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Authors: Alexandra Coutts
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into the overflowing parking lot.
On stage, the music stops abruptly and the old-timers are taking curt little bows. The next group files quietly in behind them, and it isn’t until the bearded banjos are cleared from the stage that Sienna spots Owen. His long dark hair is tucked behind his ears and he’s wedged impressively behind a portable keyboard, with two separate levels of keys and a series of pedals at his feet.
There’s a drummer, a girl with short blond dreadlocks, and a skinny Asian kid playing guitar. The three of them immediately dig into their instruments, and a heavy wall of sound fills the room. From behind a curtain pulled to the side, a girl walks slowly and deliberately to the microphone.
Sienna doesn’t recognize her right away. Her small, curvy body is tucked into a floral-print dress with a narrow leather belt cinching her tiny waist, and on her feet, brown suede ankle boots with tassels on the sides. Her shoulder-length fire-red hair is teased so that it looks like it’s been through a tornado.
But there’s something about the way she walks—slow, almost dreamlike steps—that feels familiar. In a flash, they’re on the beach. Sienna is running, being chased by a boy with seaweed in his hair. Behind them, a little girl drags her feet lazily through the waves, a rainbow on the belly of her faded one-piece suit.
Sienna looks up at the stage. Owen plays with his eyes closed and his body hunched and tight, his long fingers frantically stretching across the keys. He’s good, but he was right; Carly steals the show. Even before she’s opened her mouth to sing, Sienna can’t stop staring. Neither, it seems, can anyone else in the crowd; at the sight of her, they immediately start cheering and hollering like crazed college football fans.
And then there’s her voice. Owen was right about that, too; it is like sandpaper. Gravelly and gruff, but tinged with little girly riffs and a strong, belting vibrato. Instead of the indie hipster music Sienna expected, the band plays a full set of standards, upbeat love songs and bluesy ballads.
“Wow.” Sienna turns, after what feels like ten seconds but must have been at least four songs, to see that Ryan is gone. Dad is squeezed into the flimsy folding chair beside her, his blue eyes glassy and focused on Carly. Sienna knows what he’s thinking before he says it. “Your mother would have loved this.”
Sienna’s stomach twists into a knot. They used to be able to talk about her, not all the time, but after a while they’d each found their own way to say her name out loud. But now it feels different. It feels wrong and cheap and forced, as if Dad’s making a special point to remind her that just because he’s seeing somebody new, she’s not forgotten.
“Where’s Ryan?” Sienna asks flatly, pushing back from the table and scanning the length of the room.
“He went with Denny to get more food.” Dad gestures to the buffet behind them. “Said something about you contaminating his plate?”
Sienna rolls her eyes and fakes a smile. On stage, Owen is in the middle of a solo. His hands are flying over the keys, alternating quick, short runs with full, complex chords. Carly sways beside him, and every so often he looks up from the keys to catch her eye. It’s as if he needs to know she’s watching, like he’s playing just for her. Sienna feels something hard in her chest, followed by a sinking numbness.
She doesn’t realize that the music has stopped until the applause is almost over. She joins in late, clapping as Carly and Owen hug on stage. Owen hops to the floor and Sienna watches as he’s swallowed by a crowd of his friends.
She gets up to refill her plate. The Center is packed with bodies and all of them seem to be funneling her into the buffet line. There are rows and rows of dishes and plates, half-ravaged pans of lasagna, big chopped salads, and cooling ears of corn on the cob. Sienna lifts a plate from the top of a short pile
On stage, the music stops abruptly and the old-timers are taking curt little bows. The next group files quietly in behind them, and it isn’t until the bearded banjos are cleared from the stage that Sienna spots Owen. His long dark hair is tucked behind his ears and he’s wedged impressively behind a portable keyboard, with two separate levels of keys and a series of pedals at his feet.
There’s a drummer, a girl with short blond dreadlocks, and a skinny Asian kid playing guitar. The three of them immediately dig into their instruments, and a heavy wall of sound fills the room. From behind a curtain pulled to the side, a girl walks slowly and deliberately to the microphone.
Sienna doesn’t recognize her right away. Her small, curvy body is tucked into a floral-print dress with a narrow leather belt cinching her tiny waist, and on her feet, brown suede ankle boots with tassels on the sides. Her shoulder-length fire-red hair is teased so that it looks like it’s been through a tornado.
But there’s something about the way she walks—slow, almost dreamlike steps—that feels familiar. In a flash, they’re on the beach. Sienna is running, being chased by a boy with seaweed in his hair. Behind them, a little girl drags her feet lazily through the waves, a rainbow on the belly of her faded one-piece suit.
Sienna looks up at the stage. Owen plays with his eyes closed and his body hunched and tight, his long fingers frantically stretching across the keys. He’s good, but he was right; Carly steals the show. Even before she’s opened her mouth to sing, Sienna can’t stop staring. Neither, it seems, can anyone else in the crowd; at the sight of her, they immediately start cheering and hollering like crazed college football fans.
And then there’s her voice. Owen was right about that, too; it is like sandpaper. Gravelly and gruff, but tinged with little girly riffs and a strong, belting vibrato. Instead of the indie hipster music Sienna expected, the band plays a full set of standards, upbeat love songs and bluesy ballads.
“Wow.” Sienna turns, after what feels like ten seconds but must have been at least four songs, to see that Ryan is gone. Dad is squeezed into the flimsy folding chair beside her, his blue eyes glassy and focused on Carly. Sienna knows what he’s thinking before he says it. “Your mother would have loved this.”
Sienna’s stomach twists into a knot. They used to be able to talk about her, not all the time, but after a while they’d each found their own way to say her name out loud. But now it feels different. It feels wrong and cheap and forced, as if Dad’s making a special point to remind her that just because he’s seeing somebody new, she’s not forgotten.
“Where’s Ryan?” Sienna asks flatly, pushing back from the table and scanning the length of the room.
“He went with Denny to get more food.” Dad gestures to the buffet behind them. “Said something about you contaminating his plate?”
Sienna rolls her eyes and fakes a smile. On stage, Owen is in the middle of a solo. His hands are flying over the keys, alternating quick, short runs with full, complex chords. Carly sways beside him, and every so often he looks up from the keys to catch her eye. It’s as if he needs to know she’s watching, like he’s playing just for her. Sienna feels something hard in her chest, followed by a sinking numbness.
She doesn’t realize that the music has stopped until the applause is almost over. She joins in late, clapping as Carly and Owen hug on stage. Owen hops to the floor and Sienna watches as he’s swallowed by a crowd of his friends.
She gets up to refill her plate. The Center is packed with bodies and all of them seem to be funneling her into the buffet line. There are rows and rows of dishes and plates, half-ravaged pans of lasagna, big chopped salads, and cooling ears of corn on the cob. Sienna lifts a plate from the top of a short pile
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