Ollie was braced for me to clap back, fully on guard, but then I just grinned like an idiot. He blinked, totally lost, waving a hand in front of my face. "What's up with you? Why're you smiling like that?"
I didn't answer—just shook my head hard, flinging wet droplets right at him. Ollie yelped like a banshee, dodging too late .
Now that I'd dragged him into the mess, I smirked, satisfied. After a sneaky prep in the bathroom—where Ollie's over-the-top cackling echoed like it might bust through the walls—I stepped back into the room. My eyes landed on Maxim, still sprawled on the bed, out cold. I shot Cliff a sly wink and crept toward the headboard, all mysterious-like.
Cliff barely had time to process my vibe before—bam—I whipped out a two-liter Coke bottle from behind my back. No hesitation, just dumped a full load of ice-cold water straight on Maxim's head.
"Ahh!"
Maxim bolted upright, yelling, "Hurricane! The hurricane's here!"
New Orleans, wrecked by a hurricane back in 2007—those scars still linger in every corner. Nobody forgets that.
Maxim sure didn't. He launched out of bed like a fish flopping, clad only in boxers, barefoot, and sprinted for the door. But outside? Clear skies, sunshine—not a storm in sight. He froze, head full of question marks .
*Hahaha!*
The room erupted with our howling laughter. Maxim spun around, shaking his drenched head, and there we were—Cliff and me doubled over, while Ollie's explosive guffaws shook the bathroom walls.
How could Maxim *not* get it by now?
"Cliff!"
He roared, fuming, but Cliff's grin vanished mid-laugh. He stared back, stunned, words stuck in his throat—like he'd just been hit with some cosmic injustice.
Meanwhile, Ollie and I were wheezing, practically dying .
Maxim zeroed in on the water bottle in my hand and clocked his mistake—but it was way too late to settle the score with me. He scratched his head instead. "…What time is it? Do we still have practice time?"
Cliff, still sulking, refused to chime in.
I'd just woken up and had no clue either.
Ollie finally piped up for him. "Ten thirty. We've got sixty to ninety minutes to practice, then we've gotta head to the venue."
The Full Moon Party kicks off at 3 p.m. Normally, bands get there early—rehearse, check gear, test lights—a week ahead at least. With so many acts, you'd usually scout the spot a month out.
But the Full Moon Party's a beast of its own. Gaps between sets are tight—no time to swap big gear like drum kits or pianos. Everyone just brings portable stuff—acoustic guitars, that kind of thing—and jumps on stage.
Rehearsals? Skipped.
Still, we've got to scope it out: when we're on, where we enter, who we sync with backstage, what the green room's like, how handoffs work, what brands and models the stage gear are—all that jazz needs confirming.
Plus, Alice is tailing us for her documentary. We've got to clear that with the organizers, and she needs to scout her shooting spots too. The party's a packed madhouse—without prep, she'd be toast.
So, we're due at Old Blacksmith Bar by noon to check it out, then grab lunch. Maybe squeeze in a little more practice after—I'd *love* to soak in the Full Moon vibe as a fan, but this time's different. Every second's for rehearsal. Fan mode's gotta wait.
Once Ollie answered, Maxim snapped to the urgency. "Ugh, you should've just chucked me in the pool!" he groaned, charging into the bathroom. He shoved Ollie out and started scrubbing up at lightning speed.
I peeked out at the dry, cracked pool outside, wincing like it hurt. "He's brutal to himself, huh?"
Cold joke. Real cold .
Cliff gave me a deadpan stare. Ollie tried to hold it in but lost it—another earth-shaking laugh erupted .
We all cleaned up fast and dove back into practice. Not just "In My Blood"—every song for tonight's set. We ran through the whole flow at least once, making sure nothing flops live.
Alice missed Maxim's wake-up circus, showing up twenty minutes late with her camera. She glared at me, silently scolding me for not waking her ASAP, but no time to bicker—she jumped straight into work mode.
Practice barely kicked off when Old Blacksmith Bar called. Some last-minute hiccups shifted things—our stage check, originally noon fifteen, got bumped up an hour.
The organizers apologized to Cliff over and over, but he didn't push back. We're the late joiners here—any screw-ups land on us. Staying on the lineup's already a win, and he knows it.
So, plans scrambled, practice tanked. We hustled, packing up, racing downstairs, piling into the car, and peeling out for the bar.
Half excited, half nervous, the car's vibe got heavy. Heartbeats thumped in our ears—couldn't tell if it was from the sprint or something else .
"Wait, Cliff, our slot's still the same, right?" Maxim's voice cut through, tinged with worry as a big thought hit him.
Cliff, gripping the wheel, couldn't give a straight answer. "No changes so far—but who knows?"
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