by Sunniva Dee
My tongue clicks out the sound of my snare drums, and moans and sighs become the beat of my whisks. Until the stark offbeat of someone knocking on my door makes a drumstick crack against the desk.
“What?” I shout.
“Dude! Open.”
It’s Emil. Heaving for air, I unhinge the chain and swing the door open. “S’up?”
“Dude, what was that? Fucking A, are you going Meshuggah, now?”
I flash a quick smile. “Don’t think so. Hard enough to be the only American in a throng of Swedish rockers. No need to mix in another ice-country band.”
“Man, that was mind-ripping! Explosive, fucking genius. It was like a fucking horde of horses or something, running down a mountain full of rocks.”
“Lamborghini engine,” I say.
“Diablo SV?”
“Damn straight.”
We grin, and Emil starts to nod. He’s wearing a bright red pair of Guitar Hero pajama pants. Fleece, for good measure. “Lame,” I tell him, jutting my chin toward them. He breaks from his prolonged nod for a fleeting look down his white-ass chest and his clown pants. Then he resumes the nod.
“Run with the Horses,” he says, all eureka-like.
“No. You mean…?”
“Yeah, I do.” Impossibly, his grin widens. “Can you keep the pace up through it?”
“Through a whole song?”
“Chicken?”
I roll my eyes lazily. “Naw. I can keep it up, no prob. But Bo’s not gonna let that fly. He’s not gonna rename ‘Unbreak my Soul’ to “Run with the Horses’ just because of my beat.”
“Man, it’s worth trying, though. We’ve been smooching this new tune for how long, now? Stroking it like a frigid honey, and she’s not getting off. Lyrics are fine. Melody’s good. But this is exactly what it’s lacking. We all agreed it needed more, and this is even more than more. You’d be breaking that fucking song into pieces and reassembling it in a completely different way. Like Picasso.”
“Okay.” I cross my arms, waiting for the kicker, because when Emil begins?
“Can’t wait to hear you on drums with this. You know what?” He shoots his hand out so quickly I instinctively blink. Last thing I need is my eye poked out.
“Picasso started by painting naturalistic stuff. Like totally legit exactly like people looked. And he was good at it. Get it?”
“Not entirely,” I say. But Emil’s enthusiasm could rev a bass drum into snare speed, so he already has me chuckling under my breath.
“Like you!”
“Because I paint?” I know where he’s going with this, but you gotta give the guy a hard time.
“Yes! You paint beats. Bash out beats, more like it. And technically, you’re a superstar. You keep the pace like a god, at the same time as you pull off legendary shit. So, like, you started out painting naturalistically, all perfect, and now you’re experimenting like Picasso did.”
I laugh quietly and pick up my broken stick. Toss it at the trash bin by the TV and miss. I pick it up and try again, from farther away. Score. “Sounds to me like this is Revved-Up Emil talking. Wait, Revved-Up Emil is always the one talking.”
His excited stare doesn’t waver. Instead, he raises a hand between us, clenches it, and holds it up like he means victory. “What do you say?”
“Depends on the question. I’m not Picasso. He’s dead. Also, I just drummed a Lamborghini Diablo SV, not a flock of horses, and—”
“‘Horde’ of horses, it’s called.”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” I say when someone knocks on the door again. Emil opens, and Zoe tiptoes in on bare feet, robe tightened around her and hair tousled.
“What’s going on in here?” She blinks against the light.
“Troy just whacked out a new beat to ‘Run with the Horses.’”
“Hmm, I don’t know that one. New?” she asks, voice sleep-crusty.
I shake my head slowly, emphatically, and flatten my palm toward Emil. “What your husband, here, means is he came barging in while I was messing around, told me I’m Picasso, and now we need to rename ‘Unbreak my Soul’ to ‘Run with the Horses.’”
Zoe looks like I just summarized the weather forecast. “Cool. Shouldn’t you guys tell Bo, though?”
