Page 145 of Silver Sweet

PHOENIX

Jeremy is working with our booking agent to secure guarantees and bonuses. We also have merch in production. I’ll have some cash flow during the tour. Don’t worry.

My mom’s response is what I predicted but not what I hoped.

MOM

You should still consider taking some gigs, if you can. It’s good to keep that door open. You don’t want to burn bridges.

It’s what they’ve always told Birdie during his time with Nothing Personal.Don’t burn bridges. Always have the back-up plan ready to go.

My temples throb even harder, and I down the rest of my energy drink. I remember the call I got from Birdie when the tour was announced. “Knew it,” he told me. “You’re going to wish you already started training. Remember me during your first vom session.”

“Yeah, that won’t be happening,” I replied. “I’ve already started hitting the gym every morning.”With Tom.He’s been singing and sprinting on the treadmill, but I avoided mentioning him so Birdie didn’t give me more shit. “Anyway, Riot might shorten the schedule like they did for Nothing Personal unless we fund the tour ourselves. They haven’t said how presales are doing, so we’re thinking they might not be great.”

Birdie disagreed. “As soon as the album drops and you gain momentum on tour, Riot will probably add dates. They’ll send you to Europe, South America—hell, probably Australia and New Zealand.” I would never call my brother a hopeless optimist, but it’s hard for me to adopt the same relentless positivity.

Even if I love this album with every fiber of my fucking being, it’s hard to believe the label will back us to that degree. They can’t funnel that type of money to every band on their roster, and being chosen is like being dubbed Prom King.

There is onlyoneout of the student body.

About a hundred factors play into being picked. Presales, marketability, trends, and maybe our music just doesn’t fit thecurrent stasis of rock. Maybe it’s not going to be everyone’s thing. Maybe Riot knows that and would prefer a sure bet.

Maybe my parents are just in my head. Feeding me spoonfuls of realism from miles away.

Michelle finishes with my body paint, and I get behind the drums on the fake glacier. I feel better here. Worries float away as soon as I have the sticks in my hand.

Tom gives me a supportive nod from below.

I nod back.

The director says, “We’re running playback for this take. Wolfgang”—he points to me, and it’s slowly sinking in that the world will know me by my middle name—“start at the chorus. Tom, same for you.”

“Nuclear Winter” sounds loud over the speakers with Tom’s guttural vocals silencing the whole room.

34

TOM COBALT

Something needs to change.

The end of March isdays, not weeks, away. Our deadline is an ugly gargoyle staring down at me, and I can’t concentrate enough to flesh out the last song. I’m so paranoid we won’t finish that it’s become debilitating. The only thing that snaps my brain away from impending failure is Phoenix.

So I have a brilliant thought when I wake up on this rainy Friday morning. I text my drummer.

TOM CARRAWAY

Green light

Fuck roadblocks. Fuck yellow lights. I’m not proceeding with caution anymore.

The band is better for it.

“Tom?”

My heart rate instantly spikes, and I jump out of my skin at Beckett’s voice. I knock over several hardcovers on Charlie’s wooden bookshelf.

“Shit,” I curse.