by Lauryn Dyan
“I thought you’d be happy, but there is one stipulation.” Her smile tightens as though she’s trying to keep it plastered there to remind us of our current euphoria before she hits us with the catch. “JaxsonTheSavvy will be your first opening band for those shows.”
Fuck. JaxsonTheSavvy isn’t bad, but they play in a different scene. They’re too pop-punk for my taste and I’m not sure how they’ll mesh with our more melodic and intense rock. Plus, I know that too tight smile is her way of bracing herself for my expected following reaction.
“What about Sheltered?” I demand. “Are we dropping them at the border and wishing them luck on making it home in their ghetto mobile?”
Samantha trades a look with Davey. Sometimes they handle me like they’re my mom and dad. Like they read their next move in a parenting book. Step one: when your child acts out, remain calm so you don’t further agitate her. Good luck.
“Kennedy, this is not a slight on Sheltered,” she begins, delicately. “You were right. They were a great addition to the lineup. We only want to continue our momentum and Jaxson is from Canada. They’ll fill any gaps we have in ticket sales and have the potential to introduce your music to a new demographic.”
She’s right but I’m not giving up on Rickly that easily. “Let’s take them both.”
My statement doesn’t faze her. She already has a premeditated response for this. Step two: if your child will not listen, reinforce your authority by creating a consequence if she does not obey.
“Financially, that’s not an option unless you’d like to fund the expenses for them out of your profits.”
Ugh. If it was only my money, I’d do it. Who cares? I can always make more. Also, this thing with Rickly is so new I’d like to see where it’s going. Even if it just ends up being a fling, I’m not cutting it off prematurely. But this is the band’s money and I have four other people to consider. Based on the increase in butt shifting squeaks happening around me, I don’t think they all feel quite as invested in Sheltered as I do. I’m not relenting though.
“They ride around in a van that looks like it was rejected by the ice cream man and play for twenty minutes with minimal production. I’ll skip Taco Bell for a week to pay for them.”
“You know it’s not that simple,” she says, evenly, though her dark eyes betray agitation.
“Well, let’s make it that simple. You talk to Orphan. Tell them it’s all of us or nothing.” This is an idle threat, but everyone at the label thinks I’m crazy, so they may not realize I’m bluffing.
Step three: placate your child until she has calmed down and then try again later when she can understand what you are telling her.
“Sure, Kennedy, I’ll talk to them,” Sam concludes.
“And change those fugly ass curtains in our bus already.” Bitch.
***
“Tell me about the first time you blacked out.”
We’re in Craig’s office. The space is as sterile and boring as a latex glove. The only decorations in the powder blue room are one sad houseplant, an ugly brown paperweight and a collage of diplomas in plastic frames bolted to the wall.
“That’s a difficult question. Like asking about the first time you took a breath. Did you know it’d happened afterward? Or were you an exceptional baby?” I’m not being difficult on purpose. Okay, maybe a little, but I can’t exactly remember the first time. I mean that’s what a blackout is. The absence of memory.
Craig has a great straight face. He looks at me with practiced patience and waits one second too long before replying, “The first time you can recall then. What is the last thing you remember before and how did you feel afterward?”
Amazing. Euphoric. Like I had some sort of superpower. Blackout Girl, able to skip through time without a single memory! I don’t say this though. Talking about my initial love affair with blackouts is too painful. Like reminiscing about an ex-boyfriend who didn’t love you back. But experience tells me he’s not going to let this go so the fastest way out of here is to answer his damn questions. In our first two sessions, I thought if I sat silently and ignored him, our time would run out and he’d send me back to my room. No such luck. My mom must pay him a crap ton of money, which could go to better things, to give me such annoying, personal attention. Probably how I got my own room, too.
I sigh.
“It was in high school. I never drank until my senior year. When I finally gave in, I didn’t hold back. I’ve always been an overachiever.”
He doesn’t laugh, just lifts the corner of his mouth in acknowledgment and waits for me to elaborate.