“Yes!” Emil points at her in another eureka-moment. “Let’s go. Zoe, you coming too, right?” He grabs her hand and starts walking toward the door. Being the other half of his crazy ass, she sees no problem with this.
“Hold your horses,” I say. God knows where that came from. “It’s three in the morning, and the whole Lindgren family’s crashed out. If you want to go through with this, at least wait until the morning, unless you want to get on Bo’s bad side for waking up Selena again.”
For a second, Emil looks indecisive. Weighing his options, his shoulders eventually deflate. “Fuck. But this shit’s important. He’ll want to know.”
“Yes, but Cookie, he’s right,” Zoe murmurs, stroking hair away from my buddy’s easily excitable face. “Come on. I’ll keep you entertained until the morning. The Lindgrens get up early anyway. Come, come.”
I groan and look away as he grinds his Guitar-Hero pajamas crotch against Zoe’s hip, scooting her in front of him out the door.
“Dude, gotta go,” he murmurs in his sexy-voice. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”
I smirk. “I’ll think about it.”
AISHE
I get to our merch stand at the Boston arena before anyone else. I’m good with that as I unwrap boxes, folding open t-shirts, and tagging them up on the display board behind me.
I hum while I work. Four months on tour with Clown Irruption doing this same thing, it’s in my fingers. I spread out the broken-heart tee all the girls wanted a year ago. Judging by the number of boxes with its design on the side, it’s still popular.
I pile them in stacks, ten pieces of each size, and leave a few extra boxes open and readily available beneath the table. The mess under there—about twenty boxes once I’m done—will be hidden by the black table draping anyway. Idly, I wonder if we have more fabric; this is the longest stand I’ve ever handled. No wonder they were happy to take me back on again.
“Hey, you,” Troy says. I turn and find him at the other side of the merch table. He’s his everyday self, except for the black wife-beater he wears under the open shirt. “Setting up for the night?”
“Sure am.” I bob my head in exaggerated agreement, because clearly I am.
Light eyes roam over my hair, stop at the feathers for a second, before moving down my mane. It hangs loose, the way I always keep it, over my boobs and ending mid-waist. I pull a quizzical twist of my lip, examining his expression. Sending a glance of my own down myself, I register my long, violet Gypsy skirt, which flares nicely whenever I move. Above it, I don one of my favorite tops in a grass green color, tight around my lower torso but wider over my chest. It reaches me mid-arm, and the décolletage has a silk rope tied low.
I cross my arms. “Something the matter?”
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
“Great, so hopefully it’ll help sell a few extra shirts, then.”
“You’re not afraid they’ll recognize you.” He straightens a wrinkle in the tablecloth in an unimportant little gesture. When I don’t respond, he squints up, mild stare holding mine.
It’s not like I haven’t thought about it, but what is my alternative?
“Figured I’d see how it worked out,” I reply. “It might not go the way we expect. I honestly don’t think your fans are here for the gossip.”
“But once they’ve discovered you, it’s done. You realize that, right?” Again, his attention travels over my clothes.
“Troy, I can’t stop being me because of what happened. This is how I dress.”
“Not always, right?” His voice is too gentle to warr
ant the jab his words cause to my heart. “When you first came to us, you were wearing jeans and t-shirts. You look incredible like this—it’s completely who you are as a person—but this is also how people know you from the video.”
“Yeah, well. This is what I have now.” I sniff and tip my chin up. Lower it again when I realize how childish that sounded.
Amusement washes over Troy’s face. Lucky for him, he rubs the smirk off with the back of his hand.
“Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be at sound check?”
“In fifteen. Seriously, you don’t have any other clothes than the Gypsy clothes?”
“The Gypsy clothes? That’s what you call it, now?” Never mind that I call it that in my head. He has no right. “Whatever, Troy, and what are you wearing, then, your L.A. drummer clothes?” Oh my God, I am so lame. “You know what? Zip it. You need to just get going or something.”
Oh boy, and here’s Hailey. I narrow my eyes as she traipses closer. With a flick of her hip, she nudges into Troy and makes her gaze travel slowly up his wife-beater to his eyes. What a character she is.
