by Sara Taylor
“We’ll have to come back again tomorrow afternoon,” Ken said, yawning and stretching his arms above his head. “We didn’t get everything done.”
“How’s it sounding?” Edgar asked.
“It’s sounding good,” he replied. “Great. Rachel’s a great singer. I’m honestly sort of surprised,” he grinned. “There aren’t many good female metal voices.”
Normally I would have scowled at such a comment, but I was too tired. Fern, sitting next to me, put her arm around me. “Yeah. She’s awesome.”
“So we’ll just need tomorrow afternoon. Rachel, if you want, just come by yourself tomorrow and we can finish it off.” I nodded in reply. “Then, once I get all her stuff recorded, I can send you guys the files and you can mix it or whatever.”
In Socks’s van on the way home, I tried to explain to them that it had been difficult for me to capture any sort of vibe, and I grudgingly apologized for needing them to leave. Everyone was nice about it. Socks reiterated what Ken had said about it being a common thing, but I still felt lousy. I didn’t want to be some spoiled singer, you know? If I was going to have a reputation I wanted it to be something else. Not spoiled. Not a princess who had to have things her way.
My voice was hoarse and shot. Was I even going to be able to do the recordings tomorrow? How long would it take to get my voice back to good shape? I felt an irritation creeping over me. My role here was different from everyone else’s. And if the band moved forward, I couldn’t see it becoming any less difficult.
xXx
That night in my room I started drawing. I drew a skeleton hanging from a noose, dangling in front of a crowd of people, a background of shadowy faces, all watching, some of them disinterested, some of the faces mocking and laughing. I gave her long black hair, like mine. I remembered our show with Heathenistic Bile, I remembered that afternoon in the studio. The skeleton was exposed and humiliated, and the faces around her were enjoying it. I remembered Fern trying to be positive and supportive of me. I drew another skeleton beneath the hanging one, this one with long white hair — the white I knew Fern wanted her hair to be — grabbing the dangling legs as if trying to support the weight of the body, to stop the skeleton from hanging. For good measure I added in a severed head, wrapped in blood-soaked cloth with only the wild eyes visible from within. The head of Holofernes. It was on the ground beside the white-haired skeleton. After I had finished sketching this out, I sat back and looked at it. You sort of couldn’t tell whether or not the Fern-skeleton was trying to help the me-skeleton by lifting her legs, supporting her weight, or if she was pulling on them, trying to speed up the process. Oh well. I sort of liked that double meaning, that confusion.
I took my markers and started colouring.
Scream into This, I scrawled along the bottom. Yeah, Rachel — scream into the microphone like it’s not a big deal, while we all sit here judging you. Just scream. Dance like a little monkey for everyone.
TWENTY-SIX
That night I could barely sleep because I was so angry. I don’t even really know who or what I was angry at. The whole situation, and everyone in it, I guess. Angry at the band for not understanding I had a different job than they did. At Edgar, who always seemed like he was going to be contrary with me, no matter if it was getting pissed that I made fun of the Heathenistic Bile guys, or if I insisted that singing was different from playing bass. I was angry at Fern too, for no good reason, and Socks as well, even if it was just for being so damn cheerful all the time. I was angry with my parents for suggesting I get a summer job. I felt very disconnected from them — they were a blur to me. And I was definitely angry that I had to go back into that stupid room again and do the rest of the songs. I have never liked going into the studio. There is a hollowness and dishonesty to the whole thing.
Ironically, even though my voice was still wrecked, the next day with Ken went pretty smoothly. I did my best to sound good and get through it all. No one was there except me and him, and he faithfully did not look at me during the whole thing, and we finished off the rest of the songs within a few hours. I was relieved when it was over.
“So let Socks know I will upload all these files to his server within the next few days,” Ken said when we had finished. “If you guys need some help mixing the tracks, I’m happy to give a hand.”
“I’ll tell him,” I said, leaning back on the couch. Now that we were finished, I was completely exhausted. “Thanks for doing this for us.”
“It’s not a problem.” He smiled at me. “You guys are actually pretty awesome. I think this CD is going to be amazing. You’re going to release it on your own?”
“Once we save up enough money to get them printed,” I said.
“Cool.” He nodded, and paused for a second. “I hope you don’t take offence to this, but I think people are going to be pretty impressed that you’re a girl, and that your guitar player is a girl. The music is awesome.”
I prickled. “Is that because it doesn’t suck? You’re surprised that it doesn’t suck?”
“No, no, not like that,” he said. “It’s just that it seems like you guys are really committed to it. You have to admit that there aren’t a lot of girls in this whole thing, this kind of music. There isn’t much to compare it to, to even begin to make a lousy statement like ‘girls in metal suck.’ The only other female singer I can even think of is Annika, and you’re way better than her.”
“I guess.”
“She doesn’t suck. And your music, girls in the band or not, doesn’t suck. To be honest, I think you guys are going to actually be able to do something with it. You’re original. People are going to be interested.”
