by Lauryn Dyan
That song, “Future Divided,” is our most popular track so we tend to close our set with it. Samantha had wanted us to use it as our encore, but that’s annoying. The fans know we’ll play it. They anticipate it. I’d rather close with it and leave them excited and interested in what we’ll play when we come back on stage.
I hit the last note, drop my mic, and walk off the stage to the wild shrieks of the crowd. I smile and wish my euphoria would never end.
***
It’s so damn dark in this room. So damned lonely. The sedative finally pulls me under. The face I waited for never appeared.
***
Encore done, I stand in a giddy circle backstage with the rest of the band talking about how amazing we are. Oli, our drummer who went to high school with Sonny and me, is all freckles and goofy grins. Seems the excitement from the big, Canada news hasn’t worn off. Another reason to celebrate and get shit-faced. I just wish the dull ache in the pit of my stomach about Sheltered would dissolve in the acidic slosh writhing in my stomach.
They’d played a killer set. Rickly seemingly unfazed by my announcement. Either that or he’s great at compartmentalizing. I struggle with that. My emotions love to leak out on stage. Rage, sadness, joy, all take center stage when I’m up there. Perhaps that’s why our last review called our performance raw and revealing. I like that. Could be a good album title.
Ace, the lead singer and supporting guitarist of our other opener, Run Before You Walk, or RBYW for short, saunters over with a bottle of Jack Daniels. He’s all smiles, too. He must have gotten the memo. Trecia, who plays bass in RBYW and is the only other girl musician on the tour besides Sonny, follows close behind. We aren’t really friends. I get the impression she has a big, unrequited crush on Ace and he and I made out once. Oops.
“Drink to the continuation of this party?” Ace calls, thrusting the black labeled bottle in my direction. I scan the chaos backstage for Rickly and his crew, but they’re off somewhere else at the moment. I grin and take a swig before I ironically pass the bottle to Jack. Jack drinking Jack. Nice.
I don’t want to be a buzzkill, so I jubilantly throw an arm around Ace to lure him away to chat, much to Trecia’s dismay.
“I just want to talk for a minute.” I try to convey with my eyes. Her heavily lined irises just convey jealous rage. Whatever. Rickly’s feelings are more important to me than hers.
When I’ve wrestled Ace over to an empty corner behind the drawn, mahogany stage curtain, I switch to my serious, low voice.
“Hey, let’s try not to flaunt this too much in front of Sheltered, ok?”
“What? Why? Are they not coming?” His brown eyes widen as his floppy, matching russet curls pull down over his brow.
I shake my head.
“I’m trying but the label dicks want a Canadian band in their place to help with sales.”
“Fuck, I feel like an ass. I was wondering why Aaron shot me this look like he wanted to beat me with his guitar when I was toasting before your set. Someone should have told me.”
“You’re right. I’ll bitch out our managers when I get a chance. For now, can you let your guys know? We’re in a weird spot. Celebrate too much, seem like insensitive pricks; don’t celebrate enough, looks like we’re doling out pity. I think we need to let Sheltered set the tone for tonight.”
“Yeah, for sure. Don’t stress it. A couple drinks and no one will remember tonight is any different than the last,” Ace says, with a wink.
I nod and motion us back to our friends so I can have another shot off the bottle. I hope he’s right.
***
Ridiculously, loud music pounds the walls of the nightclub as multicolored lights spotlight through the dark, epileptically. This kind of place isn’t usually our scene, but the girls the guys picked up after the show were keen on going. It’s fine to change it up if only the electronic music wasn’t so repetitious. The itch to score some powerful drugs to help me embrace the club vibe inches up on me the more I drink.
Rickly has been by my side all night but has somehow felt distant at the same time. Sheltered has been in good spirits, cheering our success just enough that we don’t feel like it’s been ignored, but not dwelling on it either. Since my talk with Ace, everyone else has been on their best behavior, too. If it weren’t for this awkwardness with Rickly, I’d think we were in the clear. I can’t decide if I should address it or let it go. I’m not always the best at handling relationship strife. Blame my divorced parents. My dad was out of the picture early on and mom never remarried. I didn’t have a lot of good examples of a healthy, happy couple to follow.