Wait a minute?
“Whoa,” Troy says, echoing my thoughts. “Did you dye your hair?”
“Ye-e-es. You like it?” She bats her lashes and flashes me a smile in passing.
“It’s like…” Troy looks confused.
“Kind of like mine, huh?” I say.
“Oh really?” Hailey’s eyes widen, and she covers her mouth. It comes off a tad bit cartoony to me. “I hadn’t thought of that. I like your hair, though,” she adds. “Is it your regular color? I mean, all of them? So spunky, ya know.”
Hailey’s formerly blonde locks are now as dark as my natural color. It’s a foot shorter than mine and of a thinner, more manageable type without waves and Romani thickness. However, she’s added dark red stripes throughout, and it even boasts a handful of pink sections, which give the effect of my faded red ones. I have no idea what to make of this.
“My natural color is black,” I say.
Elias saunters over, a beer in hand. “Dude, Troll’s looking for you— Hey, look at Aishe’s little sister. What’re you doing after?” he flirts, waggling his brows at Hailey.
“Oh stop it. Can’t I get my hair done now, all of a sudden?” She concentrates on her gum, making a bubble snap before she gets behind the stand next to me.
“Yeah, never mind. You’re as pale as me,” Elias says. “And you don’t got the feathers and stuff Aishe has. Also jeans.”
“And the makeup,” Troy affords.
“Color is sexy.” Elias’ gaze dances to Waris, who’s on her way over from one of the food stands with a turkey leg in each hand.
“Shit. They have turkey legs?” Troy says. “Aishe, you want one?”
“I’m working.”
“I’ll have one,” Hailey pipes up.
“You can eat it later,” Troy tells me. “I’ll get you one.”
I shrug while he strides off. Midway there, he turns slowly. “Wine?”
“If it’s white and cold,” I say.
His smile is so wide I must have erased every concern in the world.
“Aishe! Throw me another black t-shirt with the guitar on it,” Hailey says. “A large.”
I do.
“Good thing we’re not on grass.” She brushes nothing off the shirt and makes a show of folding it perfectly. “This one okay? I’ll get you a new one if you want,” she tells her customer, who hands her a few bills, mumbling that it’s fine.
“Aishe, you got change for a twenty?”
I have my own line of customers, and so do our employees-for-the-night on the other side of Hailey, and yet she’s asking favors for each customer she serves. I don’t understand. I used to cover the whole line on my own, and it wasn’t a problem. Of course, the lines are longer and fatter, but we’re up from one person to four.
“You don’t have any in your cash box?” I’m sort of in the middle of something too, packing up four white and two of the red tees with the whole band on it. Troy’s in the back, his dreadlocks creating an awesome backdrop for Bo and Emil in the middle. Elias slinks in from the side, curling his lips back like he has fangs. The vampire rocker.
I take a closer look at Troy. Wow, they’ve colored in the green of his eyes like people do on supernatural movies. Oddly, it doesn’t make him any less attractive.
“Can’t you check, though?” Hailey asks without answering my question. “Aishe? Please? ’Preciate it.”
“Give me a second.” I hand over the bag of t-shirts. My customer wants a few hats too. They’re for his daughters, the two who couldn’t make it to the concert and their boyfriends. One’s about to get married. I help him with the sizes. All four of them are between mine and his head in size, according to him.
“Aishe. You got change or not?” Hailey has stopped all movement and is just standing there, staring at me. The first people in her line stare too. “Aishe Xodyar?” she calls a little louder before I have time to answer.
“Geez. No, I don’t,” I lie. “We might be out of all but twenties.” The customer waiting for Hailey’s change is one of Clown Irruption’s jailbait fans. With hair dyed traffic-light red and shaped into a Power Puff Girl bob, her stare freezes on me.
