Hollow Stars

by Lauryn Dyan

  At least I’ll still have Ace up there. We hit it off from the start, as did just about everyone else in our bands, minus Trecia and me after I kissed her number one crush. Fortunately for her, Ace and I have great musical chemistry, just not physical chemistry. Unfortunately, he still treats her like a sister. Now is no exception. Though she sits pressed up against him in the overflowing booth, his attention, and hands, seem to be drawn to the buxom blonde on his other side. Trecia pretends to be engrossed in what Paul and their drummer ‘Nuts,’ real name Alex Noots, are saying to some other patrons but her slumped shoulders, and the dejected way she nurses her drink, tells me she’s all too aware of what’s happening beside her.

  It’s times like this I wish we were friends so I could rescue her. Always being available and in his shadow is getting her nowhere.

  As my adorable, handsome boyfriend breaks my line of sight with the unrequited lovers, I let the feeling pass. Maybe one day our relationship will get there.

  “Here you go,” Rickly says, handing me my orange and red ombré drink. “Sorry it took so long. I ran into Davey at the bar and got sidetracked. We’re both obsessed with this new band that has these amazingly cryptic songs.”

  “It’s cool. I’ve just been people watching. There’s so much to see when you aren’t so smashed you can’t focus,” I half joke, though it’s true.

  He grins and lifts his glass. “Cheers then, to being more efficient drunks.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I say, and take a moderate but satisfying sip.

  ***

  Our lips are frantic, our legs intertwined. Our breath comes in hot and heavy gasps as our movements mimic the beat of the music seeping through the locked, single stall bathroom door. As the night progressed, this heat kept building between Rickly and I until I thought we might erupt, and we had to sneak away to tear each other’s clothes off.

  I’ll admit the bathroom isn’t sexy when its flaws aren’t shrouded by a drunken haze, but the lava that ignites in my veins at his touch is enough to melt away the grungy, tagged walls and cracked light affixed above the janky sink I’m balancing on.

  “I love you,” he pants.

  “You too,” I moan, as we obliterate the world in a completely different way.

  ***

  “Why did you decide to become sober?” Craig prompts.

  I hesitate. Rehashing when I decided to tone down the drinking and drugs hurts. I can’t think about that without reliving when Rickly and I first admitted we were in love. Now I don’t know what from that time was real or fake. Did he really love me? Did I really love him or was I caught up in the idea of a romance on tour?

  I know that’s not it. It stings to admit, but I did love him. Perhaps still do, despite it all. He’s the only person that ever knew all of me, other than Sonny. Even with her though, it was different. There’s a distinction between friendly versus romantic intimacy. Your best friend knows your vulnerabilities. Your true love is your vulnerability.

  It’s that vulnerability he took advantage of. I just can’t figure out why, and in a lot of ways, how. He’s freaking Houdini.

  “Why did you decide to become sober?” Craig asks, again as the silence stretches on. I pull myself back to reality.

  “I didn’t decide to be sober–I decided to be more sober,” I correct. “It’s not the same.”

  He holds up one hand in apology and motions for me to go on.

  “I wasn’t ready to give it all up at first. Doing whatever felt good, and not thinking about the consequences. It was liberating after all those years of regulating myself. Following rules, putting on the good girl persona. I couldn’t totally walk away.

  “So no, I didn’t join a twelve step program. I just decided to scale it down. Have fun but try not to blackout.” I pause and picture Rickly and I enjoying a beautifully sunny day just like today when we made that choice. The image breaks my heart. “I did it for my relationship...with Rickly.”

  Craig keeps a straight face, but I know this is a big admission. It’s the first time I’ve ever said Rickly’s name without spitting it out like venom.

  “Given your blackouts continued even after, do you regret that decision?” he asks, carefully.

  “I’ve never thought about it that way.”

  “How come?”

  I consider this.

  “I don’t believe in regrets.”

  He scribbles a note. “Why is that?”