I study the back of Rickly’s disheveled hair while he leans in at the bar to get us more drinks. Normally, that’s my job but the club has more female bartenders than the dive bars we usually frequent. Probably to appeal to the douchey, penis-toting clientele. I’ve already been hit on by five creeps. Luckily, with my mostly male entourage, they got the hint to back off pretty quickly.
Rickly turns, drinks in hand. Shots of something clear. I slam mine with a shiver as the vodka assaults my tongue. Not my favorite booze and he knows it. Is that his passive-aggressive way of telling me he’s pissed after all? Whatever, I’m going to pretend he forgot my dislike for the drink. One too many bad hangovers with that one.
I half-heartedly sway to the music, not sure what to do next. Usually, our partying flows as easy as water from a faucet, but not tonight. It could all be in my head, but I can’t shake this funk. Thankfully, two friends swoop in to save the day.
“Can I interest you in a little something special?” Sonny asks, as she and Davey and their matching, super-villain grins push through the sea of club goers. They’ve been missing for the last hour and I’d wondered where they were. Now I know. They were out finding the small, red pills Davey flashes in his palm before stashing them back in his pants pocket. Of all the people on our tour, these two are the least likely to ever be in a club. They must have realized, like me, they’d need something stronger than alcohol to enjoy it.
I nod enthusiastically and my eyes flit to Rickly. He isn’t paying attention to us as his head weaves side-to-side searching the crowd for something or someone. I elbow him gently to draw his focus and he tilts his face down without a word. I stretch on my tip-toes to his ear.
“Want to roll?” I whisper, conspiratorially.
He shrugs. “Why the fuck not?”
I hold my hand out to my friends and Davey slips me three small pills. I grab Sonny’s beer to swallow mine but she hardly notices as she bops along to the techno beat. Hers must have already kicked in. I pass the remaining two to Rickly. He’s twice my size and I figure he needs more of a pick me up tonight than I do. He takes them and nods thanks to Davey. Our eyes meet and we stand in awkward silence, in the loudest place on the planet, waiting for the drugs to take over.
***
I wake to the sun in my psych prison. My wrists ache from being restrained. I must have been tugging on the straps in my sleep. Generally, I’m a tummy sleeper so I’m sure I tried to flip over in the night. I wonder when the powers that be will set me free. If I was in charge, I’d leave the shackles on all day. Make me think about what I’ve done.
My stomach gives an atrocious gurgle as though I’ve missed several meals. Perhaps I’m in timeout? Or did I sleep the day away? Was it the liquid in the syringe that kept me under or did my brain mess up too? It’s so hard not having control over your mind. I’m constantly lost.
I stare at my life in tiles again until the door opens with a creak. Craig enters flanked by two more big orderlies, one holding a pill cup of meds that looks comically tiny in his large hand. Damn giant. They cross the flaxen linoleum to my bed, stopping to peer down at me from what seems an unnatural height from my vantage point. The whole scene reminds me of something out of a sick version of Alice in Wonderland.
Craig clears his throat and leans half-way down toward me.
“Kennedy, we are going to remove the restrain
ts. You need to be on your best behavior today or they go back on.”
I weakly nod my assurance. I have no plans to throw a fit again right now.
He straightens.
“Good, you have visitors.”
Maybe I spoke too soon.
Chapter Four
I am staring at a hole. Or through a hole to be more accurate. The question is, where did this gaping abyss in my bunk’s ceiling come from? The mysterious opening is nearly perfectly round with little, flimsy pieces of the bus’s cream veneer dangling from its jagged edges. There’s nothing inside it but darkness. An empty space that keeps my cubby protected from being right under the roof of the moving vehicle. What the hell happened? The fist-sized circumference doesn’t paint a good picture.
