Okay! Here it is. The beginning of my first writing assignment for school. I have a lot more than this, but I'm just posting the beginning for now. This is based VERY LOOSELY on reality. I think anyone who knows me well enough will figure out which parts draw from reality, and what reality from my life they exhibit. So I won't explain that any further. FEEDBACK IS MORE THAN WELCOME, EVEN IF IT'S MEAN. Parts II, III, IV, etc. will come with time. But... here goes nothin.

*~*Francesca*~*

We’re really here. We really traveled to New York City. It seemed like such an empty dream such a short while ago. But here we are, back stage at CBGB’s in the big apple. I’m not nervous yet. I’m still trying to convince myself it’s real.
I glance over at Ethan. He’s standing in a mess of cords and cables, some leading to amps, some leading to his keyboard, and others draped around his body as he tries to untangle them and figure out where they go. He looks calm and quiet, as he always does, and it’s a reassuring feeling.

I turn to glance at Eddie. He’s bent over his guitar case, rummaging around for picks and his capo, and his bottom lip is quivering. I smile to myself. I’m not concerned. It’s just a side effect from the medication. He’ll be alright.
In the corner of this small backstage holding tank, Pete stands over his drum kit, turning screws and adjusting stands for his cymbals. He’s working quickly. No nonsense.
Nobody seems to notice that I haven’t touched my bass guitar yet. I’m waiting. I have to think about all of this and prepare myself mentally before I can start the physical process. And besides, I have to wait for the men folk to carry my amp in before I do much. It pays to have breasts.

While I wait, I venture to the area just off to the side of the stage. I peek my head out to view the audience. The doors haven’t opened to the public yet, but there are several older gentlemen and ladies bumbling around. Perhaps they’re employees. Then again, perhaps they’re the record execs that are rumored to be appearing tonight. My heart jumps a little with the thought, and then suddenly my surroundings transform to a sight - a memory I haven’t beheld in seven years.

The stage shrinks into a hardwood high school auditorium platform. I’m peeking out from behind a red curtain with holes in it, and in the audience I see no record execs or employees. Instead I see my high school principal, the director of the fine arts division, and several student council members whose names escape me. Behind me is an 18 year old Eddie, complete with silver lip piercing and boasting his newly acquired shadow of a goatee. He is nearly skeletal in build, but wrestling on the varsity team has made him surprisingly strong.

I turn around and see Ethan, also 18, but physically identical to his present day doppelganger. His dark curly hair is still framing the same tan Italian baby face. He stands beside a smaller keyboard, untangling a mass of cords, and looking serene as always. I see that Eddie is looking at him too, and a calm air comes over us both as we realize we’ll be okay. Somewhere in the corner we can hear Marissa, our drummer, fumbling around with equipment and swearing as she drops a rather expensive cymbal on her toe.

Pete swears as he drops a rather expensive cymbal on his toe, and suddenly I’m here again, with Eddie bent over his guitar case, the lip ring gone, and clean-shaven. Ethan holds up an untangled cord and smiles at his accomplishment. I wonder if they remember that audition. Do they remember how nervous we were? Do they remember when we went our separate ways? Do they remember the night only a few months later when everything changed?

*~*Ethan*~*

This place is impressive. It’s really kind of intimidating. The stage is huge and it smells like old dusty wood and the sweat of the rock stars that have performed here. I wonder if Oasis ever performed here. I always liked their music. I am trying to figure out which cord is mine. I think the blue one goes to the PA, but I’m not entirely sure. I think the black one goes to the keyboard.

As I try to sort out this mess of cables and wires, a heavy set man with a cigar appears before me. “Doors open in fifteen. You’re on first. Get your shit together.” He disappears. It’s typical, I think to myself, people in the music business smoking cigars and speaking in abrupt sentences. It’s been my dream to be where I am, playing my music with the people that matter, for people who care to listen. I suppose it’s never been my dream to deal with business execs. I guess it comes with the territory. It’s okay. Eddie’s good for that kind of thing.
I look over to see Eddie bent over his guitar case, rummaging through it to find all of his little odds and ends he’ll need for the show. I can’t tell whether or not he’s nervous. He looks like he might be deep in thought. Maybe he’s freaking out. His bottom lip is twitching. I hope he took his medication.

I wonder of Francesca heard the man with the cigar. She’s standing by the stage entrance. She hasn’t opened her bass case yet. She’s got her memory face on. I know she’s thinking about us. I can see it. Every time she talks about the band and how everything happened, she gets a certain smile that’s different from the rest. It’s a peaceful smile. I wonder which memory she’s playing in her mind.

I ask Pete if he needs help adjusting his drum stuff. He and I both know that I have no earthly idea how to put together a drum kit, and that I was just offering help to be polite. It happens every time. And every time he politely says he has it under control. We smile at each other and I turn back to my cables and wires in a futile effort to understand how this all goes together, how these wires go together, how this band goes together.

I forgot to plug in the keyboard the day we played a very bad rendition of “November Rain” for an audition seven years ago. Looking back, we shouldn’t have been upset that we bombed the audition. After all, it’s hard to do a good “November Rain” when you’ve got little Francesca in there playing oboe of all things. Seriously. When did Guns n Roses ever use an oboe? We were in high school then, before everything happened. Before the great falling out. Before everything made sense. How were we to know that a few months later everything would change?

*~*Eddie*~*

I’m not even gonna lie. I knew we’d get here. I knew this was going to happen, and it is. I’m in a place I’ve dreamed of, but always knew was real, and I always knew I could get here if I found the right way. Ethan and Frannie (don’t tell her I called her that) and I have said from the very beginning that we oughta call up VH1 and tell ‘em we had a great “Behind the Music” story. Our only problem was that we were a band nobody’d ever heard of. Maybe today we can change that. Maybe when we leave tonight we’ll make that call to VH1. Hell, maybe someone from VH1 will be here. We always knew that the strange fate or God or whatever that made all of this happen was too weird not to be discovered.

“We’re ready for you guys.” The stage hand nods at me and the band.

We were right.