Wreck the Halls

Melody peeked around the side of Beat’s shoulder to gauge Octavia’s reaction to the chanting guests and was once again struck by the vast differences between Beat’s mother and Trina. Trina would already be kicking over tables or storming the stage, while Octavia’s expression was a mask of absolute calm, her hands folded neatly at her waist.

Melody had once watched a cable television documentary about Steel Birds titled A Flight of Fancy. In one of the interview segments, the former band manager claimed that Octavia Dawkins couldn’t be rattled. Nothing caught the lead singer off guard. A rotisserie chicken had once been tossed onstage and she’d ripped off a leg midair and chomped into it, without missing a lyric, which had to be the most badass thing Melody had ever heard. She definitely would have been knocked unconscious by a flying chicken. No question.

Man, Melody envied that kind of cool.

The kind on display now.

Octavia was a golden goddess in a Grecian-style gown, trimmed in crimson lace, her dark hair in a twist atop her head. She pulsed with presence, surrounded by a rapt, now eerily silent audience, and there wasn’t so much as a tick behind her eye. “Beat, darling, please read the correct wish,” she finally called.

The chants returned and only swelled in volume then, swallowing up whatever Beat said into the microphone. Octavia tossed an indulgent laugh at the enthusiastic crowd, one that said, Ha-ha, very funny, but there is not a chance in hell. And then she began to ascend the staircase like a queen preparing to address the population. The hand Beat was using to hold the microphone dropped to his side, and he sighed, obviously waiting for his mother to put an end to their mission before it even got off the ground.

His resignation kicked something into gear within Melody.

She couldn’t just hide back here. Octavia was going to take the mic, disregard the idea of a reunion, and their first—maybe only?—attempt at making it happen was going to be wasted. Perhaps Beat wasn’t ready to confide in Melody why exactly he needed the million dollars so badly, but the point was, he did. She’d agreed to this live stream to help him—and help herself. She wanted independence? Remaining in the background wasn’t an option.

Before Octavia could reach them in the center of the staircase, Melody stepped out from behind Beat and removed her mask. Based on the room’s reaction, half of them already knew her identity—thanks to Wreck the Halls—and the other half were only more confused.

Octavia paused midstep and slowly removed her own mask. “It stands to reason that the first time I lay eyes on you, you’re crashing my party. Like mother like daughter, I suppose.”

Now the other half of the ballroom was up to speed, gasps abounding.

“Hi. Hello, Mrs. Dawkins. This isn’t how I pictured us meeting. I mean, I never expected us to meet, really, but definitely not at a party where you’ve been carried in by a bank of swans. That’s what you call them when they’re in a group. A bank. Unless they’re in the water, in which case, it’s a bevy.”

Her cheeks warmed and she glanced up to find Beat watching her with a bemused smile. “This has been swan talk with Melody Gallard,” he said.

Her chest loosened. Not quite enough to laugh, not with every eye in the joint trained on her, but something inside of her relaxed. “Um.” With an effort, she stopped staring into Beat’s sparkling blue eyes and shifted her focus to Octavia once more. “Like I said, it’s so nice to meet you. I’m a big fan, like everyone else. Could we . . .”

Talk privately. That’s what she was going to say. But . . .

Oh no.

A terrible idea occurred to her. Or perhaps, a glorious one.

Saying it out loud was probably going to be a huge mistake.

But it was one of those moments where the impossible seemed possible. This idea was the one chance to save humanity in the Avengers: End Game, as predicted by Doctor Strange. It might be their only hope of actually making this reunion happen and for some reason, maybe because she was currently looking a legendary rock star in the eye, Melody suddenly wanted very much to make the Steel Birds reunion a reality. She wanted to have this success with Beat. She wanted it for everyone on the planet. Maybe she’d been laughing at the idea for so long she’d never stopped to consider how happy it would make billions of people.

And wow, the fact that they had the responsibility in their hands was a rush of power.

Since when did she enjoy rushes of power?

Just say it. Before this little squiggle of time passed them by.

“I’m here because my mother, Trina Gallard, wants to reunite the band.”

She sensed Beat’s jaw dropping.

Octavia jolted.

Had Melody just rattled the unshakable lead singer?

“Rotisserie chickens have nothing on me,” she murmured.

Beat made a choked sound. “I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth.”

“Me either.”

“I’m sorry,” Octavia said, coming closer. “Did you say that Trina wants to reunite?”

Camera phone flashes were going off at the speed of light. Melody thought of her mother, holed up in her New Hampshire hippie compound, shunning the outside world, including television and the internet. She no longer had a manager or an agent to relay news to her. The chances were extremely high that Trina knew nothing about Wreck the Halls and wouldn’t see this moment unfolding. Thank goodness.

“Yes, that is what I said.”

“What have you done?” Beat whispered to her out of the side of his mouth.

“This is improv,” she whispered back. “At least, I think it’s improv. I was too afraid to take the classes. Or ask for a refund.”

His sides started to shake.

Octavia regarded their interaction like a scientist peering through a microscope. “How much time have you two been spending together exactly?” She sounded fascinated, speaking almost to herself. “I’ll admit, I’ve always wondered if you two would . . . click.”

Beat cleared his throat. “Maybe we could continue this conversation privately?”

“No need.” Octavia’s laugh carried across the stone silent ballroom. “There isn’t enough Botox in New York to erase the kind of wrinkles Trina’s presence would give me.” She waved an elegant hand at Melody. “No offense, darling.”

“None taken. She could overwrinkle a shar-pei.”

A guffaw burst out of Octavia. “Oh God, you just had to be adorable, didn’t you? I’m going to hate telling you no.”

“So don’t,” Beat said. “Hear us out.”

Applause and whistles broke out around the ballroom. When the sound continued to escalate, Beat pulled Melody into his side and partially blocked her from view, ignoring the cameraman’s signal to bring her back into the shot. Melody was so caught off guard by the protective gesture that she almost missed Octavia’s interested head tilt.

“Oh dear . . .” muttered the former rock princess, sauntering back down the stairs and indicating a doorway into the adjoining coatroom. “Fine. I suppose I will hear you out, before I decline. But only because it’s Christmas.”

“That’s the spirit,” Melody said, starting to follow Octavia. But she was brought up short by Beat circling an arm around her shoulder, keeping her glued to his side.