“There was this crazy, spring break party. Sonny’s ex-boyfriend threw it to celebrate our upcoming graduation while his parents were out of town. I’d gotten an early acceptance to college and was over being on my best behavior. I tried Jell-O shots for the first time. The last thing I remember is jumping off the roof into the pool.”
“And when you pulled out of it?”
I shrug. “Vomiting my guts all over a green, monogrammed towel snapped me out of it.” I remember staring at the double H’s stitched into that towel I’d permanently stained red thinking they stood for ‘holy hell.’
Craig nods and scribbles something on his no-frills, white notepad. Can’t imagine I’ve relayed anything worth noting. Perhaps he’s doodling? I used to love to doodle. In class. In Sunday school. I still do it sometimes when I’m writing songs. My favorite doodle? Stars. That’s where I got our band name, Tracing Stars. My first legit song was covered in those fuckers.
“How did you feel after?” he prods.
“Like ass.” His stoic expression remains steadfast. I wave my hand dismissively. “I don’t know, surprised. I always thought blackouts were either a myth or reserved for true degenerates. When I realized I could do it and then go on functioning like a normal, upstanding person, I figured I had a new skill to add to the transcripts.”
He nods.
“Interesting. And is that how you always saw blackouts? As a skill, a talent?”
Insightful bastard. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“It’s often difficult to deal with the loss or alteration of an ability, even a perceived ability. How have you been coping with your blackouts shifting from a strength to a handicap?”
“I’m in an institution. How do you think, Dr. Obvious?”
***
Sonny and I lay in mint-green, faded, folding lawn chairs we found in back of tonight’s venue, soaking up the sun. Now that the Vicodin has worked its magic, I’m finally able to enjoy the rays. We’re drinking lemonade but, if I wasn’t so lazy, I’d run back in the bus to spike mine with rum. Too much work. Instead, I’m content to lounge numbly while my mind stews angrily over the Canadian leg of our tour.
Right now, I’m assessing the situation from the label’s perspective. Of course they’re interested in sales and growth. That’s the objectivity you need to make the business side of this work. Unfortunately, my subjective side is too damn opinionated. Music needs to have emotion. Bands need to have loyalty and support. The bonds you make on tour are some of the strongest friendship you’ll ever develop. It joins you in a way only surviving a beautiful trauma can.
Sonny, never one to push, sun bakes in comfortable silence letting me process my thoughts. Finally, I’m ready to speak.
“Fucking Samantha and Orphan. We can’t abandon Sheltered like this. They’re too talented.”
Sonny shifts and the chair’s weave gives a series of crackles betraying its brittle state.
“They are...but this is business.”
“True,” I surrender, already taking a defeated tone. “I was just thinking the same thing, but it doesn’t make it right. I don’t see why we can’t take them both.”
She shrugs her bare, toasty, pink shoulders. “If I understood all the logistics, I’d be our manager, but I don’t.”
Now I get to the crux of it. “So how do I break it to Rickly?” That’s the part I really want to talk to her about. If I
asked one of the guys they would just say something unhelpful, like ‘man up and tell him’ No tips on the how or what to actually say.
“Well, technically you don’t have to be the one to tell him,” she reminds me.
“Yeah, but that’s the chicken’s way out. It’ll hurt more coming from someone else when he’ll know I know.”
“Probably.” She lifts her red, plastic cup using all five fingers to grip the rim and twists her tattooed wrist to swirl her lemonade. The whirlpool stops when she finds her answer. “Wait till you’re alone, and he’s in a good mood, and tell him the truth. You want him there and you’re digging in your heels as much as you can but, in the end, you’ve got to do what they’re asking for the good of the band. He’ll get it.”
She’s right, of course. It’s such a comfort to have your best friend with you on the road. Thank God she’s an amazing keyboardist and composer. She helps me with lyrics from time to time, too.
“Maybe so, but I don’t fucking like it,” I say, petulantly.
“I would never assume otherwise.” She laughs.