I nodded. I know all of this. “If they can get past the fact that we’re girls.”
“Fuck anybody who feels that way,” Ken said dismissively. “Use your band to show them how wrong they are.”
I know that too.
xXx
About a week later Socks called to say that he’d received the recorded tracks from Ken, and that everyone was going to get together at his place to start listening through them and choosing the best takes. I was excited about getting started on this, but my parents had to throw a wrench into everything.
“So you’re all finished with the music recording?” my father asked me that very night as we were having dinner.
“Yes.”
“Have you started looking for a part-time job?”
“Yes.” I was lying. “I’ve been looking on the internet.”
“Well, I have some good news for you,” Mom said. “A friend of mine owns a coffee shop downtown, and she’s looking for some extra help for the summer. I mentioned that you’re looking for work, and she said she’d be happy to hire you until school starts!”
Both of them beamed as if this was the best possible news, and I immediately matched their smiles. “That’s great, thank you for doing that for me,” I said. “But I would kinda prefer to find my own job. I’d feel bad if I messed up or something. I wouldn’t want your friend to get mad at you for suggesting me.”
“You won’t mess up. How could you mess up?” Mom said.
“You’re not supposed to mix business with friendship, right?” I said.
“You’ll take the job and do just fine,” my father said.
“You start tomorrow morning,” Mom trilled.
Weak adolescent that I was, my smile vanished and I immediately started complaining. “I can’t start tomorrow. I have things to do,” I said. They were surprised by my sudden anger, which I could understand. I had tried to keep that stupid smile on my face as long as I could.
“You’re talking about the band, I’m sure,” Dad said. “And you know by now that Mom and I support your creative projects. But you’re going to be starting your last year of high school in the fall. It’s very important that you learn responsibility and work ethic. I see this happen al
l the time, you know. Kids just slacking off all through school. Their parents don’t teach them any sort of structure and where do they end up? Flipping burgers their entire lives.”
“What’s wrong with flipping burgers?”
“Nothing, of course,” Mom said, “as long as that’s what a person wants to do. You have some big decisions coming up in the next year. Decisions about college. You’re not going to be a kid anymore. It’s a good time to start experiencing the world.”
How was I going to get any sort of world experience working in some crappy coffee shop? Of course there was no way to express this to them. I realized that this was not a conversation, which implies interaction and communication. I was being told. So, fine. I would work the stupid job. Whatever would shut my parents up. I didn’t even bother telling them that Fern didn’t have to work, and neither did Edgar, and that they would have the summer to work on our CD, the important thing, and I would be left out of it. I knew my parents wouldn’t care about any of those things, despite their supposed support for my creative projects.
xXx
The next morning I dutifully walked down to the Rosewood Café at 9 a.m. My mother’s friend, Mrs. Spangler — no first name basis here — did not seem very impressed by me. I smiled happily as her eyes scanned my dyed hair and my inappropriate makeup.
“You’ll have to wear your hair in a ponytail for hygienic reasons,” she said pleasantly, “and I’m afraid you’ll also have to wash off your eye makeup. We get a lot of senior citizens in here, and they don’t like that sort of thing.”
“Sure,” I said, rather disappointed. I had hoped she might dismiss me on the spot. Instead, she handed me a yellow apron.
“Put this on once you’re done washing, and we’ll get started.”
Mrs. Spangler showed me how to make coffee, where the tea bags were, and explained the selection of sandwiches and muffins. She walked me through using the cash register. It was all so useless. My band was mixing our first CD and here I was, serving huckleberry muffins and tea to old people, wearing a stupid yellow apron. I loathed my parents and I loathed Mrs. Spangler.
But at least it wasn’t gruelling and only took up half of each day. I was able to go to Socks’s house after my shifts, walking over every afternoon, to listen to the songs as they came together and help the others out. And when I got my first paycheque, I have to say that was pretty amazing. My own money. And I could do whatever I wanted with it.
xXx
My parents were off my back about everything, happy that I had settled into the job. It sucked getting up that early, but Mrs. Spangler seemed to like me more and more, and I felt productive. I was making money, I was working on music, and I could afford to buy some new clothes and stuff. Even the customers were pretty nice. We had some regulars who would come in, some old ladies who started calling me “dear.” It sounds lame, but it sort of made me happy.
One particularly hot afternoon, an older man came in. He took a seat at a table by the window and scowled at me. “Can I get some service?” he said.
“You have to order at the counter,” I called back, trying to maintain my customer-service pleasantness.
“Well, I don’t feel like getting up,” he said.
“Well, when you do, I’ll be happy to take your order.” I didn’t like the guy. When rude people came in, Mrs. Spangler had always dealt with them, poised and pleasant. But this time she wasn’t in the shop — it was only the second time she’d left me there alone for a while, as she went to the supermarket — and it was my first time dealing with a rude customer on my own.
