Feeling the walls closing in, I barely have time to slip on a pair of sandals before he reaches me, and I slip out the door before he can stop me.
Without keys, my wallet, or anything except my ratty pink flip-flops and a vomit-stained hoodie, I’ve got nowhere to go. Thankful that Lucky hasn’t followed me outside yet, I start pacing the perimeter of our yard.
On my fifth pass, Lucky is standing in my way. “I’m so sorry I let this happen to you.” He pulls me into his chest, and I let him, even though I must reek to high heaven. “God, Ali, how could I let you get like this? How could you hurt yourself like that?” he questions, and after a few beats of silence, I find my voice, and tell him the honest-to-God truth.
“It’s not your fault. Not one bit of it,” I whisper into his shirt, but I’m not ready to give him the full story yet, and Lucky being Lucky senses as much. So, with a kiss to the top of my head, he tells me he loves me, and then falls into step by my side.
I swear we walked the fences three hundred times that night.
12
Alina
By the time we’d made it back inside the house, I was ready to open up about my problems to the one person I should have let in a long time ago. And, of course, Lucky was just as incredible as I knew deep in my heart he would be, once he got over his hurt. Not once did he judge me, belittle me, call me a failure, or tell me how disappointed he was in me. Rather, he listened, even if he did swear a lot when I told him about my experience living under Aunt Liz’s strict regime and nasty comments. At the end of it all, we cleaned the kitchen together, even sharing a laugh or two.
Of course, that night didn’t miraculously cure me, but the next day I felt lighter than I had in a long time. And, well, that lasted until it didn’t, and the cycle eventually resumed. However, I started being a lot more cautious.
But in the weeks following that night, I started to notice a change in Lucky. He was drinking a lot more, even missing a few days of work due to being hungover. He also started calling and texting me nonstop when he was out or at work, until I couldn’t stand it anymore and we had a huge blowout.
I had walked into the living room one morning, and was hit by the smell of stale beer, the sight of a toppled-over tumbler, an empty bottle of Johnnie Walker’s, and a spot of what looked like puke on the floor. I was gutted. It was the third time that week Lucky had gone to bed and left the living room looking like that. My body reacted to the scene, Her voice starting to grumble then shout loud and clear that this was all my fault. My neediness, my stupidity—my very existence—was driving the best person I knew to do this.
I remember trembling at the thought, the need to eat suddenly consuming me, the desire to punish myself for being so selfish, such a fuck-up, and the worst sister, overwhelming me. I walked into the kitchen looking for something I could control. Sure, Lucky’s always been a drinker, but never like this. Not until I fucked up, showing myself as the burden I always knew I was.
“Things need to change. We both need help,” I mutter, reaching into the fridge and pulling out a full-sized container of vanilla yogurt, a pint of strawberries, and a container of leftover mac and cheese, placing them all on the table while the kettle boiled to make my quick oats. Shuffling around the kitchen, I ate while I worked to cook and prepare more food as quietly as I could, as Her voice “cheered” me on.
Attagirl, eating will make it all better…
Too bad Lucky woke up…or maybe it was a good thing?
“What the hell is this? Jesus, Ali. Again? It’s a fucking disaster in here.”
I jump at the sound of Lucky’s voice, turning my eyes and catching his shocked ones. Looking past my food mess in the kitchen to his booze mess in the living room, I almost want to laugh at his nerve. The kitchen and living room mirror one another. Instead, my blood starts to boil.
“Are you kidding me, Luck? Did you happen to bypass the living room? At least my secret’s out. What about you? Are you going to stand here and lie to me? Tell me again that you don’t have a problem with alcohol?” I place my hand on my hip, challenging him.
Running his hand over his dark hair, his blue eyes, so much like mine, are almost pleading.
“This isn’t about me,” he shouts. “I’ve got my shit handled. This is about you, again. About this,” he says, gesturing at the kitchen.
This time I do laugh. “Oh, yeah? You’ve got it under control about as much as I do,” I bitch. “You’re just as delusional as I am if you think you’ve got this under control, Luck. See how well the denial game works? See how great I’m doing?” I say, picking up the yogurt and leftover pasta as I start to move past him out of the kitchen. His words stop me.