  “It’s hard to put into words, but I have a story to explain it. So, one time, I went to the record store and, after hours of rifling through vinyl, I bought one of my favorite albums. I didn’t have a lot of money and I was so excited by my find. Guess I’ve always been absent-minded because, when I got it home, I realized I already had it. I was so bummed.

  “So I went to exchange it that same night. There was a line, so I decided to browse again even though I’d scoured everything earlier. Then there it was. An album I’d been searching for but had been having a hard time finding.

  “The cashier told me he’d just put it out. Said they only get one every so often and it always sells right away.

  “And, as trivial as that story is, it made me believe everything happens for a reason. It’s hard to have regrets if you think your decisions, good or bad, are all leading toward what’s supposed to be.”

  “That’s an interesting philosophy.”

  I shrug.

  “It’s not unique, but it’s why I never considered regretting dating Rickly, or the choices we made together. Maybe, now, I should change my views. Because, if I still believe things happen for a reason, then it makes me wonder what is coming that all this shit is happening to me now.”

  ***

  The bus is dark and quiet, everyone asleep. I snuggle into Rickly’s side and smile. I’d say tonight was a success. We were able to party and not get so epically drunk we fought or I blacked out. Had some hot sex, too. Going to mark today in the win column. Maybe we can do this.

  Chapter Eleven

  “You can do it, you just have to try,” Samantha pleads, for the fiftieth time. We’re chilling on the bus as our schedule is light today, the focus being on RBYW, and Sam is bringing up an old argument from when we first set out on tour. She wants me to start writing again and I’m not ready. Inspiration hasn’t struck—I’m still living it. What’s happening now is going to fuel our next album, and there are thoughts and emotions I’m not sure how to capture into words yet.

  “Soon,” I assure her. She’s lucky I had such a great time last night or I’d be a real bitch about this.

  “Define soon? The label’s itching for a taste and something to tease to fans to keep them engaged.”

  “I’ve scribbled down a few ideas with parts of choruses and verses, but nothing’s complete. They’re just going to have to wait till the tour is done. It’s too much at once. They’ll be happier with the end product if they have patience.”

  Oli nods adamantly in agreement while he and the rest of the band sit silently at the kitchen table watching Samantha and me faceoff on the narrow strip of faux-wood flooring between the table and cupboards. We’ve got our hands on our hips like we’re ready to draw pistols in an old-timey dual. She scans the group.

  “What about you guys? Are you ready?”

  “Not yet,” Oli says, affirming the decision the five of us made together back when Samantha first broached the topic months ago. Jack shakes his head as well. I wait for the remaining two to chime in, but Davey’s dark eyes are locked on Sonny who is intensely staring at me. For once, I’m not sure what this look means. Her eyes flit to Davey and then back before she responds.

  “I have some ideas, too. I could get started on them with the guys but it works better when Kennedy gets things rolling.”

  I swear Davey’s tattooed neck strains in irritation, but his tightened muscles smooth before I can put him on the spot about it.

  Samantha sighs resigned.

  “Fine, I’ll hold Orphan off a little longer
. I don’t know if I can do it until your home, but I can try to stretch it to the end of the U.S. leg.”

  There’s a moment of uneasy silence before Davey breaks the tension.

  “What about one of our covers? The label puts out that Rock Recovered album every year and we could totally record something epic for that.”

  Samantha’s face brightens and I’m so thankful she and Davey are on the same wavelength again I chose to ignore his earlier annoyance. He’s always enjoyed composing more than playing shows so, if I had to guess what he was thinking earlier, it’s that he wants to get back to it. Maybe he figured he could get Sonny to push me. If anyone could, it’d be her. This is just not the time though. His idea is a good compromise.

  “Love it,” Samantha says. “I’ll talk to the label. Be prepared with a list of options in the next few days. They’ll want final say.”

  I lower my head as I roll my eyes so she doesn’t see. Sometimes, the business side of this is as stifling as a minister chaperoning a school dance.

  ***

  I blink several times, bewildered. The usual daily commotion of the psych rec room surrounds me yet I have no idea how I got here. The last thing I remember is eating my breakfast in the dining hall. It was bland eggs and overcooked bacon.

