Papilio: Wings of Becoming — A Rock ‘n’ Roll Novel
Track 1: “Dreaming” Blondie
Sweat drips down my forehead in the scorching Arizona desert. From my drumkit, I scan the sea of punks—colored hair, piercings, bobbing heads, thrusting fists. A rowdy mosh pit stirs dirt into the air.
My band, Papilio, is hitting the encore of our fifteen-song set at this tiny, secluded summer “festival,” fittingly named Riot in the Sun. The dry air smells like dust, the sun’s relentless heat grills our skin. Playing outdoors seemed amazing until we realized we sweat less in a packed club.
Now it’s time for one of my favorite parts of our shows: band introductions. Each member gets a chance to bask in the glory for a moment and show off their chops. The best part? I get to introduce everyone.
“On the bass, give it up for Nikki ‘Spark’ Reynolds!” Nikki grooves into a funky riff and the crowd goes wild as she tosses back her striking red hair.
“On guitar, from the great city of New Orleans, Louisiana, get loud for ‘NOLA’ Maya!” Maya —with her striking brown eyes that convey warmth, intensity, and determination—rips off a chord that only a few can pull off. I see fans in the pit doing their best on air guitar.
“And finally …”
I let the anticipation build.
“She’s been up here allllll day, swelterin’ and beltin’ out the tunes for ya!”
The frenzy continues.
“Say who?” I ask.
The crowd replies, “Ol-iv-ia!”
“Say who?”
“Ol-iv-ia!”
“Say who?”
They’re getting louder now. “OL-IV-IA!” They’re feeling themselves.
“Say who?” My intensity is picking up, too. “Let’s go!! It’s Olivia Brooks y’all!”
Olivia stands front stage, soaking in the loudest cheer. I’ve been holding the same drum rhythm for a few minutes—bum, da bum, da bum, da bum—my forearms are burning, but the adrenaline is carrying me through.
In the past, Olivia would pick up one final intro and lay the spotlight on me. I don’t need it, but it was nice to have the recognition. Lately, though, she’s been diving right into the last verse of our song instead. It works because we have such great stage chemistry; I can tell when she's about to start up again and lead the rest of the band into the flip.
When one blunders, the other recovers with magical wonder.
Our mantra started as a joke when we were first playing together. Nerves and insecurities mixed with ambition. It became a bond that knit us close, like sisters. But it still stings that she’s either forgotten about her responsibility to introduce me or, even worse, doesn’t care.
“Girl, what are you talking about?” she said when I confronted her about it a few shows ago.
“You don’t think it’s wrong that you won’t throw it back to me, even if just for a call out?” I pleaded.
“It wasn’t planned, Babe. Chill.” She seemed defensive, a dynamic I’m not totally used to between us. I left it at that but the subsequent “memory lapses” makes me think maybe it is on purpose.
Why? Fuck if I know.
Back in the moment, I peek up from the drums and see Olivia and the band under the harsh stage lights, approaching the final notes. Olivia glances back, then to each side of the band. We hit the final note in harmony. I feel the drums vibrating through me, the slick grip of the sticks in my sweaty hands.
The crowd cheers—I’d guess fifteen hundred or so people—the earthy scent of trampled grass rises toward me, and I’m amazed by how many are still here, wanting more. But we’re exhausted, sweat drenching our clothes—we physically cannot keep going.
Stepping down from the kit, I follow the others. We’ve dived headfirst into the punk world—er, it’s more like pop-punk—and when the set’s done, we just yell “Goodnight!” and strut off stage. Who needs formalities when you’ve got music?
The sun’s still high, the air rippling with heat. I can’t wait for a cold drink and a spot on the couch. With another show rocked and more fans made, we’re hopefully one step closer to our goals. The smiles and laughter while we leave the stage are another sign we’re on the right path. It’s not perfect, but neither is rock ‘n’ roll.
I now grasp the rationale behind the invitation: any sane person would have declined the chance to sizzle under the relentless shine. We’re here, though, because sanity isn’t really our thing. We’re stable, sure, but normal? Not a chance.
We formed the band chasing West Coast dreams and somehow, we hit the jackpot … kind of. In the past year, we’ve played more shows than the previous two combined. Hard work and musical talent are crucial, but Olivia, our lead singer and accidental Debbie Harry doppelgänger, is our secret weapon.
Life is hella good but not the dream. Sure, we make a bit of cash, but it usually just goes back into the band pot for expenses. But we’re not about being hired guns, just playing for the paycheck. We want to write and play our own music. We’re all in our early twenties, and we see this as a career, not just a pit stop on the way to something else.
We’ll grind as long as we can stand each other and our passion for music stays strong. We don’t aim for Ramones-style dysfunction; we want their music and popularity without the drama. Hating each other isn’t worth it. But worrying about the future is pointless when there’s so much to do right now. That’s why I’ve put so much into this band. This moment is where I want to be.
Track 2: “Barracuda” Heart
Olivia Brooks is everything you’d want in a band frontwoman—sexy, confident, and sings like a goddess. She’s the reason I left my hometown of Charlotte. Her vision for the band was irresistible: creativity, fun, and making serious cash. With her, I knew we wouldn’t be playing for peanuts or be stuck as a cover band forever.
