by Lauryn Dyan
“The label’s been putting a lot of pressure on us to work on the next record. They aren’t very patient. We don’t want to do it without you...” Jack trails off.
“But you have to because I’m a psychopath?” I finish for him, my tone shrill. They know I have a temper. Wonder how they drew the short straw on breaking this news to me.
“No! No!” Oli interjects, his chocolate eyes shooting Jack a warning glare. “We just have to. It was work on the album while you’re gone or get dropped from Orphan’s roster. We chose what we thought was the lesser of two evils for all of us.”
I cross my arms fuming unable to deny that is the better option. I would have been even more furious if they’d lost our contract. Something we worked so hard to get. If, and when, I get out of here, I want something to go back to.
Sensing my unspoken agreement with their choice, their shoulders relax against the backs of their chairs, assuming the worst is over. Think again.
“So why didn’t the traitor come tell me herself?”
“She and Davey tried when you first got here after Samantha had approached us about our future,” Jack explains. “Davey is helping Sonny with writing and composing and they wanted your blessing before meeting with the label. Obviously, they never got to see you.”
“So why aren’t they here now?” I want to scream it in their faces but one of the orderlies clears his throat in warning, so instead I push the words through strained teeth. I don’t want him coming over, or worse, telling Craig I lost my cool. He’d throw me back in those irritating restraints for sure.
“They would be, but they’re getting ready for some promoting,” Oli says.
“What kind of promoting?”
He bites his lip again as if debating how much more to say. Jack nudges him as if he’s already gone too far.
“What the hell man? She has a right to be in the loop. This is still her band.”
“It is, but we said we weren’t going to tell her until she was out,” Jack hisses, quietly.
“You know I can still fucking hear you.” I’m digging my nails into my sides waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Whatever dude, you’re probably right. It’s not what we agreed to but tell her,” Jack relents.
“They’re practicing for an acoustic set at a record store back home.”
What. The. Shit. My anger is boiling, threatening to erupt and annihilate every robe wearing fool in this room.
“How? What?” I cannot form the questions. The bright, sterile room turns faintly gray.
“Davey is handling vocals,” Oli continues.
My head is swimming. It’s like it’s caught in the relentless crashing of waves on a shore and it sways against my will. He hesitates and a strange expression crosses his face but he doesn’t stop. Rip off the rest of the Band-Aid quick. “An acoustic rendition of ‘Playing Tall’ with him singing is running on satellite radio.”
The waves are getting bigger and distorting my senses. Sonny and I wrote “Playing Tall” together. It’s about being girls in the guy dominated rock industry trying to be a part of the club. It’s our song of sisterhood. Something that bonded us together in a way the rest of the band would never get since they have a penis.
Oli is still talking, but I can’t hear him anymore. There’s a ringing in my ears and the room is getting hazy, the gray continuing to darken until I am lost in a sea of black.
***
I’m quite the picture standing outside Sheltered’s van. After my stroll down non-memory lane, I knew there was no way I could go back to bed or chill without talking to Rickly, so I hastily swapped my pajama shorts for some cut-off jeans, not bothering to change my baggy Nirvana shirt, and tied my hair up in a messy bun. I grabbed Sonny’s striped flip-flops that were by the door, even though they are two sizes too small, and Jack or Davey’s black Ray-Bans that were on the counter, even though they are two sizes too big. The last two Gatorades from our fridge are cradled in the crook of my arm—a liquid peace offering. I’m pretty sure Rickly’s favorite is blue. Whatever flavor that is.
I hesitate to knock on the beat-up van’s window. I don’t want to wake the other guys for several reasons. First, I don’t want to be annoying. They complain how hard it is to sleep in there when the sun comes up, so I don’t want to ruin it if they’re still out. I try to peak in the back windows to check, but some of their equipment is propped up to block the light and all I see is a tangle of black. Could be people; could be dirty laundry.