Which, of course, wasn’t sitting well with me.
The man stared at me for a while, and I stared right back, expressionless. The silent confrontation should have made me feel awkward, but instead it made me feel excited. The man finally looked away, uncomfortable. “Get me a coffee, black, and a chocolate muffin.”
“You’ll have to come up and pay first,” I called back, too happily and too loudly.
“You can come here and get my money,” he said.
“No can do.”
The man sat for a few more moments and then gave in. He came up to the counter, took a five dollar bill out of his pocket, and literally threw it at me. I calmly picked it up, rung in the sale, and gave the man his change. “I’ll bring it aaaaall to your table for you, sir,” I said, smiling brightly and sarcastically. He glared at me and went back to his table, sitting down.
I decided to take my sweet time getting his coffee and muffin. I wanted him to get angrier; I was anticipating the conflict, wondering what his reaction would be. I wasn’t afraid of him. This was exciting to me.
After several long minutes, I finally carried his coffee and muffin to his table. “I really, really, really hope you enjoy this.”
The man exploded. “How dare you talk to me like that? The customer is always right! You have absolutely no business giving me such attitude!”
As he ranted, I continued smiling brightly and placed the coffee mug in front of him. Infuriated, he grabbed the mug and actually threw it down onto the floor, splashing hot coffee on his chest. As the mug shattered on the floor, he cried out in anger and surprise.
I knelt down to pick up the pieces and cut myself on one of the jagged edges. I gasped as I saw blood ooze from three of my fingers, dark and red.
I stared at the blood as the man freaked out. “Now I’ve burned myself! You bitch!” he shouted, clutching at his coffee-soaked shirt. I knew the coffee had to have burned him, and I stood back up again.
“Oh, no!” I cried. I reached out towards him to “help” and his eyes locked onto the blood dripping from my fingers.
“What the hell!” He tried to pull away, but I began to pluck at the wet areas of his shirt, wiping my blood on it, all the while staring into his horrified eyes. I really, really tried not to smile.
“Get away from me!” he screamed.
“I’m so sorry!” I cried, unable to resist grinning at him, wiping blood all over the shirt.
At that moment Mrs. Spangler returned. “What is going on?”
Immediately I fixed my expression back to concern. “He spilled coffee on himself!” I cried, continuing to clutch at his shirt.
“You’re bleeding, come away from him!” Mrs. Spangler pulled me back from the table and grabbed a handful of napkins. She began to dab at the man’s shirt, but he finally sprang out of his seat. “She is crazy!” he shouted, pointing at me. “She was completely rude to me, and then she started wiping her blood all over me!”
I couldn’t help it — the looks on their faces were so hilarious, I started laughing. I doubled over, unable to stop myself. I heard Mrs. Spangler say my name a few times, trying to get my attention, but I just laughed and laughed.
xXx
So that was the end of my time at the Rosewood Café.
TWENTY-SEVEN
As July became August, it seemed like my parents were avoiding conversation with me. I could tell they were worried, and I figured it was probably because Mrs. Spangler had told them what had happened. I wondered what she had said to them, what words had come to her mind to explain it. Insane? Unbalanced? She had to have told them about the blood, and the way I had laughed. I guess my parents didn’t know what to say to me about it, how to ask me anything. I had told them that I’d had an argument with a customer and that’s why I had been fired. Then that evening the phone had rung. And then they had talked in low voices. And then we didn’t speak of it again.
Which was fine by me. I hadn’t wanted a summer job anyway. It pleased me that they didn’t confront me about it, but it was another reminder that I really had to keep that sort of thing under wraps. I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself. It would only end up limiting me and flagging me to people. It was a mistake to have laughed. I should have played it all off like an accident, and that way, only the assho
le would have been weirded out by me.
xXx
Fern, Edgar, Socks, and I finally had the twelve final mixes. I showed them the drawing I had done the night of the vocal recording, and though they didn’t see the deeper meaning I had put into it, they loved it. Fern wanted to use it for the CD cover, and everyone agreed. They even liked Scream into This for the album name. I was proud. We scanned it into the computer. One weekend we all dressed up and Yvonne took a picture of us standing against a brick wall, looking appropriately sullen and evil, for the inside of the CD jacket.
Now all we had to do was get the damn thing manufactured. Which was going to be costly. Edgar’s parents loaned us the money, which we assured them we would pay back as quickly as we could. We decided to only get two hundred printed up, which seemed like a small amount, but of course no one even knew who we were, so who knew if it would end up being too many?
xXx
Fern called me one evening towards the end of the summer. “So I just got off the phone with Socks,” she said excitedly. “Check it out. Ken has some friends in a band, they’re metal. They’re called Torn Bowel, apparently nice guys. They’re from Port Claim.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Well, they’re going on a tour the week before school starts. Just a short thing, four shows around the province. They were going to go with some other band, but one of those guys broke his leg so they had to cancel.”