Chapter 19: Homecoming Night

On Saturday night, the Larkin Room held four hundred people and one camera.

The camera stood on a tripod at the back, with a red light and a banner that said Homecoming Live.

Gold stars hung from the rafters again.

The doors were propped open to let in the cold, and people stood three deep along the walls.

I waited behind the curtain at the side of the stage with my guitar and my hands wrapped in my own sleeves.

Through the gap I could see the second row.

A tall gray-haired man in a charcoal overcoat sat there with his hands folded on his knee.

Two older people with name tags sat beside him.

He had not smiled at anyone since he sat down.

Preston sat on his other side, in the navy blazer, looking at nothing.

"That's his father," Sage said, close to my ear.

"I know."

"He looks like he's attending a funeral."

"Don't make me laugh. I'll miss the chord."

Sage squeezed my shoulder. "Ben's in the booth."

I looked up.

Ben was at the board in the glass window above the crowd, with his headphones on and his shoulders squared.

The manager had hired him back at six o'clock, for tonight only.

The tech she'd chosen had blown out a monitor in the soundcheck.

"Don't make me regret this," she had told him on the stairs.

He had said, "I won't."

He met my eyes through the glass, and he did not wave.

He just put one hand flat on the board, where I could see it.

The host called my name at nine-forty.

"Our last open-mic act, before the donor remarks. Rory Beckett."

A ripple went through the room.

I heard my name said low in a hundred places, with the word Jacket attached.

I walked out into the light.

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