Rock-And-Roll Eyes

Chapter Five

November 21, 1958. The air was dry, the wind held a biting chill, and the sky shone a magnificent purple color as the sun crawled behind the horizon. The moon was nearly full, and it cast a light upon the New Dalton Hall in Bristol, England. Inside, The Makers Men were busy setting up for their first performance with two new members.

"You can't walk?" Oscar nearly shouted as soon as he saw me.

Vincent and I had walked into the backroom of the dance hall just seconds before. Vincent stood next to me, his guitar in one hand and the notepad of songs in the other. I leaned on my crutches with a placid look on my face. Both of us stared at Oscar.

"I'm walking now," I replied.

"You can't use crutches on stage!"

"I don't have to," I retorted, "Oscar, calm down. I can play the piano sitting."

Oscar sighed, "How are you going to get on the stage?"

"I'll help her to the bench. She can still play, Oscar," Vincent implored.

Several emotions flew through Oscar's face all at once. He opened and closed his mouth three different times as if trying to figure out what to say. I could see the tiny battle going on inside of his head. As Vincent and I stared at him, daring him to argue, he sighed deeply.

"Alright," Oscar frowned, "Don't hurt yourself and don't mess up the show."

I smiled, "I won't, I promise."

"We go on in five."

He went to his guitar and began to tune it. Jack Clint, whom I had met just a week ago, came up on my left side, "Some first show."

Jack matched the other Makers Men with his slacks and button up shirt. He had a jacket over his shirt, but it was three sizes too big, he nearly drowned in it. I met his sour gaze, my nose wrinkling in distaste.

"I'll be fine," I told him, "It's just sprained."

"We'll see."

He left with me glaring at him. Vincent glanced at me before putting all of the instruments down. I hobbled to a nearby bench and sat down, propping my crutches against the wall. My ankle throbbed from being upright, so I propped it on the bench. It took all of my willpower to hide the searing pain in my foot.

Oscar handed me a bunch of yellow papers that were clipped together with an extra large paperclip. Each paper had different chords on it for a different song, numbered so I knew which order to play in. By the handwriting, I could tell Oscar had done it. He didn't have the neatest handwriting, but it still wasn't the worst I'd ever seen.

"Vincent, can you get her onto the stage first?" Jack asked my brother.

Vincent lifted an eyebrow, "We still have four minutes until show time."

"She's supposed to be up first to start the piano."

Vincent nodded. He came over to me and helped me stand. I flung my arm around his shoulder to where my left ankle was towards him. Using him as a crutch, I hopped onto the stage. Just before we made it out, Oscar grabbed my elbow and said, "Can you do an introduction? Make us sound gear."

Oscar smirked, causing me to chuckle, "On it."

Each table in the club was occupied. Men and women dressed in fancy clothing watched Vincent help me to the bench. Their puckered lips and upturned noses looked as if they had eaten sour candy and liked the sour so much it became a part of them. They saw a girl in a cast and automatically assumed it was going to be a terrible show. As soon as Vincent steadied me at the piano, he left the stage.