Wreck the Halls: A Novel

“Re-u-nite! Re-u-nite!”

Still in her hiding spot behind Beat, Melody’s mouth dropped open. It appeared the crowd was doing their job for them? The public’s investment in a reunion had been increasing for months now. Was it possible the live stream had spurred that interest even further? Already?

Melody peeked around the side of Beat’s shoulder to gauge Octavia’s reaction to the chanting guests and was once again struck by the vast differences between Beat’s mother and Trina. Trina would already be kicking over tables or storming the stage, while Octavia’s expression was a mask of absolute calm, her hands folded neatly at her waist.

Melody had once watched a cable television documentary about Steel Birds titled A Flight of Fancy. In one of the interview segments, the former band manager claimed that Octavia Dawkins couldn’t be rattled. Nothing caught the lead singer off guard. A rotisserie chicken had once been tossed onstage and she’d ripped off a leg midair and chomped into it, without missing a lyric, which had to be the most badass thing Melody had ever heard. She definitely would have been knocked unconscious by a flying chicken. No question.

Man, Melody envied that kind of cool.

The kind on display now.

Octavia was a golden goddess in a Grecian-style gown, trimmed in crimson lace, her dark hair in a twist atop her head. She pulsed with presence, surrounded by a rapt, now eerily silent audience, and there wasn’t so much as a tick behind her eye. “Beat, darling, please read the correct wish,” she finally called.

The chants returned and only swelled in volume then, swallowing up whatever Beat said into the microphone. Octavia tossed an indulgent laugh at the enthusiastic crowd, one that said, Ha-ha, very funny, but there is not a chance in hell. And then she began to ascend the staircase like a queen preparing to address the population. The hand Beat was using to hold the microphone dropped to his side, and he sighed, obviously waiting for his mother to put an end to their mission before it even got off the ground.

His resignation kicked something into gear within Melody.

She couldn’t just hide back here. Octavia was going to take the mic, disregard the idea of a reunion, and their first—maybe only?—attempt at making it happen was going to be wasted. Perhaps Beat wasn’t ready to confide in Melody why exactly he needed the million dollars so badly, but the point was, he did. She’d agreed to this live stream to help him—and help herself. She wanted independence? Remaining in the background wasn’t an option.

Before Octavia could reach them in the center of the staircase, Melody stepped out from behind Beat and removed her mask. Based on the room’s reaction, half of them already knew her identity—thanks to Wreck the Halls—and the other half were only more confused.

Octavia paused midstep and slowly removed her own mask. “It stands to reason that the first time I lay eyes on you, you’re crashing my party. Like mother like daughter, I suppose.”

Now the other half of the ballroom was up to speed, gasps abounding.

“Hi. Hello, Mrs. Dawkins. This isn’t how I pictured us meeting. I mean, I never expected us to meet, really, but definitely not at a party where you’ve been carried in by a bank of swans. That’s what you call them when they’re in a group. A bank. Unless they’re in the water, in which case, it’s a bevy.”

Her cheeks warmed and she glanced up to find Beat watching her with a bemused smile. “This has been swan talk with Melody Gallard,” he said.

Her chest loosened. Not quite enough to laugh, not with every eye in the joint trained on her, but something inside of her relaxed. “Um.” With an effort, she stopped staring into Beat’s sparkling blue eyes and shifted her focus to Octavia once more. “Like I said, it’s so nice to meet you. I’m a big fan, like everyone else. Could we . . .”

Talk privately. That’s what she was going to say. But . . .This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

Oh no.

A terrible idea occurred to her. Or perhaps, a glorious one.

Saying it out loud was probably going to be a huge mistake.

But it was one of those moments where the impossible seemed possible. This idea was the one chance to save humanity in the Avengers: End Game, as predicted by Doctor Strange. It might be their only hope of actually making this reunion happen and for some reason, maybe because she was currently looking a legendary rock star in the eye, Melody suddenly wanted very much to make the Steel Birds reunion a reality. She wanted to have this success with Beat. She wanted it for everyone on the planet. Maybe she’d been laughing at the idea for so long she’d never stopped to consider how happy it would make billions of people.

And wow, the fact that they had the responsibility in their hands was a rush of power.

Since when did she enjoy rushes of power?

Just say it. Before this little squiggle of time passed them by.

“I’m here because my mother, Trina Gallard, wants to reunite the band.”

She sensed Beat’s jaw dropping.

Octavia jolted.

Had Melody just rattled the unshakable lead singer?

“Rotisserie chickens have nothing on me,” she murmured.

Beat made a choked sound. “I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth.”

“Me either.”

“I’m sorry,” Octavia said, coming closer. “Did you say that Trina wants to reunite?”

Camera phone flashes were going off at the speed of light. Melody thought of her mother, holed up in her New Hampshire hippie compound, shunning the outside world, including television and the internet. She no longer had a manager or an agent to relay news to her. The chances were extremely high that Trina knew nothing about Wreck the Halls and wouldn’t see this moment unfolding. Thank goodness.

“Yes, that is what I said.”

“What have you done?” Beat whispered to her out of the side of his mouth.