  Now I sit at a square, ivory table identical to the one in the cafeteria as though my table and I were teleported from one room to the other while my mind was on vacation. Here, though, I hold a pencil mid-air instead of a fork.

  I glance down expecting to see the faded yellow and brown of my breakfast but, instead, I’m greeted with a white paper heavily marked with gray. I’ve been writing and doodling and I don’t remember doing it. I’d consider it a trick, or delusion, if the words and diligently-traced, hollow, five-sided stars weren’t distinctly in my handwriting. There’s no mistaking the swirl of my S’s and harsh points of my T’s.

  I lay down my pencil carefully and pick up the paper gingerly, as though it’s a bomb, ready to detonate as soon as I read the text on the page. My mouth has gone bone dry, just like it did when I watched the surveillance tape confirming I’d been getting my pills. Both moments evoke the feeling you get when you observe yourself in a dream. Surreal.

  Hopefully blacked out me wrote something useful. Maybe, like in a supernatural thriller, my subconscious is actually another person trapped in my body desperate to leave me a note to help break her free. Split us into the two people we should be. That seems infinitely easier than nailing my assailant or trying to unearth some deeply, buried trigger that makes my memory shutdown.

  I skim the paper quickly noting, based on the way I’ve grouped the words on the page, it’s a song. There are six blocks of text with three of them repeated. The chorus. It reads:

  “Weaving, leaving, barely seeing

  The map ahead, twisted road behind

  Blinded eye no longer bleeding

  From what can’t be

  My dark and gaping empty mind”

  Well shit. Blacked out me is just as distraught about what’s happening as I am. I want to dive into the verses, but a hand taps me on the shoulder.

  “Time to meet with Dr. Green, miss,” an orderly says, reminding me it’s time for my session. I can’t believe it’s already two in the afternoon. Breakfast was at nine.

  Folding the paper and placing it in my robe pocket for later, I stand to go to Craig’s office marveling how time flies when you’re losing your mind.

  ***

  “The Used, ‘All That I Got’,” I declare.

  “What about Thursday, ‘Understanding in a Car Crash’?” Chimes in Jack.

  Davey smiles.

  “No, Dashboard Confessional, ‘Screaming Infidelities’. Write it down.”

  Since Samantha left, we’ve sprawled out in our bunk area to laugh and battle it out for which cover song we should record. Our list is nearly fifty songs long but we’re having so much fun, we can’t stop adding on. We decided we want to do something emo since that’s the genre that most influenced our style. We just can’t make up our minds.

  “Oh man, AFI, ‘Girls Not Gray’,” Oli adds, as another title is scrolled onto the list by Sonny, who lays across her bed on her stomach.

  We’ve played at least a dozen of these songs live. Those are the ones we’ll end up sending to the label but, for now, we’re just dreaming while making a playlist of our favorite tracks we’d love to permanently pay tribute to. In reality, we wouldn’t do half of them justice. We need to find that perfect song we can rock while complimenting its original style.

  “Okay, I got all those and I’m adding Taking Back Sunday, ‘MakeDamnSure’,” Sonny says, triumphantly.

  While this fantasy time could probably go to better use, like at least talking about the next album, I’m enjoying this too much to worry right now.

  ***

  Magna cum laude. Summa cum laude. I wish I knew Latin. There’s a great song title hiding in those fancy words that grace each of Craig’s diplomas. I’m back in his boring ass office trying to channel my nervous energy into studying his degrees, wishing he’d have hung something more interesting like inkblots on his walls. He doesn’t even have ugly curtains like we had on the bus. Damn Samantha. She never did get those changed.

  This is my first sit down with my father since his surprise appearance. We’re seated side-by-side, our fidgeting bodies angled to face each other just enough we can still watch Craig behind his desk flanked by his, I’m assuming, impressive credentials.

  “Thanks for joining us again, Daryl,” he begins. “We’ve made some progress since your last visit, but we can make more, Kennedy willing.”