Second, if they happen to know what went down with Rickly and me last night, I don’t want to be met with hostility. They can be very protective of one another and I lack the energy to make nice with more than one person right now.
Walking around to the driver’s side I find the seat unoccupied. I tentatively tap a chipped black fingernail on the glass, hoping only one of the guys will emerge to check who it is. The dark mass in the back contorts like a hefty bag full of snakes.
Their drummer, Bert, and his unnaturally dyed black and blonde hair slithers into the front seat and rolls down the window.
“Kennedy, you’re up freaking early. Or did you not go to bed?” He grins while his unadjusted eyes squint into the brightness. So far no hostility though I can’t decide if I should be offended or relieved that my crazy appearance doesn’t seem to surprise him.
“We’ve got to do an interview for a podcast before we move out.” That I remember. Never mind the drunken violence last night. My stupid brain and its selective memory.
He nods.
“If you’re looking for Rickly, he’s not here. We assumed he’d crashed with you.”
Damn. Well if they didn’t know something was up, they sure will now. Rickly and I don’t spend every night together but, if we make it to the bus without fighting, he always stays over. They probably saw us go in there when we got back from our grocery store adventures.
“He was with me but I lost him at some point.” This is close enough to the truth without going into detail about my unsightly new hole.
“Huh. Well, I don’t know then.” Bert peers back over his shoulder. “He didn’t sleep here.”
“Okay, thanks. If you see him, tell him to find me.”
“For sure,” he hesitates, grinning. “One of those Gatorades happen to be for me?”
“Sure. Take the red.” I hand it over. Red is my favorite, but I’m saving the blue for my lame apology.
“Thanks, off to bed.” He rolls up the window while draining half the Gatorade before crawling in the back.
Crap. Where is Rickly then? There aren’t a lot of sleeping options on this moving caravan. I lean against the front of the dirty van before I decide to go back to my bus and hope he finds me. I start trudging back across the parking lot, shuffling my feet in the too small flip-flops. Thankfully, the asphalt isn’t hot enough yet to burn my exposed skin but, unfortunately, my poor choice in footwear causes me to step on a shard of glass.
“Fuck,” I murmur, as I crouch to set down my bottle and pull out the little, brown shrapnel. It’s really in there. I put a hand on the side of a silver BMW to balance while I work it out with my short fingernails but plop onto my butt when I notice the door to Run Before You Walk’s tour bus slide open. There’s a pause before a shaggy, blonde head emerges. Rickly. He saunters down the steps slowly and then turns back to say something to someone still on the bus. I’m too far away to hear. He laughs a little and heads back towards his van. I’m about to stand up to get his attention but, before I can, Trecia’s smiling, auburn head pops out of the opening as she watches Rickly moving away.
Chapter Five
Those goddamn ceiling tiles. I wish there was something else to fixate on in my bare, cell-like room, but the armoire just doesn’t do it for me. Currently, the rows of rectangles have morphed into a yellow and black checkerboard to match Sonny’s blonde, and Davey’s midnight, locks. Each tile bares their faces alternating between a sinister sneer, an ecstatic smile, or a frown of shame
. The whole middle row is laughing down at me.
I can’t believe this. They’re taking over my band and moving forward as though I never was. Perhaps I’m being selfish expecting them to put everything on hold for me. It doesn’t sound like they had much of a choice, but they could have fought harder to include me. I may be losing my mind but I can still write. My lyrics might be better for it.
I don’t know what happened after I blacked out in the visiting area. I just woke up in my room, unrestrained. I’m sure Oli and Jack hightailed it out of here. I probably scared the shit out of them in one way or another. Good. I hope they tell Sonny and Davey the effect of their news so they re-think how they’re handling things. All this seems unlike Sonny, but I have no idea the extent of the fallout my bandmates have had to deal with while I’m on my mental vacation. This has to be hard on them, too.
There’s a tingle in my mind. Like a memory twitching to break through the wall I’ve built to imprison my forgotten past. I wish I could take a sledgehammer and knock it down. It’s no use though. Whatever my brain is hiding is firmly trapped away, like me in this place.
