by Sara Taylor
“Okay?”
“So I guess Ken recommended us to them. And they’d like us to go on the tour.”
“Shit, really? A tour?”
“Well, only four shows,” Fern said, but I could hear the excitement in her voice too.
The four of us met the next afternoon at the tea shop. Socks told us the details. He figured we could take the van with the gear and all of us share a hotel room each night. We could sell some of our CDs, hopefully, and make a bit of money to pay for gas and the hotels. We weren’t going to be paid to do the shows, but that was okay because apparently Torn Bowel was getting pretty popular, so it would be good exposure for us.
“They’re not a big band, but I guess people are starting to like them,” he said. “I think it would be a good idea to go with them. Ken says they’re nice guys too, so it should be fun.”
“Do you guys feel like we’re ready to play four shows in a row?” Edgar asked. I figured he was probably reminiscing about the only other show we’d done and how badly it had gone.
“I feel like we can definitely do it,” Fern said confidently.
“We just have to remember to keep the energy up,” I added. “I feel like all of us probably learned from last time. I know I totally did.”
“All right then. You guys talk to your parents tonight and make sure they’re cool with it,” Socks said. “Once you find out, call me, and I’ll call these guys and let them know we’re in.”
xXx
“You are too young to go on a tour,” my father said with a tone of finality in his voice. “You are still in high school. This whole thing is ridiculous.”
“I’m not a little kid,” I whined lamely, hating the sound of my voice. Melissa kept her eyes on her dinner plate.
“You can’t be serious about this. Do you know what happens on rock tours?”
“Dad, it isn’t like that. It’s just four shows, everyone’s nice, nobody does drugs, nothing like that. It’s just a chance to play our music for people. Everyone’s going to be super careful and it’s less than a week anyways!”
“The answer is an absolute no,” Dad said and started eating again.
“I think it would be fun,” Melissa offered. “I think she should go.”
“Well, you are not in charge of making decisions in this family,” Dad said. “Mom and I are. And that is our decision.”
We lapsed into silence, and I seethed with anger. I knew everyone else’s parents would be fine with it. Why did I have to have the stupid parents? I was going to be the one to ruin it for the band. I was going to have to disappoint everyone. But my parents wouldn’t care about any of that. I had to think of an approach that they would understand. I tried to calm myself down.
“The thing is,” I began, steadying my voice, “I only have one year of high school left, and then college. I’ll have to give up the band. We all will. I just think this is probably going to be the only chance I will ever have to do something like this. Even though it really is on such a small scale.”
My mother looked up at me. “So you are thinking about college?”
“Of course,” I said earnestly. “I know this whole music thing is temporary. I have to grow up. I just wish that I could do this one thing, just to have some fun and play some shows before I really buckle down and think about my future.”
My mother and father looked at each other across the table. “What have you thought about taking in college?” Mom asked.
“Well,” I said brightly, “I think I’d like to take my interest in writing and instead of doing lyrics, maybe get into journalism or something. When school starts, I’m definitely going to make an appointment with the career counsellor and talk about a plan.”
My father nodded. “That’s a good idea.”
“Writing lyrics is my passion, but I know it isn’t practical.”
“So you are going to stop this whole band thing and look at things more practically?”
“Of course. But I would like to do just this one thing, just for the experience. It’s only four days. Will you guys please think about it?”
Their eyes met across the table once again. “We’ll talk about it after dinner,” Dad said. I smiled gratefully, glad they had bought it. There was no way I was going to give up the band, of course. College was the last thing on my mind. But I was proud of myself for having come up with that stuff, and having conveyed it so convincingly.
xXx
A few hours later my mother came into my room and sat down at the end of my bed. “So your dad and I talked about this whole idea, and we’ve decided that you can go.”
“Awesome! Thank you!” I said. Now I needed to call Socks and tell him I was in, but of course my mother had more to say.
“We have to talk about a few things first, though, Rachel.”
I nodded and widened my eyes, looking at her with what I hoped was a concerned and attentive expression. She started talking about how my future was important, my grades were important, and they had always been proud of me, and blah blah blah. She gave me some useless warnings about the dangers of drugs, of drinking and driving. I nodded the whole time, agreeing with everything. And then she started talking about what had happened at the Rosewood Café.
“Mrs. Spangler told me that you were laughing because you had gotten blood on the customer,” she said worriedly, studying my face. “Do you want to tell me what that was all about?”
“It was horrible. I was so embarrassed and uncomfortable.”
“Why were you laughing?”
“It was a horrible, totally terrible reaction to feeling so embarrassed. I couldn’t help it. And of course, I made it worse,” I said sadly. “I’m sure Mrs. Spangler thought I was crazy.”
My mother shrugged and nodded. “She said it was very odd.”
“That’s what I thought would happen,” I said. “It was so awful. I felt like a moron.” I stared down at my hands, clasping and unclasping them in my lap. I could feel my mother studying my face.
Finally she said, “Mrs. Spangler was very disturbed, I think. I don’t think she understood that you were laughing because you were uncomfortable, or nervous, or whatever it was.”