  I smile, sheepishly. I am willing, I’m just not sure what these sessions with my dad are going to accomplish, especially if what’s happening isn’t only in my head. Am I about to open a can of worms unnecessarily? I can’t predict the outcome of all this but I’m desperate to try anything to get out of here while I still have something to go back to. Let the painful emotional prodding begin.

  “Great,” Craig continues. “Let’s start small. Daryl, can you share a little about yourself so Kennedy can get more comfortable with you?”

  “Sure.” He rubs his hands on his jeans exactly like he did the last time he was here. “Kennedy, is there anything specific you want to know?”

  Talk about a loaded question! Yes, everything, and no, nothing. I’ve been shoving my thoughts and memories of him to the back corner of my psyche for so long, it’s weird to focus on him now, especially with so much else on my mind.

  “Umm...,” I stumble. I can do small talk with fans easy. With my estranged father? Not so much. I try to find the most basic place to start. “What do you do for a living?”

  His arms and shoulders relax a fraction, probably in relief I didn’t jump right into abandonment questions.

  “I’m a copywriter. I work at an ad agency now, but I started out doing freelance work to get my foot in the door.”

  I nod as if I’m well versed in the ins and outs of advertising unsure what to ask next. He looks to Craig in the silence and thankfully he prods him further.

  “Sounds like interesting work. Your daughter is a writer as well.”

  Daryl smiles for the first time and I see a hint of myself in the set of his goatee-framed mouth. It’s almost as eerie as my night visitors.

  “She is.” He addresses me now. “You are far more talented than me. I bought your album and read the lyrics in the liner. They’re beautiful. I’d like to say I understand them all but you are good at painting a picture with many interpretations.”

  I raise my eyebrows and struggle again to speak. For all these years, my main emotion toward my father has been indifference. I never imagined he felt anything for me but the same. His compliment is perfect. It’s exactly how I want my words to resonate. I like knowing what they mean but I want other people to find their own meaning in them. The songs that had the greatest impact on me were like that.

  “Thank you. You
have a way with words too,” I mumble, embarrassed by his compliment, but wanting to acknowledge it. I quickly move the conversation forward. “Have you written anything I would know?”

  For the next ten minutes, we discuss his career. He used to write newspaper articles back when he and my mom were together but longed to do something more creative, so he switched to copywriting. There were no big agencies in Arizona back then, so he wanted to move to LA or back east, but my mom was hesitant to uproot our lives. Hence, our planning to stay behind until he was settled.

  He’s penned lots of magazine ads, brochures, emails, etc. Also several commercials, including one for a car company and a major cat food I recognize. He mentions a project for Honey Bunches of Oats and I suppress a laugh imaging my crazy neighbor as his spokesperson.

  “And that’s about it,” he concludes. “When I was freelancing, my work was unpredictable but now that I have a full-time job, things are much steadier. I’ve been with the agency five years now and in LA for over fifteen.”

  I liked touring LA, but I can’t imagine growing up there. Seems so not my mom. Perhaps it’s better we didn’t go.

  “Did you find what you were looking for there?” I ask, as I look down to fiddle with my wrist.

  He shifts again.

  “Yes...and no. I found the type of work I wanted. There was no way I would have been happy writing for a middle-of-the-road company or client in Arizona. I either wanted to succeed or crash and burn in the major league. To know I gave it my best shot before giving up. Nothing was going to stop me from trying.”

  I shrink involuntarily into my chair, taken aback by his words that sound so much like something I would say. I probably had those exact thoughts when I was deciding if I was going to try to make it as a musician.

  “Partying was the only thing that came close to getting in my way,” he adds, quietly.

  I’m enthralled, unable to tear my eyes off middle-aged, male me. Are we the same? It sure sounds like it except I would never abandon my family. That’s a fundamental difference I cannot forget. Fresh resentment builds in my chest as I digest this. He is me, but without the loyalty. I want to slap him and ask how he could put his ambition, and own pleasures, above me and my family, but I don’t. Instead, I wonder if I’m being naïve. Did I do that? When I left my mom and sister?