The last thing I remember is getting caught up on the dance floor with all my friends. Both Rickly’s mood, and mine, improved drastically with the aid of the little, red, dolphin-stamped pills and our bodies suddenly became like industrial strength magnets, unable to be pulled apart. I felt euphoric, and lucky, and like everyone around me was special. Those feelings have disappeared through the hole.
I shut my eyes and try to will back the memories lost in the dark of my blackout. Normally, I don’t give a crap what happened when I was out as long as I’d had fun, but the evidence above me makes me weary. That’s not the carefree destruction you get on a rock tour; like knocked over lamps, shattered shot glasses, unhinged microwave doors (seriously). This looks like the havoc from a domestic disturbance.
I go over everything leading up to the dance floor. The show, toasting backstage, talking with Ace. The club, the drinks, the drugs. As I approach the writhing mass of bodies surging around the DJ booth, the images get hazy until they fade to nothing. I can sense the missing picture there behind the drawn curtain but, it’s like when a word is on the tip of your tongue, so close, but out of reach.
I lie perfectly still and slow my breathing. Maybe I can bring back a flash of something from the end of the night instead when the blackout was clearing. There’s a fleeting memory of Rickly and me here in this bed laughing, then a flick of his angry face. Damn. Something definitely went wrong.
I pull back the bunk’s curtain and Sonny and Jack’s subdued voices float down from the galley in the middle of the bus. Perhaps they can help me piece last night together before I see Rickly again. I need to figure out if I should be the one mad and indignant, or apologetic and sheepish.
I sit up, gingerly. I don’t feel too bad, just a little fuzzy and thirsty like I slept with a mouth full of cotton balls. Jumping to the ground, I pad down the hall barefoot. I managed to change into pajamas last night, which isn’t always the case after partying. My PJs consist of some purple, cotton shorts and a ratty, Nirvana shirt. I clutch the fabric at my chest remembering how I was wearing it the first time Rickly and I hooked up. Hopefully, I won’t be burning it after I find out what happened between us.
I walk through the doorless opening to the kitchen still clutching Mr. Cobain’s face. I stop mid-step as Sonny and Jack’s mouths simultaneously snap shut as they give me the once over. By the blush on Sonny’s face, I can tell she knows something.
“Oh lord, what did I do?”
Jack laughs but Sonny merely shifts her mouth into a weak smile.
“I’m hesitant to tell you,” Sonny says.
She slides over to let me sit but I motion for her to wait while I get water. Better rehydrate before she takes me through the wringer. I chug half a glass and slap it down on the table between them a little too hard.
“Okay, hit me.”
“Come on, you don’t remember?” she asks.
“Sonny Marshall, how long have we been friends? Of course I don’t.”
She shrugs.
“I figured but thought I’d check.”
Jack’s eyebrows creep up his shaved head in amusement. He’s Sonny’s cousin, so he instantly fell in sync with us when he joined the band. He likes it when she and I go through this song and dance. Sonny reluctantly recounting some horror I committed in my inebriated state. Myself trying to piece it together while alternating between disbelief, embarrassment, and pride, depending on the story. Jack says it’s better than TV. What ‘oh shit’ realization will the drunkie get today?
“So what happened?” I prod.
“After Davey and I met back up with you guys we hit the dance floor,” she begins. “You rocked it, by the way. You were just a little handsy.”
“What’d she keep calling us?” Jack interjects.
“Oh yeah, ‘my sexy bitches’.” They chuckle as her hot pink nails emphasize her air quotes. “Then we stumbled out of there so you could play on a swing set. I don’t know what put that idea in your head. Anyway, we couldn’t find one. So, instead, you stole a shopping cart and had us push you around while you threw grocery store ads at strangers.”
Jack laughs and you can see the resemblance between the cousins in his toothy smile.
“Yeah, it was funny at first,” Jack says. “You told people we were in a band named ‘Sprouts’ and to listen to our track ‘Bananas for Fifty-Nine Cents’. It got a little less funny when you started calling everyone who ignored you an asshole.”
I roll my eyes. That sounds like me, but this isn’t the part I care about. We can tweet a shout out to Sprouts later and thank them for the good time.