For once, I’m looking forward to recreation time. I’m inspired to write again, which hasn’t happened in forever. Perhaps this will be my way of proving I still belong in my band. So next time they visit, and whine that the new album is coming along slowly, I can shove some new lyrics in their faces and show those bastards they need me. I think I’ve found my song title already: “Can’t Restrain My Talent”.
***
Blue Gatorade sucks. After glimpsing Rickly’s walk of shame, I attempted to chug my liquid peace offering out of spite but I couldn’t stand the flavor so I dumped it on top of his van before I ducked out of sight like a peeping tom. Not that the disgusting drink did any damage to the filthy exterior. I’ll have to find some better way to exact my revenge.
I should go talk to him. There’s a chance I’m misinterpreting what I saw but I’m ignoring my rational side and letting the jealous bitch take the lead. She wants to go all destruct-o on any and everything that belongs to him. It’s too bad he’s just a lead singer. Smashing a guitar would be pretty cathartic right now.
Thank God our interview today is only for Tracing Stars. I shouldn’t be in the same room as the other two bands until I cool down. I’ve never been in a fist fight and I’d rather not test my boxing skills on someone I’m stuck with every day for the next few weeks. There’s still the question of what I did last night to piss Rickly off. I may never find out if the first thing I do is punch him, or Trecia, in the face.
Despite the flip-flops, my footfalls are heavy as I stomp onto the bus to change. It may be a podcast but I can’t go looking this fugly. They usually take pictures for social media.
I storm past my four waiting bandmates who are dressed and watching the flat screen tucked into the wall. They stare wide-eyed as I wave one hand to dismiss their questions at my appearance and demeanor. I want to deal with this myself before I inform them who they need to hate.
***
Despite my mood before we left, the interview goes surprisingly well. It was probably the Xanax I popped when I got in the shower. As we drove in a rented van the twenty minutes to meet the podcaster, my anger and anxiety faded with each mile.
Now, back on the road to the bus, everyone else happily chatters, jokes, and jibes, which isn’t unusual. The whole tour we’ve been as giddy as kids at the start of summer vacation. We keep waiting for the excitement to taper off, but it doesn’t. Of course, we have spats here and there, our schedule can be grueling, and the accommodations have their drawbacks, but we’re all still so amazed this is happening it’s hard not to bask in it. I absorb their elation and let it course through my veins like my mood stabilizer, finding the Zen I need to confront Rickly when we get back. I just hope he’s as tranquil and ready to talk as me.
***
My song is so colorful and bright, like the sun refracting through the window beside me. The warm light that coats the rec room table provided the perfect place to craft the lyrics to my personal anthem. I’ve got nothing but time, so I took extra care writing it out with a box of assorted colored pencils, alternating hues for each verse and the chorus. At present, I’m doodling a universe of stars around the edges of the paper. Someday, when this is a number one Billboard hit, I’ll have this sucker framed.
I sense someone over my shoulder and look up, tentatively. I’m usually undisturbed during free time probably because I never do anything but stare off into space or watch the dumb cartoons that are always on.
It’s Craig. Maybe it’s the natural light from the window, but his sparse hair seems grayer. Like he’s aged since the last time we met only hours ago. No doubt this place takes its toll on more than just the patients.
We study each other, his eyes alternating between me and my artwork, though I’m not sure how much of my scrawls he can make out from his tall vantage point. He places his hands on the empty chair next to mine and waits for the signal that it’s okay for him to join me. Why the hell not? I give him a nod.
He pulls out the maroon chair and sits.
“It’s good to see you doing something different today.”
I pull in my paper, protectively, not wanting him to read my song lyrics if his vision has improved now that he’s closer. He’d have a field day with them.
“I had the urge to write again,” is all I offer.
“Often, making a connection with something or someone from a patient’s life before they came here can remind them of who they are. Do you feel more like yourself today after your bandmates’ visit?”