“Who the fuck are you to judge me? What do you do, count my drinks? I don’t have to answer to you or anybody else. I’m a grown-assed man, I work full time, pay my bills on time, and help you anyway I can,” Lucky starts to shout, “What the hell are you doing with your life, anyway? Don’t you dare judge me, Alina. Don’t you dare.” He looks at me, almost seething, and for the first time in my life, I don’t recognize my brother. He’s like a gift someone cruel has locked up in a glass box right now—unreachable—and it seems, neither of us has the key.
“Yeah? Look in there and try to tell me that you don’t have a problem. I could just as easily look around this kitchen and say the same. We’re both really fucked up, Lucky. But I can at least admit it.”
I exit the kitchen, food in hand, and head to my bedroom to make myself feel better the only way I know how.
Things didn’t change right away for either of us. For Lucky, it took a brawl at the sports bar where the police got involved, thankfully giving him a warning this time, and a disciplinary meeting at work for his growing number of absences—on top of the ongoing arguments with me at home—to finally admit he needed help.
For me, it was a few weeks later. Lucky had left for work one morning, and after purging, I found myself lying on the bathroom floor, blood trickling down my cheek from a nasty gash on my forehead. I must have fainted, and bashed my face off the toilet on the way to the floor. It was enough to make me stop and take an inventory, and ask myself how much longer was I going to try fooling myself into believing I was still in control.
Sporting a swollen black eye to match the bruising on the right side of my face, I sat Lucky down a couple of nights later. I asked him if I could see the pamphlet he’d brought me before for Sheena’s Place one more time, and—at the same time—slipped him the one I’d got for him for Therapy Heals, an inpatient centre that specializes in addictions like alcoholism.
We sat side by side on the couch of our living room for a long while, reading through our respective pamphlets and looking up the programs on our laptops. Then, together, Lucky and I made a vow to get better. Not just for each other, but also for ourselves, both agreeing how long overdue it truly was.
13
Alina
“Ali, can you take a walk-in? She’s looking for a wash, cut, and style. I’m swamped, seeing as Michelle was late for her appointment,” Deidra—Paisley’s business partner and my other boss at Moxie—asks me. I’m cleaning up my workstation having just finished with my last customer, a sweet little ten-year old girl who wanted bangs so she could look just like Taylor Swift.
“Sure, give me five minutes,” I say, smiling over at Deidra, a petite red-haired woman I came to call a friend shortly after I started working here. Once I decided that college wasn’t the place for me, I enrolled at the Avola College of Hair Styling and Esthetics in Toronto, eventually receiving my hairstyling diploma. The diploma, which usually takes ten months to get, took me just over fifteen due to my illness.
Having an eating disorder made it hard to get up and function sometimes. There were days when I was too weak to think about spending my day in a classroom, too down on myself to subject others to having to deal with my fat ass and shitty attitude. The days when I’d punish myself by fasting for having indulged in a huge binge were the worst.
Despite the fact that I purge my food, it doesn’t mean I always get everything out. I still manage to consume some calories, and ingest some food. Therefore, in order to help ensure I wouldn’t gain weight from the “leftovers” as I’d call them, I’d fast for at least twelve hours after my binge/purge cycle.
Even though I was disappointed at myself for having let my illness make me drop out of the music program at Mohawk College, it was for the best, as I wasn’t ready. By the time I was ready to try school again, I’d decided to become a hairdresser. And in the end, I found a career I loved. Luckily, Avola College offered evening and weekend classes, which allowed me to catch up, making it easier to make up the time I lost before I committed to therapy, finally admitting I needed help, and starting towards my recovery.
“Thank you, I’ll let her know. Her name’s Nichole, whenever you’re ready. You’re a lifesaver, Al. So happy we have you, not sure I tell you enough,” she smiles warmly, before scurrying to the front of the salon.