“Well, I’m glad I could entertain per usual. Any ideas how I got a gaping hole of shame in my bunk?”
Sonny and Jack exchange a glance. This is obviously the piece they want to avoid.
Sonny proceeds. She knows that it’s better coming from her.
“Well, we came back here, with glow sticks we got at a gas station, and crawled in our beds with them to listen to music.” She hesitates. “I’m not sure exactly what happened, but one minute you and Rickly were laughing and singing, the next you were arguing and shoving.”
“Shoving?” My tone betrays my surprise. We’ve had arguments before, but nothing physical.
“At least I assume you were shoving. The bunk kept rocking and it sounded like he was telling you to calm down. I’m guessing you were doing the pushing.”
Fuck.
“Lovely. Any idea why?”
“It was hard to make out the conversation over the music. I heard him say Canada though.”
Goddamn it, that hockey-loving country is driving a puck between us
“The next minute there was a loud crack and then Rickly jumped down from your bunk and stormed out.”
Jack runs a palm along his bald scalp before he adds on.
“Yeah, he was mumbling and holding his hand. All of us were too shocked or annihilated to follow him to see what was up.”
Great. Well, I may not know the particulars of our fight yet, but looks like on today’s party recovery check list we have a heavy dose of water and guilt.
***
“It’s good to see you,” Jack begins. He and Oli shift their eyes and their butts uncomfortably in their faux-leather seats, unsure where to look in the common room of the asylum. Every time they glance down at the gray bathrobe that covers my pajama pants and t-shirt, they quickly avert their gaze only to realize there are about six other people here in the same casual wear. I’m sure they wish they had their phones for a distraction, but visitors are required to check them, along with their keys, at the door. The awkwardness radiates off their black-clad bodies like heat from a sidewalk in summer.
I can’t say I blame them. I’d never been in a mental hospital before this and imagine they haven’t either. It’s super weird. It’d be less bizarre if we were in a private room, but the visiting area is one big, bright, shared space. Makes it easier for the orderlies to keep an eye on all the crazies so we don’t stab our guests with a crayon.
This is the first time I’ve had visitors other than my mom. Sonny and Davey tried to come the first week I was here but I was too agitated, to put it mildly, to be allowed to see anyone. I spent a lot of time in restrai
nts then and dammit if my nose didn’t itch half the time. My hand reaches up reflexively to scratch it before rubbing my wrist at the memory. The two guys watch me play with my tattoo, unsure what to say next.
I decide to ease them in.
“It’s good to see you, too. I’ve been wondering what’s been happening with the band.”
They exchange a quick look and Oli wrinkles his pierced brow.
“No one has been giving you updates?”
I shake my head.
“No rundowns on the real world in this alternate universe. They don’t even put on the news. Or that might just be because this guy that’s fifty, and thinks he’s five, always puts the TV on damned cartoons.”
They smile but don’t laugh. I guess it’s not really funny. I know nothing about that guy and how he got here. Maybe he’s a victim or maybe he’s the villain. Which one am I? Sometimes Craig makes me question my theory on how I got here. Some days I lose conviction that he did this to me. Today, after last night’s two in the morning visitor, my resolve is hardening. Fucker.
Oli bites his lip. He’s the most compassionate member of our band. His mother got sick and passed away when we were sophomores and his two sisters were hitting their preteens. He was big brother and substitute parent when the girls had a crisis to which his dad just couldn’t relate.
“The band...is good. We’ve been working like crazy.”
“Working on what?”
He pauses a second too long.
“On the next album.”
“Are you freaking kidding? Without me? Stealing lyrics off the internet?”
Both guys suddenly become fascinated with the glossy floor. Jack mans up first and raises his gaze to meet mine. I stare at him unblinking, which is probably unnerving, but I don’t care.
“Sonny’s taking a stab at it,” he admits.
My breathing accelerates. She’s the most logical choice, having helped with lyrics in the past, but I can’t believe she’d have the nerve to try that. She knows how that would make me feel. Fucking double-crossed.