***
“Fruit loops!” Damn, what I wouldn’t give for some fruit loops? I may like it better when my coo-coo pants neighbor sticks with the boring old people cereals after all.
I’m back in my ‘cell’ staring at the lackluster, white ceiling imagining each of the nine freckled, rectangular tiles are a piece of the puzzle that shows how I got here. There’s my childhood neatly tucked in the corner, the cornerstone all the other pieces build on. My relationship with Sonny supports the middle where the majority of the weight is bared. Then there’s this tile in the other corner that’s cracked. I keep swapping out the faces that go there, cycling through all the supportive but unreliable males that were on the road with me. Our band, the tour, the label, all make up the middle row of rectangles. Then perched dead center on top is me, reaping the benefits of the empire below. Problem is the tiles flanking me up there. One is blank, like my mind when I slip out of consciousness. The other is the shadow that haunts me, ready to push my fragile form into the blank space and off the board.
How could he do this to me? How does he do this to me? We grew so close on our trek across the country. Every night was our night. A burning sense of betrayal boils my blood. I try to picture his face on that top right tile, but just as it comes into focus, reality slips away into nothingness.
***
I wake suddenly to a room shrouded in darkness minus the glow from the small square of glass in my door. There must not be a moon tonight since there is nothing but black out the narrow window beside the bars of my headboard. I don’t know how long I was out, or what happened while I was. When I first started blacking out here in the asylum, I was paranoid I was missing my pill deliveries. After an epic fit, they showed me several days of surveillance footage from the camera outside my room documenting my obedient drugging. Just like a drunken blackout, I still function but then I don’t remember it.
I get up and arch my stiff back before I pad in my socks to the door to check the time. There’s a wall clock at the nurses station I can barely see if I lean forward into the glass. 2:00 a.m. and eerily silent. There is one redheaded nurse at her computer yawning and studying the glowing screen. Perhaps observing the halls? Watching YouTube? I’ve never gotten a peek at anything but the flat backside of the monitor to guess.
Echoing footsteps pull her gaze from the computer to smile at someone who’s approaching her desk just out of my sight. It’s a skeleton staff at night, though that doesn’t mean she’s the only one working. I wish I had the room on the end so I’d have a better view. The young nurse, who I’ve never personally interacted with, laughs and reaches up to take a blue box no bigger than an egg from the night visitor who’s come close enough to the desk to be a dark sliver in my obstructed view. He, or she, as I can’t see a head is wearing a plain, black uniform from shoulder to hand, but as the arm bends back, the sleeve bunches at the elbow, exposing the edge of a tattoo on the wrist. I start shrieking immediately and back away from the door. No way, no way, no way. That fucker is here.
Chapter Three
Rickly and I lay knotted together in the back of his van, our limbs and heavy breathes comingling after fooling around. The best time for us to get freaky is before a show when all his band equipment has been unloaded and the rear is empty. We’ve done it in my bus several times, but those little bunks are tricky and I feel kind of bad using the dining table. This scrapheap is so trashed we couldn’t make it any worse.
My head rests on Rickly’s chest and I can feel his breath slowing as he absent-mindedly plays with the bottom strands of my hair. He twines the dark purple between his pale fingers making a white and violet weave. It’s pretty, but I may only like it because I’m high on post-sex hormones.
Per my discussion with Sonny, my plan had been to fool around, get us both in a good mood, and then break the bad news. This moment is just so damned lovely it’s hard to speak the words. The glow from the setting sun wraps everything in a soft orange and it feels so wonderfully normal to lounge in his arms. It’s easy to forget we’re rising rock stars in an old clunker that hauls around four poorly washed dudes and their crap.
I stifle a sigh knowing my window to speak is growing smaller by the minute. When we’d clambered inside frantically clawing at each other’s clothes, we’d had forty-five minutes before we had to be backstage. I don’t have a watch and my phone is out of reach on the driver’s seat, but I imagine at least thirty minutes has passed.
I’m about ready to bite the bullet when Rickly beats me to it.
“You seemed a little weird today. Something going on?”