I looked up, startled. “Why else would a person laugh about that? It was horrible! Does she think I’m a psycho or something?”
My mother touched my hand. “Mrs. Spangler doesn’t matter. Of course you’re not a psycho,” she said, smiling. “I just wanted to talk to you about that. Your dad and I weren’t sure if we should say anything about it.”
“You should have talked to me about it earlier!” I said. “All summer you guys have been walking around here thinking I’m insane?”
“Not quite,” she said, laughing. “Okay. But I feel better about it now, and you’re right, we should have asked you sooner. Now go ahead and call your friends.”
I wonder how Mom would have reacted if I had told her how exciting the whole thing had been. How I had thought about it since and laughed even more. Or about how I secretly had a fantasy, deep in a dark place inside myself, where I imagined showering someone with my own blood. The way they would fear it, the disgust and horror, the way they would scream as I poured and smeared and slathered my unknown, alien blood all over them. This was so exciting I could barely even admit it to myself, and the thought of communicating it to my mother almost made me start laughing all over again. Luckily, I managed to hold it in.
xXx
I suppose it was around this time that I started nurturing my desire to be feared. I wanted to surprise people who underestimated me, and rather than simply impress them, I wanted them to regret having felt that way. I became fixated on that moment of realization — whether it was the look on the guy’s face from that concert after I had punched him, when his eyes widened and his hands caught his own blood, when he realized that I had done it to him, or the way th
e coffee shop customer’s eyes had registered that same fear as I wiped blood on him, or even Brandi staring at me in horror. I wanted to inspire fear and revulsion in people who tried to undermine me. I wanted to watch their opinion of me change, read it in their eyes. The fantasy of covering some judgmental asshole with a bucket of my blood was definitely appealing to me. I wanted disgust and fear and for them to know that I was in control. I had no outlet for any of this, of course, and I had a tour to plan for.
xXx
At that point we had barely two weeks to get ready. We rehearsed a bunch of times, of course, even though we all knew the songs. Every time I saw Fern, whether it was at rehearsal or to go shopping or have tea, her hair was another shade lighter. She had obviously tracked down Pegasus hair bleach. I redyed mine, as well, and carefully picked out four different outfits that would all look awesome. This was going to go well. It had to. We were going to be killer onstage.
The tour started in Torn Bowel’s hometown, Port Claim, which was about four hours north of us, so we were going to leave pretty early on the Thursday morning of the first show. Through these conversations with everyone, I started learning more about planning tours: obviously the nights when most people would come out were weekends, and since the Port Claim show would likely be the busiest, it made sense to have booked it on a Thursday. The other three cities would be smaller shows, and all but the Sunday night one would be weekend nights. This meant that our second-ever show would be a busy one, which was a bit nerve-racking, but all of us were feeling confident.
Four boxes of Scream into This arrived, fifty in each, and they looked great. Totally professional. We decided we’d sell them for fifteen bucks each, which was probably a little high, but we had to pay our expenses on the road and we also had to start repaying Edgar’s parents. Who was to say that anyone would even want to buy one, right? We could lose a ton of money and be that much further behind on the loan. But there was no point in worrying about that. We could also sell out and come back with three thousand dollars.
Thursday morning, as I waited for the van to arrive, I’d dressed in pure Marie-Lise-on-tour style. I wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a big pair of black sunglasses. The only one who’d be able to call me out on ripping her off would be Fern, and when the van pulled up, I saw she had the same idea as me. We grinned awkwardly at each other, acknowledging it quietly, and as I climbed into the backseat beside her, dragging my suitcase, I was at least able to have the satisfaction that my hair wasn’t pure white and hers was.
“You guys both look like rock stars,” Socks said.
TWENTY-EIGHT
We arrived in Port Claim after five irritating hours of traffic. At this point we were late for load-in, but there was nothing we could do about it.
We pulled into the parking lot of the idiotically named Klub Klang, and as we swung the van around to the back, I saw another van with a few guys standing around outside it. I was immediately reminded of the assholes from Heathenistic Bile, and felt my guard rise.
But they turned towards us and smiled as we pulled in, raising their hands in greeting. I didn’t see any cheap, shiny leather or dangling wallet chains. Just a bunch of long-haired guys in jeans, all grinning.
We hopped out, and the guys all came over to meet us. There were five of them — Jamie, Billy, Kevin, Phil, and PJ. No extra crew, no glaring girlfriends. Everybody shook each other’s hand, introducing themselves, and immediately their singer, Billy, started a friendly conversation with me.
“So Ken says you guys are fucking amazing,” he said, smiling. “I can’t wait to check you guys out.”
“Yeah, same,” I said, easing into the whole thing, feeling more comfortable. “We’re really excited to be along. Thanks for having us.”
“Oh, it’s going to be fun,” he said. “It sucks my buddy’s band had to cancel, but we’re happy you guys could come out with us.”
“Do you guys tour much?”
“Sometimes. Just a week here and there, mostly. We all finished school last spring, which is gonna make it easier for us to focus on doing the band, you know?”
