Born Wrong(5)
Naomi groans, but Hayden smiles, scooting over and leaning her forehead against my arm.
“Tell me I can do this, Dax,” she whispers, but I don't know what to say to her because I'm not even sure if I can do this. I pull Hayden into a small half-hug anyway and pretend nobody's watching. They don't know the things I know, why she does what she does, but I do. I do and that's why I slept with her. Because I felt sorry for her. I feel horrible, but I can't say it's because I love her; I don't. Well, not like that. I mean, I do love Hayden, but not the way I love Naomi. Hayden doesn't make my mouth dry or my body ache, but I care what happens to her.
“You can do this,” I respond automatically. “You can because you have to.” You can because your daughter is counting on you to make it happen.
“Oh, beg for this body, baby,” Hayden growls as she pushes between the curtains, transforming right before my eyes. She turns from an insecure, frightened girl to a powerful woman. Her hair changes from mousy brown to chocolate, burning bright under the spotlight as it trails across the stage. The gold shirt she's wearing reflects across the darkness like a disco ball while Hayden sways her hips and bends low, breathing into the microphone. Beside me, Naomi sighs begrudgingly. No matter how anybody feels about Hayden, they have to give her credit for being able to put on a good show. And her voice onstage is pure magic. She might not be a Turner Campbell or even a Naomi Knox, but she has fans that adore her. “Can I get some love?” she asks, pouting out her lips, putting her hand on her skinny hip.
Backstage, the collective breath of the staff is hushed, waiting for America to give us the cue to walk out. For whatever reason, she's letting the crowd get fixated on Hayden. I was under the impression she was in the anti-Hayden camp, so I'm a little confused. I don't get her intentions and that makes me nervous. America might've just fessed up to the whole Travis-Tyler-Stephen fiasco, but that doesn't mean she's told us everything. Naomi and Turner, even Ronnie, they all see this is as black and white. Good guys versus bad guys. But I learned a long time ago that the world only functions in shades of gray.
The crowd roars and ripples, a dark demon crouching in wait, just a taste of the evil that lurks behind the massive monitors that flank either side of the stage. Those are the eyes of the devil. I shiver and close my eyes, counting to ten under my breath. When I open them, I see the other members of Amatory Riot are already three steps ahead of me, shifting as they go from unseen to noticed, from invisible to ubiquitous. America is giving me a hurry the fuck up look and before I know it, I'm out there, too, smiling tightly, keeping my gaze focused on the dais at the back of the stage.
The dichotomy of a drummer: worshipped but forgotten. We all feel it at some point in our careers. Look at me, I've got this raised bit of stage all to myself, a veritable throne of shimmering cymbals and glossy black shelled tom drums. I'm the only person in the auditorium who's seated, like a judge presiding over his court. At the same time, I spend the majority of my time shrouded in darkness, the single still body in a waving sea of motion. I don't get to put on a show with anything but my sticks. No hair swinging, foot stomping, shirt tearing madness.
But I can still work it. I have to work it. This is all I'm good for, all I want to do with my life. I have to prove myself not only to the world, not only to my father, but also to me. I have to convince myself that my talent is worth something, that I am worth something. I move behind Naomi and Kash, watching as they swing their instruments over their shoulders, as their backs expand with massive breaths.
I keep my eyes downcast as I ascend the steps to my kit, settling myself on the black leather stool, the throne as it's quite literally referred to. My hands find my sticks, my body finds a rhythm. I let my eyes close and listen to Hayden warming up the crowd, clapping her hands and swaying in time with the beat. My arms move, as if by their own accord, seeking that same rhythm, honing in on the gentle murmur of Naomi's guitar and the haunting whisper of Blair's keyboard.
“Beg for this body, baby, but don't be surprised if I say no. Oh, no. Don't be surprised if I tell you to take a hike.”
“Oh no, no no,” Naomi murmurs into her mic. Her voice is more subdued now than it was when she was singing with Turner, softer somehow. I open my eyes and watch her as she strums her Wolfgang with gentle fingers. It's like stepping back in time. Even though we're playing in front of God knows how many people, changing the future forever, I can see her onstage at the county fair, hugging the area near my drums, too shy to move forward and step into Hayden's spotlight. Something isn't right here, I tell myself as I picture that day under the sun, our audience less than a hundred faces. If one of them hadn't been America, we wouldn't be here today. I can't decide if that's a good or a bad thing.