Every Bright and Broken Thing

Chapter Seven - Liam

Sometimes, life feels like a constant struggle to catch your breath. Every now and then you get a fresh wind, but then it runs out and what are you left with? Nothing but the memory of what it felt like to breathe.

Music is my fresh wind. When I'm performing with the Landmarks, losing myself in that small, spectacular moment, I'm breathless in the best kind of way. And that's why, as I ride my brother's old motorcycle to the party, my heart is pounding so fast. I need to breathe. Even if it's just for a moment. Even if it means I'll still be drowning when it's over.

The deep shadows of dusk descend upon Summit as I roar through the neighborhoods at the speed of light. Guitar strapped to my back, excitement burns inside my bones.

When I get there, the party is already going hard. Parking my bike on the side of the street, I make my way down the sidewalk and into the house. Except "house" probably isn't the right word – it's more like a mansion. Darren's parents are super rich. As soon as I walk through the tall, wood door I'm blown away by how much bigger it seems on the inside. An enormous chandelier hangs over the foyer. Two sets of staircases follow the curve of the side walls and lead to the second floor. Upperclassmen fill the house. Some dance to the sound of whatever playlist they have going right now. Others are busy talking to each other – well, trying. The music pulses through every part of the house and sends vibrations through the marble floor beneath my feet.

"Liam! Bro!" Theo shouts from the balcony above, hands cupped around his mouth as he hollers.

Half-smiling, I wave up at him.

Jace's head pops up from the middle of a herd of students. Spying me, he hollers and pushes his way through the mass of sweaty student bodies. The whole house reeks of BO and cheap beer.

Squeezing my shoulder, Jace shoves a red Solo cup into my hand hard enough for some of its contents to slosh over and spill down my fingers. I let it drip over my knuckles and fall to the floor.

"Where should we set up?" I shout over the sounds of music and drunken conversation. Somewhere, a crowd cheers while one of the underclassmen does a keg stand. I almost feel bad for tonight's victim, because they're going to wake up tomorrow with the regret pulsing through their skulls. But, at least at Reagan High, keg stands are almost a tradition. It's a rite of passage and an honor to be hoisted onto the shoulders of seniors as they carry you around then force you to indulge in the pastime.

"Darren set up a stage in the family room. The rest of the guys are setting up already."

Jace and I make our way through the house to join the rest of the band in the family room. Sitting on the edge of the small, makeshift stage, Theo tunes his bass guitar. Jace hops up onto the stage and situates himself at the drums. Will, our keyboardist and synth god bobs his head to the music as he adjusts the settings on his Yamaha. Off to the side of the stage, I set my guitar case down, undo the clasps, and open it to see my Gibson electric guitar, the black paint perfectly polished and glimmering under the flashing lights. I stand, throwing the strap over my head so that it rests perfectly balanced on my right shoulder. I position my left hand on the neck of the guitar, fingers gliding over the strings, palm brushing the glossy finish of the neck.

"You ready, bro?" Theo asks, grinning ear to ear.

I smile and say, "I was born ready."

"You got those vocal chords warmed up and hydrated? Can't afford to dry out the money-maker."

I laugh. "We're more than just my voice."

Theo shrugs, situating himself to my left and adjusting the pedals at his feet. "Mm-hmm," he says, clearly not convinced.