I leave the warmth of his chest to prop myself up on my elbows beside him so I can see his face. So damn hot. Disheveled blonde hair, royal blue eyes. White teeth just straight enough that he probably never wore braces, but not so straight that they look fake. I wonder if he did wear braces? We don’t know much about each other except for our taste in music and a few random tidbits. His parents are still together. Two siblings, but I can’t remember if they’re brothers or sisters. Even after I drunkenly talked his ear off about how awesome my younger sister Helena is, he was reluctant to offer more than a grunt about them.
I fidget and scratch at the heavily worn carpet while I contemplate his pearly whites, prolonging my answer to his question. Finally, I cave.
“The label is extending the tour for three shows in Canada, which is a big surprise. Problem is, they want to replace you with JaxsonTheSavvy on those dates.” I hold eye contact so I don’t look away ashamed, even though the feeling eats at me. It’s my band’s label and I’m a controlling bitch. I should have more power to fix this.
He closes his eyes to conceal his disappointment, but I still catch it in the crinkle of his brow. When he opens his beautiful blues, he gives me a rueful smile.
“Whatever, it’s Canada’s loss. It’s still great for you, and I’m sure you tried to make it happen for us. We’re so lucky to be here now. We’ve been getting so much more attention than we expected. Even without the extra shows, this is still a win for us.”
Oh, thank God. I worry he’s being a guy and concealing the deeper emotions that creased his skin just moments ago but, on the surface, his response is as good as I could have hoped for.
I kiss the black, arrow tattoo on his chest before I nuzzle back into him.
“Thanks for understanding. But I won’t stop hounding those fuckers about bringing you. If I can change it, I will.”
“For sure,” he says, a hint of playfulness returning to his voice. “Now, how about one more quickie before we have to go?”
***
The thick, tough, fabric restraints that attach me to my bed rub at my skin. I caused such a ruckus in the silent ward when I saw that tattooed bastard I woke the two patients on either side of me.
“Count Chocula! Count Chocula!” I heard, about sixty times before they sedated crazy pants next door. My other
neighbor kept banging something against our adjoining wall. Her head most likely. Overall, we created quite the frenzied symphony.
As soon as I started screaming, the marked wrist in question disappeared and the nurse grabbed the phone to call for assistance. A pair of burly men in tan scrubs burst in, the fiery haired nurse close behind with a syringe. I shrieked and ran from them, barricading myself behind my ineffectual twin bed. I didn’t bother trying to explain my hysteria confident they wouldn’t believe me. Would you listen to anything a patient in a mental hospital screamed at 2:00 a.m.?
The two men picked me off the floor kicking and screaming and wrestled me onto the mattress. One held me down while the other strapped me in. It was like what you’d see in a movie. The nurse waited until I was properly restrained before dosing me. At that point, I gave up the fight. They don’t fuck around with their drugs and now, whether I want it or not, an escape from reality is forthcoming. The quiet tells me the other two loud ladies are already under. It won’t be long before I’m knocked out too, but the adrenaline mixed with my high tolerance is keeping the darkness temporarily at bay.
I’m not sure what I was hoping to accomplish with my freak out. Maybe to scare him off. Maybe to alert him he’s not as sly as he’d like to think. Or, perhaps, I’d given him exactly what he wanted. To scare the shit out of me.
My eyelids finally get heavy, but I fight the pull as long as I can, unable to look away from my window for fear the face of the devil will peer in and haunt my drug-induced nightmares.
***
“Sing with me!” Hands fly in the air and our fans chant along with uninhibited enthusiasm. It’s the best sound in the world.
“You change your face like a mask,
but find clarity in your flask”
I’ve sung those lyrics a thousand times, yet they still hit a beautiful nerve. The words came to me when I was on the verge of adulthood, and torn between two paths. Continue as the good girl, and go to college as planned, or become the rebel and pursue my passion for music. I’d started drinking more heavily then and found the liquid courage I needed to be honest with myself about what I wanted. To choose the harder road.