Like music, hairdressing is something I’m good at and that I enjoy, so taking walk-ins and working long hours to prove my worth doesn’t bother me. Paisley and Deidra took a chance on me after graduation, and the last thing I want to do is let them down. Out of all of us in the band, Paisley and I are probably the closest, and while she doesn’t know the extent of my struggle, she knows I’m sensitive about my weight and have been for a while. She knows I’d taken some time off from school after dropping out, and that I’ve missed a few opportunities on the job front, but has never pried too much about the reasons why. It was actually Paisley who’d planted the idea for me to consider hairdressing. She said she was convinced that, like with music, I have a natural ability for styling and cutting my own hair, and that I might want to look into it. Paisley even offered to let me apprentice at her salon if I wanted. And while I’ve never come right out and told her I was bulimic, and she’s never come right out and asked, I know she suspects but she’s always been there encouraging me, and helping me find the good, even if she has no idea that’s what she’s doing. Even if she doesn’t know it, I owe Paisley more than she’ll probably ever know or realize.
“Got it, it’s no problem. Glad I can help,” I say, tossing a few white towels into the hamper before sweeping the hair from the last cut from the floor.
Finally ready, I’m making my way along the row of mirrored stations trying in vain, like always, to avoid catching a glimpse of my side profile so I can call Nichole over to the sink. I pause mid-step, hearing Paisley shriek and then shout out my name.
“Alina! Holy shit. Come here right now! It’s my phone, it’s ringing…” she says, nearly dropping the dye bowl she’d been holding in her other hand. Nancy, her regular, laughs as she watches Paisley lose her mind. Pais continues to shriek and call my name until I’m standing beside her at her station.
“Yeah, they do that, Paisley. Pesky things,” I laugh, and she shoots me a look that says I’m not funny.
“Al, it’s Tommy. It’s Tommy! This is it,” she whispers, peering down at the blaring iPhone.
“Answer it, Pais. You’re killing me,” I say, as a wave of nerves rushes through my body. This is it. Happenstance could be auditioning for our biggest gig ever, and my damn bestie still hasn’t answered the phone.
“Paisley Jane. Answer the damn phone already!” Deidra says, swooping in and taking the dye bowl from her hand.
“Right,” she says, looking down at the phone again.
“Now, Pais.”
“Okay, okay.” She gives me a sheepish grin as she slides her finger across the glass to answer, “Hello, this is Paisley Walker.” She pauses, and I’m not sure if it’s for effect, or if it’s because Tommy is getting right to the point. “Hi, Tommy. Hey, how are you?” she greets, as she shifts from one foot to the other, her green eyes wide and attentive as she listens to the voice on the other end, the voice I’m not entirely sure I want to tell us we have an audition, if I’m being honest.
The salon is quiet as we all stand around in complete silence, hanging on every word and mumble coming out of Paisley’s pink-stained lips, waiting with bated breath for the verdict.
Twisting my fingers, I decide I can’t take it anymore. Hearing another long string of “I sees” and “hmms” and “uh-huhs” is doing my head in. Opting to risk missing the news, I head back to the front to wave Nichole in for her cut. The last thing I want to do is piss off a potential regular by keeping her waiting.
“Alina!!!!!” Paisley shouts, nearly dropping her phone. “Get back here right now, missy! We’re in. We have the audition, we have the audition,” she squeals, and the whole place erupts in a round of cheers and excited chitchat. “It’s on Saturday!” She runs towards me and pulls me into a huge hug.
“Like, in four days, Saturday?” I ask in disbelief.
“Uh-huh.”
“Holy crap” I say.
“Right. We’re ready, Al. We’ve been ready for this for so, so long.” She grips me harder.
“Saturday…” I mull it over again.
“We’re gonna slay, Alina. I know it.”
“Yeah.” I pause, trying to sort which emotion I’m feeling most—panic or elation. I decide it’s elation. This is it. Our big break, the one we’ve been working so damn hard for. “Hell, yeah, we really are ready. We’re going to tour with Sicken Union, Pais,” I tell her honestly, believing it in that moment. The next thing I know we’re jumping up and down, laughing and freaking the hell out, before we separate so she can call Siobhán and Roxie to deliver the incredible news, while I walk Nichole to the sink and apologize for the delay.
After getting to work, being sure to give my client an extra thorough scalp message, I smile, half-listening to Paisley’s excitement as she fills the others in.