Our history is full of dreams and late-night jams, both pouring our hearts into Papilio. But Olivia’s struggle to focus lately has been a problem, especially now with Bobby in the picture. Bobby Crawford, our manager, is a manipulative jerk. The clown doesn’t even like our music. He only shows up when there’s good news—for Olivia, that is.
Certifiably insane with a crazy work ethic, Bobby’s only in it for the money. He’s all about pushing Olivia to be famous, and lately, she’s been more into his vibe, which is driving the rest of us nuts. Worse yet, I’ve watched Olivia change into a fucking poser, and it’s been tough.
During a recent rehearsal, Olivia said, “Sometimes I wonder if there’s more out there, beyond the songs and the stage lights.”
What’s that got to do with dancing penguins? I thought to myself, repeating a line often used by my Grammy.
When I asked Olivia what she meant, she got that faraway look. In an instant, she’s daydreaming.
About what? I have no clue. Our communication has been weird lately.
It makes me sad. Some of my best memories from California are those late-night pizza runs, chowing down while sipping cheap wine.
“Yo! Check out this creep,” Olivia said one night, laughing with pizza nearly falling out of her mouth.
“What’s up?” I asked, crawling over the dirty floor of her apartment, too tipsy to stand.
“This dude slid into my DMs and offered to be my manager ‘fo free’.” Olivia had recently posted on social media that she was looking for a band manager, which led to Bobby.
“What the fuck,” I giggled and snorted, spilling a bit of my wine.
“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.” Olivia struggled to speak through the laughter. “And then,” she choked out, “he says … he says he could ‘lock me down’ like he will a record deal for us.”
We looked at each other, sharing the same eye lock that made our stage presence flawless, and burst into wild laughter.
Shoot your shot, but fuck, that was lame.
That was then, though, and this is now. Despite our success and bond, Olivia's growing attraction to the celebrity lifestyle is troubling. I’m trying to balance keeping our sound real and adapting to the industry’s demands. Still, I feel the shift. We’ve weathered creative differences so far, holding onto our shared love for music, but who knows how long that’ll last?
I'm sprawled out on the “backstage” couch, savoring the post-show haze. It was a hike to reach the indoor corridors, but totally worth it for the blast of air conditioning.
My phone buzzes with a text from Olivia: “Meet me backstage. Urgent!”
I roll my eyes. We’re already backstage.
Typical Olivia.
I glance up as she strides over, looking every bit the punk-rock diva—‘riot grrrl’ vibes, the word ‘SLUT’ painted across her stomach, with her sunglasses perched on her head despite the dim lighting.
She tosses her hair back and looks around the room like she owns the place. Without warning, she drops herself onto the arm of the couch, startling me out of my daze.
“Babe! Girl! You won’t believe it,” she says, her voice brimming with self-satisfaction.
I sit up, my heart rate picking up. “What’s up, Liv?”
Her eyes lock onto mine, sparkling with an almost manic glee. “I’m headlining Skullfest! EEEEE!!”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Skullfest. The ultimate punk-rock festival. And she’s headlining. Olivia. Miss Perpetually Detached from Reality.
“Oh,” I manage, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Wow, that’s ... big.”
“Big?” She laughs. “It’s more than that, Babe. This is what we’ve been working toward.” Olivia pauses for a moment. “Well, what I’ve been working toward, anyway.”
My stomach twists into knots. Of course, it’s all about her.
“Congratulations,” I say, forcing out the words, though they feel empty.
She waves her hand dismissively. “Yeah, thanks. Anyway, it means I won’t have time for our little garage band project anymore. Too many important things on my plate now.”
Her words land like blows. “You’re quitting the band?!”
She tilts her head, pretending to have sympathy. “Oh, sweet little Babe. I’ve outgrown this. But don’t worry, you’ll manage … maybe … I mean, you’ve always been the quirky underdog, right?”
I blink rapidly, fighting the sting of tears. My insecurities roar to life, clawing at my confidence. “But the band … we need you!”
Olivia shrugs, entirely unbothered. “You’ll figure it out. Or not. Skullfest, Babe! I’m moving onto bigger things.”
My mind spins, grasping for something, anything to say.
Then Bobby appears, sliding an arm around Olivia’s waist. He’s grinning, oblivious to the tension. “Hey, girl, you ready?”
Olivia’s face lights up. “Yep! Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
She turns back to me briefly, almost as an afterthought. “Oh, and Bobby’s coming with me to Skullfest. He’s gonna be my manager.”
My heart sinks further. Bobby’s a scumbag but he’s been helping us make decent money. He books us regular gigs, even though his disdain for us is an open secret.
“Bobby, you too?”
He looks at me with a smug smile. “It’s a huge opportunity, Babe. Liv’s time is now. We’re cashin’ in.”
Cha-ching.
There it is. I always knew it was just about the money for Bobby and he unsolicitedly confirmed it. I nod, though my throat feels tight. “Sure. I understand.”
Olivia smirks, already one foot out the door. “Good luck, Babe.”
As they walk off, their laughter bouncing around the backstage corridors, I’m left sitting on the couch, feeling small and insignificant. The sting of rejection hits hard. At least I won't have to see their nauseating PDA anymore. But somewhere, buried under the hurt, the nagging question lingers: What happens next?