“This is improv,” she whispered back. “At least, I think it’s improv. I was too afraid to take the classes. Or ask for a refund.”

His sides started to shake.

Octavia regarded their interaction like a scientist peering through a microscope. “How much time have you two been spending together exactly?” She sounded fascinated, speaking almost to herself. “I’ll admit, I’ve always wondered if you two would . . . click.”

Beat cleared his throat. “Maybe we could continue this conversation privately?”

“No need.” Octavia’s laugh carried across the stone silent ballroom. “There isn’t enough Botox in New York to erase the kind of wrinkles Trina’s presence would give me.” She waved an elegant hand at Melody. “No offense, darling.”

“None taken. She could overwrinkle a shar-pei.”

A guffaw burst out of Octavia. “Oh God, you just had to be adorable, didn’t you? I’m going to hate telling you no.”

“So don’t,” Beat said. “Hear us out.”

Applause and whistles broke out around the ballroom. When the sound continued to escalate, Beat pulled Melody into his side and partially blocked her from view, ignoring the cameraman’s signal to bring her back into the shot. Melody was so caught off guard by the protective gesture that she almost missed Octavia’s interested head tilt.

“Oh dear . . .” muttered the former rock princess, sauntering back down the stairs and indicating a doorway into the adjoining coatroom. “Fine. I suppose I will hear you out, before I decline. But only because it’s Christmas.”

“That’s the spirit,” Melody said, starting to follow Octavia. But she was brought up short by Beat circling an arm around her shoulder, keeping her glued to his side.

He leaned down, brushing his lips against her forehead in what seemed like an unconscious gesture. “Wait for the security team, okay?”

“We were just down there. It was fine.”

“You had your mask on. And Melody, I don’t think you realize you’re charming the pants off everybody.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” he said, exasperated, his gaze busy scanning the crowd. “You haven’t been in the public eye for a while, so maybe you don’t remember how it is. Sometimes people feel like they already know you, so they act . . . overfamiliar. Just stay close to me, okay?”

Melody thought maybe Beat was being a little paranoid but agreeing to stay close didn’t cost her anything. In fact, being near him was a huge reassurance in the midst of this unusual situation, so she nodded. “Sure.”

The security team arrived at the bottom of the stairs and they formed sort of a pathway for Beat and Melody that allowed them to follow Octavia out of the noisy gala, into a coatroom that was large enough to qualify as a studio apartment in Manhattan. The red-jacketed attendant stared wide-eyed at the sudden intrusion of the guest of honor—and it wasn’t lost on Melody that the coat check employee was watching the live stream on her phone. Melody could literally see herself on the screen and closed her gaping mouth as a result.

The attendant bolted from the room, leaving Octavia, Beat, Mel, Joseph, and Danielle, who managed to sneak in just before the security team closed the door.

“Well,” Octavia began, turning on a heel and sending everyone a smile that Melody could only define as pleasantly murderous. “My annual, famous holiday charity bash has been hijacked. I hope you’re all happy.”

Beat started to speak, but Danielle launched in quickly, holding up a finger with her clipboard hand. “I don’t mind taking point on this.”

“And just who the fuck are you?” Octavia asked, without dimming her smile.

“Wow,” Melody breathed.

Beat squeezed her hand.

“Executive producer of Wreck the Halls, among other shows on Applause Network. Danielle Doolin.” She seemed to weigh the pros and cons of attempting to shake Octavia’s hand and visibly decided against it. “It’s a true pleasure to meet you.”

Octavia blinked. “I’m sorry I can’t say the same.”

“That’s fair enough.”

“The badassery of the women in this room is unparalleled,” Melody whispered to Beat. “I bet neither of them have ever been knocked down by a spotlight.”

“That’s not true, dear,” Octavia said, her gaze cutting away from Danielle to land on Melody. “At the first stadium show for Steel Birds—Dallas, I believe—I was so startled by the spotlight that I tripped backward and nearly concussed myself on the drums. Those motherfuckers pack a punch.” She tilted her head, her eyes tracing Beat’s arm where it wrapped around Melody’s waist like the harness on a roller coaster. “Son, why are you trying to squeeze the girl to death?”

Two seconds ticked by. “I don’t know.”

“I see.” Octavia blew out a breath. “Oh Lord. Let’s get on with this.”

Beat cleared his throat. “As we spoke about earlier, the goal of the show is—”

The door of the coatroom flew open and in walked a man smoking a cigar in a an abominable snowman sweater with glowing LED eyes and Louis Vuitton slippers. Rudy, Beat’s father. “Oh, I see, this is where the party is.” He sauntered over to Octavia’s side, observing everyone through mirthful blue eyes. “Why does everyone look like Santa Claus just crossed the rainbow bridge?”

“Allow me to bring you up to speed, my love.” Octavia sighed, tapping her cheek and waiting for the robed man to lean over and kiss the spot noisily. “Our son is filming a reality show with Trina’s daughter—wave at the camera—” He saluted it, instead, cigar ash fluttering downward. “They are on a crusade to reunite Steel Birds.”