Good lord, are we going to have a session right here? You think if I’m actually showing improvement he’d let well enough alone. I’m a rebellious pain-in-the-ass. Tell me I can’t do something, I’ll show you I can. Praise me for doing something you wanted me to do, surefire way to make me stop.
I wasn’t always like this. Growing up I was a good student. Decent grades, excellent participation. I wasn’t friends with everyone but I wasn’t a bully. I listened to my mother, mostly. We didn’t have a ton of money but we were, squarely, middle class. If there was an activity I wanted to do and there was a hurdle keeping me from it, I found a way. No dad to teach me basketball, mom is not athletic, I recruited Sonny’s. Not enough money for the chorus out-of-town trip, I babysat for the neighbors even though the kids were brats.
I’m not sure what changed. I guess I got sick of it all. There’s this picture of what your life’s supposed to be. This idea that’s taught to us at a young age, through TV and books and the media, or by our parents. Go to school; be a good person; don’t give into excess; apply to college; get a job, etc. I didn’t instantaneously decide that wasn’t for me. I just started to realize, slowly, that going in another direction wasn’t wrong because it was different. That I could chase my dreams, not leave them as just dreams. True, I’d gotten a little carried away on the bad girl aspects of my modified future but, for a while, it seemed like my choice to follow another path was the right one.
My mother had a harder time dealing with my deviation. When my father moved away, inexplicably, when I was five and my sister was one, a friend invited her to church. In the absence of other close relatives, she quickly became devoted to God and her new Christian family. I can’t complain. The Bible thumpers were kind to us, but the religious doctrines she embraced added to the pristine roadmap she envisioned for my life. When I broke the news about what I wanted to do instead, she cried and prayed for my soul.
Craig doesn’t move an inch as he continues to wait for my response. I hadn’t meant to get so lost in my own thoughts, but it happens. I meet his eyes.
“Don’t worry, I’m not blacked out. I was just thinking how to answer.”
“Of course, take your time.”
“No, I don’t feel like myself after my friends’ visit. I feel alienated from everything I wanted, and had, before I came here. Writing was more like a test. To see if that girl
from before is still here somewhere between the dark patches.”
His normally frozen eyebrows twitch in what I take as mild surprised. It’s the most I’ve revealed about myself, willingly, since I arrived. In my initial evaluation upon admission, I ranted about how someone is fucking with me and that’s why I’m in this hell. Since then, I’ve continued to say that, or something sarcastic, or nothing at all. Any other tidbit he’s had to pry out with force.
Maybe this shift can be my new rebellion. Tell me I have to stay here. Tell me I’m losing my mind. I’ll show you I’m not. I’m not giving up. I’ll find a way to get out and fuck you as bad as you fucked me, Rickly.
***
I’ve taken a page from the 1940s mafia. Near darkness surrounds me as I sit alone at the bus’s kitchen table with a paper plate of spaghetti waiting for Rickly to arrive. My plan is to lure him in with a nice dinner and some wine, get him talking then kill him. Maybe. I guess we’ll see which one of us has been disrespected before I commit a crime.
Unfortunately, my Xanax has worn off. I may not be as mellow as I was this afternoon but I’m still calm enough to have a mature conversation with him, rather than a screaming match. Or at least start that way. It probably would have been good to confront him while the drugs were still in my system but, when we returned from the interview, we had to hit the road so I’d had to settle for texting. I was obviously high on something since I offered to make him dinner when I invited him to meet me. He accepted with a thumbs up emoji.
We stopped about an hour ago to let the drivers take a break, eat and stretch their legs. We’ve got to be in Austin by dawn for a morning radio show meet and greet so they’ll be driving through the night. When we pulled into a shopping center parking lot, I kicked out my bandmates swiftly to prepare my simple dinner. I’m not much of a cook, and we didn’t have many supplies, but I managed to whip up something more than toast, so I tried.