“Not going to college?”
“Maybe. We want to take a year and try to get the band going, you know? We can always go to college if it doesn’t work out.”
Torn Bowel had already loaded in their stuff, and so we loaded in our gear as well. We were happy to find out that we would get a soundcheck as well, after theirs, so we sat down and watched them set up their equipment.
This club was about the same size as the Toe, but a bit cleaner. It still smelled like shit though. I was starting to figure out that every bar and club has the exact same smell of old beer and piss. On the wall behind the stage, KLUB KLANG was written in huge red letters, but to my relief one of the Torn Bowel guys busied himself hanging their band banner up to cover it. For some reason that name really rubbed me the wrong way.
The house guy at the sound desk gave them the signal. Torn Bowel jumped into a fast song when they were ready to go. They were really good. Billy was an amazing singer, casually moving in and out of roars and growls. All of them played very comfortably, obviously treating this like a not-a-big-deal soundcheck. I made a mental note to also pretend it was no big deal for us to have a soundcheck.
When they finished their song, Billy called out to us. “How’s it sounding out on the floor there?”
“Great,” Edgar said.
They ran through another song, sounding amazing, and then they were done. It was our turn. They moved their gear to the back of the stage, making room for us to set up in front of them, and as Socks and Edgar began lifting our amps up to the stage, I found myself standing next to Jamie, one of the guitarists.
“How was your drive up?” he said, grinning at me.
I smiled back. “Not bad. Took awhile. Are you guys going for food now or anything?”
“I think we’re gonna wait for you guys. Check out your soundcheck, and we can all go grab food if you guys feel like it,” he said. He pushed his blond hair behind his ears in what seemed like a nervous gesture.
“That sounds good,” I said. He was still smiling at me, and I couldn’t help but smile back, but now there was going to be an awkward silence. I could feel us careening towards it. “Well, I guess I should get up there,” I said, and climbed onstage.
Turning back, I saw Billy whisper something to Jamie, who then punched him good-naturedly in the arm, and they both looked back at me and smiled, then walked to join the others at one of the tables. For some reason that filled me with a stupid good feeling, and I smiled to myself. Jamie was pretty cute.
We started our soundcheck and launched confidently into “Skinner,” one of our newer songs that we hadn’t performed at the last show. Everything seemed to go smoothly for us, and after we’d finished, the Torn Bowel guys clapped and whistled. The sound guy seemed happy with it, and so were we. Because we were going on first we left our gear set up.
We all went to a sushi place a few blocks away and got a big table together. It was a really good atmosphere, everyone talking happily. I got a seat next to Fern, and Jamie sat on the other side of me.
I hadn’t had sushi before, and Fern helped me pick something from the menu that didn’t sound too scary. As the dishes started arriving, I eyed everyone else’s choices of weird, nasty-looking slimy fish slices and was glad I’d chosen my cucumber and rice rolls.
“So you guys are from Keeleford. I’ve never been there. What’s it like?” Jamie asked, lifting a wet-looking piece of raw salmon to his mouth.
I told him about our city, how small it was, how dull. It had been okay when I was a kid, with the river downtown and the trails on the outskirts. He’d grown up here in Port Claim and told me about how he’d enjoyed living by the lake, how he and his friends camped in the forests beside it, and about how the city had grown and good clubs were starting to crop up. A better place than Keelefo
rd to start a band, I guess.
At the other end of the table, PJ, their drummer, started telling a story about how last winter over the holidays they’d booked a two-week tour across the country, had driven in their van through the snow, almost froze to death, didn’t spend the holidays with their families, and barely anyone had shown up to any of the shows so they’d lost all their money. It sounded pretty depressing to me, but they were all laughing about it, so I joined in too.
Socks was completely in his element, goofing off and telling stories of his own about bands he’d been in. Even Edgar, who was usually pretty quiet, was happy and chatting. I mainly sat and listened without offering much, but it was great. Such a far cry from the attitude we’d gotten from Heathenistic Bile. I wondered which was more common: snobby assholes or friendly people, when it came to musicians. I wanted to talk about Paul and his cronies, figuring that was a pretty funny story I could bring up, but at the same time I wasn’t sure if Torn Bowel knew them or were friends or something, and I didn’t want to look like a jerk.
xXx
Klub Klang had three small rooms upstairs where the bands could get dressed and hang out. They were totally gross, but everyone sat down on the couches anyway. When we’d come back in, the doors had opened and there was a bunch of people on the floor. Already the night was shaping up to be much better than the last show.
Fern and I went to the private bathroom to get dressed. We’d bought matching skirts, mine was red and hers was blue, and we did our makeup as dark as we could. She looked amazing with her hair as pale as it was now, and because she was wearing black and blue, the Marie-Lise look was somewhat lessened.
This club had a stage entrance that led right to the stage from upstairs. When it was time for us to go on, the four of us crowded at the side.
Edgar peeked around the corner and looked back at us, grinning. “There’s a ton of people here.”
“Awesome,” Fern said. “Let’s have a good one, guys.”