We got the audition!
What if we make it through and actually get the touring gig?
We got the audition!
Am I going to be strong enough to handle this?
We got the audition!
Yeah, right. You’ll never be enough…
14
Slater
“Fuck.” I rub the palm of my hand over my face, then up and across my buzzed head.
I shut off my phone’s alarm. The morning light streams into the bedroom, pissing me off. I keep meaning to grab a pair of those blackout curtains. If only I had some goddamn time to do anything other than rehearse, tour, or sit in meetings. Pulling off the blue sheet, I groan, dropping one foot then the other onto the cold wooden floor of my downtown Toronto condo. Carpet. Add it to the list.
“Jackasses,” I mumble, rushing to the washroom to shower.
Fucking snooze button. I chastise myself for hitting the stupid thing three times when I know I’ve gotta be downtown at Fallen Sound Records for nine sharp. “Can’t keep the prissy suits waiting, now can we?” I turn the lever, making sure the water is hot like I love it.
It barely feels like I’ve been home at all, and already the band is planning out our next tour, this one a summer series set to take off in June. It’s a huge gig where we invite local indie bands to join us for an eight-week stint we call the Consequence of Sound Tour.
This will be the third year in a row my band, Sicken Union—consisting of my two closest friends, Scott Billows and Zack Nolan, along with my younger brother Rain, and oldest brother Fife—have been the headliners. Each year, we audition and invite more bands to join us. It’s been a huge success so far, but it’s a lot of work.
This morning, we’re gonna listen to a bunch of band submissions that the suits and our manager, Tommy, think might be a good fit. If we agree, we’ll invite the bands to audition for us over at The Escape Room this Saturday and Sunday. Yeah, it’s last minute, but, hey, if they want the gig, they’ll be there, even with a few days notice. A tour like this takes months to plan and rehearse for, and the earlier we book the bands, the more time we have to cover our asses should something not work out along the way.
In my opinion, I coul
dn’t care less about what bands make it, as long as they’re legit, and not some side-hustle weekend band who aren’t interested in making music their full-time careers. I want to help bands that want this as bad as we did. Not the ones who want the notoriety of being on tour with us, not ridiculous pop bands who think landing a spot on our tour will catapult them into some stupid celebrity status, making the concerts a bloody fashion show rather than a rock concert. That happened once before, and I cannot and will not let that happen again.
There’s another sad truth, the sexual harassment we deal with at audition time. You wouldn’t believe how many girls tryout for the sole purpose of hopefully catching one of our eyes, when they can’t play for shit. Women who want to use us for their gain. Too many times, I’ve been offered a blow job if I’d just listen to a demo tape. This was a lesson we learned the hard way our first year when we had the members of a band called Nuisance actually offer us all sexual favours in exchange for a spot on the tour. Which was funny, because here I always thought that everybody wants to fuck rockstars, when it turns out, a whole lotta people just want to use rockstars, and are willing to waste our fucking time in the process.
That’s one of the things that pisses me off most about auditions. We take this tour seriously and want to give the bands that deserve a spot a proper chance. Which is why we now have Tommy deal with the initial meetings, and then hold formal auditions with the bands who’ve made the first cut once Tommy’s screened them for bullshit and they’ve gotten his approval. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m no fucking saint. Sure, I’ve fucked chicks in the bands we’ve had on tour with us, but I’m always careful, especially now after being burned in the past. I never hook up with a woman who gives me the “I want more from you” vibes, only the ones where our desire for each other has been mutual.
Being signed at eighteen, you learn this shit the hard way. You learn that trust doesn’t come cheap, and that people will go to insane lengths to get what they want. The last thing I want is some girl looking for a white-picket fence, a pooch named Fluffy, and some rug rats. I’m not that guy. None of us are. And I sure as hell ain’t a guy looking to quit my band and work some stuffy day job in the name of love or family or some shit. The last thing I need is a Yoko Ono. I almost made that mistake once, back when the band was first getting a lot of attention, starting to play more gigs, and meeting with record labels. And there I was, contemplating walking away, scared I’d lose her. Ariel Wright.
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