Metallic blue lips drop apart, and I have time to think, No! before she squeals, “Oh my God, it’s Aishe Xodyar! She was with Troy Armstrong in the video.” She grabs her friend’s hand and tugs on it as if she, and the closest two hundred people, haven’t already heard her.
“Oh.” Hailey presses her lips together over a chuckle. “Awkward.”
The older guy I was helping backs his stare off me in time. He mumbles something, lays down a stack of bills, and grabs his bags.
“That’s so crazy,” I hear. “She’s prettier in the video, right?”
“Damn, can you imagine doing that, like, on film?”
“Can I have your autograph?” A guy’s voice. His question is followed by snickers. I ignore him, waving the next customer over. She’s about thirty, of the intellectual kind with eyes that drill into you. She points behind me, at the broken heart shirt, a size large, please. I find it and spread it open for her to see, but then the same man’s voice says, “I wish we could’ve seen more of your ass.”
What the actual fuck?
I weave my attention through the crowd. A cluster of what appears to be high school kids grin and nudge each other. One of them is taller and braver. Face speckled with pink acne, he shows his teeth in an unfriendly grin. “You considering a retake of that? Such a waste with all the clothes you wore.”
Hailey is uncharacteristically quiet, helping her customers with a small smile and unprecedented efficiency. I try to be efficient too, but when another high school brat chimes in something about my boobs, I drop the bag I’m holding and set my hands on my hips. “Will you please behave? You’re making everyone uncomfortable.”
“Behave? Is that what you were doing in the video?” someone murmurs from Hailey’s line. I can’t see who, but the high school kids in my own line burst out laughing.
“Guys, come on.” A tall white guy with a pudgy face swings toward them. “Don’t be childish, now, all right? Maybe she’ll sign autographs for you. Maybe she won’t.” He gives me a side-wink, like we’re buddies, and I’m not sure how I feel about this. “Either way, you’re about to buy your swag from Aishe Xodyar herself. You know what I mean? Doesn’t get any better than that.”
The kids cackle again.
“So keep your volume down. It’ll be your turns soon enough.”
I decide to ignore the additional comments he’s drawing. They seem to taper off, though, like he’s had some effect on the high-schoolers. It’s either his booming, authoritative voice or the sheer size of him.
His eyes are warm once he’s in front of me, and for the most part
they don’t stray down from my face. I feel like an idiot for wearing this top, now. My chest feels particularly swelly tonight. Troy was right: what I’m wearing is the same outfit, different colors, as on the video.
“Kids,” the guy commiserates with me, rolling his eyes. He has leaned over the table so he can share his comment with me at a lower volume. He picks up a mini-poster, pre-signed by the band. “I’ll have this one. How much?”
“Three fifty,” I say, finding a small bag for it.
“Can I have your signature too, beautiful Aishe Xodyar?” His eyes are brown but not necessarily warm, I realize. They’re intent on me, though, as he waits for my answer.
“Me? No, that wouldn’t make any sense. I’m not a part of the band.”
“You’re with the band, though,” he almost hums, pressing his lips up in a smile.
I frown. “I work for them.”
“Ah, how much would it take for you to work for me?”
I tuck the postcard into the paperback, not feeling so safe with this guy after all. Is this another innuendo?
“I do have change but prefer exact amounts if you have them,” I say in lieu of responding.
“All right, sure. How much?”
“Three fifty,” I repeat, holding my head high against the curiosity of the crowd behind him.
“Oh.” He pulls his chin back in subtle surprise. “So cheap. That can’t be for a whole night, can it?”
I suck in a gasp, my face flooding with heat. Hailey instigated this by repeatedly calling out for me, while my customer seemed like an adult with the guts to support me. For a second, he staved off the reactions around me, and now that his fat lips spread in understated malice, my disappointment is almost unbearable.
I stride out of the booth with my skirts swooshing around me. The guy is an overgrown bully. What a fun trip down memory lane this must have been for him, reigniting his old powers from high school.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” he laughs out. “Wait, where are you going? I’ve been waiting in line to see you for twenty minutes, and now you just walk out on me?”