“On Christmas Eve,” Danielle added. “Onstage at Rockefeller Center.”

Instead of being shocked by that explanation, Rudy merely looked impressed. “Really, son. How industrious of you. Where do you find the time?”

Melody watched fondness soften the lines around Beat’s mouth. “Hello, Dad.”

“Looking forward to the spring when we can get back out on the green. A reality show? Really?” He puffed his cigar. “Shame your mother would rather swim in shark-infested waters than get back onstage with Trina.” He directed his next question at Melody. “How is the mistress of mayhem doing these days?”

“Still mayheming and mistressing, as far as I know,” Melody answered. “I see her every February, so it has been a while.”

Octavia pounced on that. “But you said she requested the reunion.”

“Over the phone. Zoom, actually. We Zoom,” Melody blurted. She knew she was doing that thing people did when they lie—adding too many details—and she couldn’t help it. “She had a lovely cat eye going on last time we spoke. Yes. It was two and a half days ago when she said, ‘You’re right, Mel. It’s time. It’s time to get the band back together. It’s time to shred once more.’ And she cried. Right there on Zoom.”

No one said anything.

Melody elbowed Beat subtly in the ribs.

“Right there on Zoom,” he corroborated. “She wept. Openly.”

Octavia narrowed her eyes. “That doesn’t sound like Trina.”

“She has changed a lot over the years. Matured like a fine wine.” Now that was the biggest lie Melody had told tonight. If anything, Trina had regressed since the days of yore. “Mrs. Dawkins—”

“Oh, you might as well call me Octavia, dear.” She crossed her arms delicately. “It’s only fair since my son is trying his best to stuff you into his pocket.”

Heat bloomed in Melody’s cheeks. Beat wasn’t trying to stuff her into his pocket. That was an exaggeration. Though he’d hauled her so close that only one of her feet was fully balanced on the ground. Was he simply nervous about the whole ordeal?

“Are they dating?” Beat’s father asked, followed by a hearty laugh that filled the coat check closet. “Wouldn’t that be a kick in the ass?”

“We’re not,” Melody said as quickly as possible. Mainly, because she didn’t want to hear a vehement denial from Beat. She wiggled and ducked until she’d extricated herself from his hold, noticing that Beat only looked perplexed over the way he’d been hanging on to her in the first place. “We’re not dating, but we are on a mutual mission.”

Speaking in front of such an intimidating group made her feel as though she could break out in a million hives at any second, but Melody forged ahead. After all, she’d been the one to spout the lie about Trina requesting the reunion. She’d steered the adventure in a whole new direction, she couldn’t very well let go of the wheel now, could she?

“There are thousands of people watching, Octavia,” Melody started.

“Millions,” Danielle corrected in a whisper.

“Millions.” Melody breathed through a wave of dizziness. “They’ve waited—we’ve waited—thirty years for a Steel Birds reunion. Sure, there are recordings, songs that can be downloaded. But there is nothing like hearing your favorite songs live. You and Trina have the power to make it happen. To give fans that moment they’ve been dreaming about since ninety-three.”

Beat settled a hand on the small of Melody’s back. “You miss it sometimes. Don’t you, Mom? The crowd belting ‘Rattle the Cage’ at the top of their lungs. Feeling it. You miss that long, drawn-out break before the key change. That final, blood-pumping solo.”

“The rotisserie chickens,” Melody murmured, pressing a hand to her heart.

“Never forget,” Beat deadpanned.

A tiny, bemused laugh bubbled out of Octavia’s mouth. “You know . . . when Trina and I were pregnant with you two, Stevie Nicks blessed our bellies backstage at a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony. Sly and Family Stone was being instated, right? Yes. And Stevie, she recited an old proverb and waved a bundle of burning sage, which she was literally carrying in the pocket of her dress, and she said the two of you would always be . . . was it protected or connected? I can’t recall.” She lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “Steel Birds broke up six days later. I’ve always wondered if she cursed us, instead.”

“We could call her and find out,” Danielle suggested, discreetly steering Joseph’s elbow. “On camera.”

Octavia scoffed. “Stevie Nicks doesn’t have a phone.”

“Wow,” Melody whispered.

“Look.” Octavia waved her hands. “It’s almost time for my champagne toast and I am going to sing ‘Santa motherfucking Baby’ tonight, whether or not anyone wished for it . . .” She sent a sniff in Beat’s direction. “Let’s wrap this up. If you two manage to bring Trina to New York, I will perform one song with her onstage. But there will be no communication between us beforehand or afterward. This isn’t going to be some big, emotional reunion where we lament the three decades we’ve lost being enemies and plan an international tour. If that’s the ultimate goal here, you will all be sorely disappointed.”

“Understood, Mom,” Beat said with a nod. “One night. One song. No chitchat.”

“Send it to my manager in writing, please,” Octavia added, sailing for the door with a cigar-puffing Rudy in tow. “Son, I love you dearly, despite this total nonsense.” She stopped midway through the exit to the ballroom where guests were already beginning to cheer over her reentry to the gala. “And Melody . . .”

“Yes?”

“Next time the spotlight lands on you, sucker-punch it back.”