“We’re all really tense with each other. Like I keep saying the wrong thing and making people mad.”
“Oh. That’s awful, I’m sorry.”
I force a smile, even though she can’t see it. “It is what it is.”
“But honestly, Zach, it’s surprising that it’s taken this long. If you make anyone spend as much time together as you four have there are sure to be disagreements.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m guessing a lot of the tension is coming from Ruben?”
I freeze. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh! Um. I mean, I saw some talk online, and put two and two together. Is it true?”
“Yep. He won’t even look at me.”
“That doesn’t sound like him.”
“I know. I think I might’ve upset him.”
“And now that doesn’t sound like you.”
“Yeah, but things have been … different lately. I might’ve said something wrong accidentally or something. I don’t know.”
“Have you tried apologizing?”
“Yeah. He said I haven’t done anything wrong. But he’s treating me like we’re not even friends, and I don’t know what he wants from me. Or, I do, but it’s not really … it’s not something I’m sure I can give him.”
“Oh, wow. Did he try and hit on you?”
I can tell from her voice she already thinks he did. If I don’t cover this up, she’s going to figure out what we did. Mom has always been scarily astute; she knew Hannah and I were into each other even when I introduced her as just a friend. This conversation is suddenly a danger zone, and I need to get the fuck out.
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, if he made a move and you turned him down, then he started giving you the silent treatment, that’s on him, not on you.”
“But…”
“No buts. You don’t owe him anything, it’s really important to me that you know that.”
“I know.”
I want to find some way, any way, to fix this conversation. Because now I’m throwing Ruben under the bus when I know he hasn’t done anything wrong, and it’s making me feel sick. Mom will remember this, and it will forever shape how she feels about Ruben.
“Listen,” she says. “I know you, and I know you wouldn’t ever say anything to hurt anyone’s feelings, and I’m sure you handled turning him down with grace. So if Ruben is being cold to you, it says more about him than it does about you.”
“Right.”
“Plus, the stress of the tour could be getting to him. People are complicated, it’s often more than one thing that’s upsetting them.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“So go easy on yourself, all right? It sounds like you’ve done nothing wrong. And Ruben will come around. Just make it clear you’re there for him, just as a friend.”
“I will. Anyway, I’m sorry to vent.”
“Don’t be. I’m sorry all this is happening. I hope it gets better.”
“Me, too. Thanks, Mom. This helped a lot, so thanks.”
“Of course! I’m always here for you. And if you ever want to talk more, you can, okay? About anything.”
“Yep, I know.”
“Okay, cool. Look after yourself, all right?”
“All right. I’ll let you go to bed. Night.”
“Night. Or, well, morning. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I hang up. The energy leaves my body, and I can’t even move. I chew my lip and try to stop the tears from brimming, but I can’t help it.
All these lies, and I don’t even know why I’m saying them.
I glance around. The room is dark, and still.
I’m totally alone.
NINE
RUBEN
I’m halfway through a workout in our hotel gym in Antwerp when Mom calls me.
In a weird way, I’m almost expecting it when she does. Growing up, working on myself acted almost like a summoning spell for her. She’d just materialize from the shadows in a poof, whatever I was doing, with what she liked to call constructive feedback. Endless, relentless constructive feedback.
You’re not enunciating, I can’t tell what you’re saying, it’s just “muh muh meh meh muh.”
I don’t know how you expect to get this move when you can barely even land a box step on the beat. Why are you always in such a rush to get ahead of yourself before you’ve mastered the basics?
Where’s the emotion? You look like you’re watching paint dry. I don’t care if no one’s watching, you need to practice the way you plan to deliver it.
She says I can’t take feedback, but I can. I take everything our team gives me to heart, and I’m constantly overhearing glowing, whispered exchanges about how well I implement critique. How I never need to be told twice. Of course I don’t. I learned early that needing to be told twice came with consequences, and it’s not a lesson I’m likely to unlearn now. The thing about Mom is, though, she doesn’t judge the finished product, she judges the process. She doesn’t seem to believe in “learning.”
For example, if you want to increase your upper range—which I worked on just this morning before heading down here to blow off steam—you get there gradually, by pushing your voice past your comfort zone. I’m only following my vocal coach’s instructions, and she’s always assured me that doing it right involves aiming and missing, with cracked notes and flat notes and a ton of other embarrassing sounds, until you’re hitting it, consistently and with ease. But growing up, I was shamed for this very process. How could I sound so bad, my mom would ask, when she was paying so much on the best training? Why wasn’t I listening to my teachers? Why wasn’t I doing it right?
So, I learned to practice increasing my range only when my parents were out and there was no one to hear me mess it up. It helped, doing it in private. At least, at first. It meant I was the only one left who knew just how terrible I could sound. But that meant the only voice that directed cutting jabs at me, cringed when I messed up, and told me I would never get it right the first time, was the voice that lived inside my head.