Rumours Ends Before It Begins

There wasn’t a space for her.

She’d waited all week and worked on her act for far longer. She’d been able to pick harmonies from the radio before she was in hard shoes and had a guitar in her hand since age four. In more recent times, she spent her days scrawling lyrics in the margins of her homework assignments, singing softly to herself as she passed in the halls of Menlo-Atherton High School.

The clipboard in front of her was half-hidden through her thick, blonde bangs. She blinked, disbelieving. Every line on the Youth Open Mic Night sign-up sheet was filled. The flyer said first come, first served, but she hadn’t expected there to be so many entries. Her nails bit into the meat of her hands. She was going to find another way.

Stowing her guitar under a chair, she took a seat inches from the stage. If she couldn’t perform tonight, she’d get as close to the action as possible. Size up her competition. Stare them down with her dark eyes.

The first three acts were boring, all doowop and sh-booms. Layered vocals, sure, but nothing felt real. These were songs her mother would like. She wanted melodies and chords to make her fingers bleed when they pressed against the frets, vocals that tore from a raw throat, ripe with feeling.

He stepped onto the stage.

He was unassuming to behold. Good looking in that bland, Californian way she’d grown accustomed to over the last three years. Dark hair, broad shoulders. But he held a guitar like it was the only thing he was meant to touch. He settled onto a stool and adjusted the mic so it brushed his lower lip. He picked out a few notes, strummed, and began to sing.

All the leaves are brown

And the sky is gray

I’ve been for a walk

On a winter’s day

No one would deny he was talented. He never missed a pickup, the notes were clear and honest. But something was missing—and not just the call and response structure of California Dreamin’. She was missing, and he didn’t know it yet.

She started to sing along quietly, filling in the echoes of each lyric from her seat. Keeping herself out of sight was not an act of kindness, but one of necessity. She felt no compunction for cutting into his moment. She was making the act whole. If it bothered him, he could have her removed from the event.

He noticed her. His well-trained ears registered the song as it was meant to be sung. Their eyes met. She knew it was only the first of a thousand times over a handful of decades. Their eyes would meet over a microphone again, and again.

His performance was stronger when she joined him. Emboldened, she rose from her seat and perched at the edge of the stage. He didn’t flinch, but didn’t invite her closer, either. They sat there, tuning their voices and their heartbeats to the melody. He’d chosen a slower tempo than the radio version released earlier that year. Slowing the pace emphasized his vocal talents and let them sink deeper into their connection. They hit and held the final note, a perfect harmony.

If there was applause, neither of them heard it. He exited the stage and she trailed in his wake down a narrow hallway. He paused, the low light of the auditorium shading the vulpine contours of his face.

“Who are you?” he asked her.

“Stevie,” she said. “Stevie Nicks.”

He smiled and slid an arm around her, as simple as if she were his instrument. “I’m Lindsey. Lindsey Buckingham.”

They stood for a moment, noses inches from each other, smiling foolishly into their future. The next act took the stage, a tinny whine compared to the symphony of emotions flowing between them.

“So, my place or yours?” he said.

A deep furrow formed between Stevie’s brows, and the blood rushing past hear ears muted the world around her. “Excuse me?”

“Girls will do just about anything to get my attention, but I’ve never seen a display like that,” he shrugged. “What’s it going to be, baby?”

“I’m not your baby,” she flushed. “I’m just as talented as you are. We were made to be on stage together. To make music together.”

“That’s one way to put it,” he smirked. “You can carry a tune—I’ll give you that—and you’ve got a pretty face, but it takes more than that to make it in this business.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Stevie stamped her foot. “This is a high school open mic night, not a recording studio.”

“And yet you had to cut into my set to get onstage,” Lindsey said.

Stevie opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Walk away, a voice told her. You’re better than this. You have something special. You can do this without him.

The hallway smelled slightly of sweat from the nervous performers milling around, not to mention the past semester of physical education classes. She stared at him, and her mind’s eye allowed his face to morph and age. He sprouted a beard and his carefully brilliantined hair was soon crowned by an unruly mop of curls. Seconds passed and he was clean cut again, save for the deep wrinkles set beside his eyes. She saw his mouth wide in song, frustration and devotion and desperation pouring through the notes. Always, always a guitar in his hands. And always, always her by his side. Lead and follow, melody and harmony.

“Your place,” she said quietly, “If you’ll take me for your band.”

He chuckled softly and it took everything in her not to murder him on the spot.

Swallow the rage, a new voice told her. Make yourself small now, so you can be big later. Even if it is on his terms.

“Sorry to break it to you, honey. I’m a solo act,” he said.

He walked away and she felt a part of her soul go with him. Behind her, the auditorium erupted into applause. The audience already forgot the magic they’d witnessed two acts ago and would never see again. She’d been a fool to dream of chasing music. There were safer ways to live, anyhow.