where and when all the bands are playing.”
ManiFest is like Mayhem in that it’s organized chaos. Part of the gimmick is that they don’t reveal the performance schedule ahead of time. The philosophy is that attendees should pick stages at random and experience new music and become fans of new bands—which is awesome up until you miss your favorite band because you had no clue where or when they’d be performing.
“What band do you want to see?” Joel asks, gazing over at me from behind black shades. He’s dressed in long black jean shorts and a royal-blue tank top with extra long armholes. It hangs loosely over his fit body, revealing the tattooed script running down his side and making him look deliciously rocker. Even girls who had no idea he’s a rock star have stared at him like he’s a rock star, and I’ve pretended not to notice.
“Cutting the Line,” I say without needing to think about it, “and maybe the Lost Keys.” Both bands are huge right now—so huge that I’d recognize most of the members if I saw them walking around. I’ve kept an eye out, but so far, no luck.
“Alright,” Joel says, pulling out his phone, “I have Phil’s number. Who has Van’s?”
My eyes widen when I realize he’s in the process of texting one of the guitarists of the Lost Keys and has just asked the guys who has the number for the lead singer of Cutting the Line. Van Erickson is a God right now, and Cutting the Line is the main reason I wanted to come to the festival.
“Are you serious?” I breathe.
Joel’s black sunglasses are staring down at his phone, but the corner of his lips tugs into an amused smirk.
“I have Van’s,” Adam says, already texting a message.
Rowan and I share a look, and a minute later, Joel tells me where and when the Lost Keys are performing and Adam tells us where and when Cutting the Line is set to play.
“I can’t believe you know them,” I say, too stunned to bother eating the pulled-pork sandwich on the slip of foil in front of me. Joel lifts his up and takes a big bite.
“We opened for the Lost Keys a few times last summer,” Shawn explains from down the table. “And Cutting the Line came to one of our shows out near where they live.”