Hollow Stars

by Lauryn Dyan

  Sonny’s dad was my closest substitute. She and I became friends in junior high. At that gawky time where we were struggling to figure out where we fit in the social order. From the moment she saw the My Chemical Romance sticker on my notebook, we were bonded. “Gerard Way is my idol,” she’d told me.

  Her dad, Frank, was great to me. Even when Sonny and I tested our limits staying out past curfew, going to movies we weren’t supposed to, or playing our music too loud. He was firm with us, but never harsh.

  There was a brief instance when Sonny got territorial. She’s an only child, and when Frank was spending an inordinate amount of time teaching me basketball, something Sonny wasn’t into, she got resentful. Thankfully, around that time, my mother took an interest in helping Sonny with her sketches. So balance was restored but, for a fleeting moment, I’d wished my own father was there to help me so I didn’t have to mooch off hers.

  And now he’s here and ready to do the fatherly thing and support his daughter. As he nods his assent to my speech on earning my trust, I pray he doesn’t let me down. I fear there’s an even crazier bitch lurking inside me that may be unleashed if he devastates me. I don’t need any more dickheads in my life.

  ***

  The shifting afternoon sun cuts through the canopy of leaves and wakes me from our make-shift bed in the grass. The warmth of another body beside me causes me to absentmindedly throw my hand out to grope for Rickly, anxious for his touch. I hit skin, but it’s more boney beneath than I expected.

  “Hey there, I need something to drink before you get frisky with me,” a female voice laughs.

  I roll my head to the side and chuckle when I find Sonny lying next to me, my hand resting on her elbow. She’s a skinny, little thing. Naturally bright, blonde hair from the moment she was born, hence her name. Right now it’s shadowed with an orange that matches the cut-off shorts she wears beneath her white tank top.

  “Sorry, I thought you were Rickly,” I respond.

  “I definitely need to shave my arms if that’s the case.”

  “I could never really mistake your twiggy limbs for his masculine arms.”

  We laugh the way only old girlfriends do and then lay completely at ease in our silence.

  “So where is my sexy boyfriend anyway?” I ask carefully, when I’ve shaken the last of the sleep from my brain.

  “Hold on. Boyfriend? I thought you guys were too cool for labels.”

  I shrug from my horizontal position, not sure if she sees it.

  “After last night, we decided it’d be better to quit effing around. Make it official so there’s no question of boundaries.”

  “It’s about time,” she replies, only half joking. “I hope this helps reign in the crazy. You two are nuts when you’re wasted.”

  “For sure,” I agree. “We’re going to attempt to change that, too. Take it down a notch.”

  “Really? Starting when? You were hardcore passed out when I laid down in Rickly’s spot.”

  “I said take it down, not go cold turkey. We aren’t that crazy.”

  She laughs and we settle back in. After a minute she remembers my initial question.

  “Oh right, your new boyfriend.” She puts a little too much emphasis on the word. It’s been a long time since Sonny was in a relationship. She’s been hung-up on Davey since the moment he sauntered into her garage after answering our ad looking for a guitarist, but it seems cupid only hit her with the arrow. She says she’s over it, but I think a part of her still holds out hope one day he’ll open his eyes and see how perfect she is for him.

  “Rickly had to go for soundcheck,” she explains. “He saw me on his way there and asked me to wake you up. Said you mumbled and swatted at him when he tried.”

  I give a short snort. He should know better. When I’m out, I’m out. There is no waking me till I’m ready.

  “Anyway, I knew I wouldn’t have any more luck than him, so I stretched out to enjoy the fresh air.”

  “It’s time for us to get ready now though,” she adds. “We’ve got to sign albums and stuff before the show for the people who paid for the VIP package.”

  Oh right. Sometimes, I love Samantha and sometimes, I curse her ability to book something besides playing every day.

  “Okay. I feel way better than I did this morning. Let’s do this.” We grab the blanket and pillows and walk back to our bus to begin our getting ready ritual.

  ***

  “We agree then,” Craig affirms. “Once a week, Daryl will come to our sessions to take part in Kennedy’s treatment.”

  I nod slowly, still unsure if I’ve made the right decision. Some help is better than none, but I hadn’t planned on diving so deep into my past to find my solution to the present. It all seems so recent I can’t imagine anyone but my bandmates, or ironically Rickly, helping me through this. I hope my dad’s got some magic words that will unlock the shit in my brain I’ve been working so hard to hide.

  “Great,” Craig adds, evenly. Such a peppy guy.

  My dad wipes his hands on his khakis as he prepares to leave. I guess that’s all for today folks. My mother hesitates, her eyes boring into me like she knows something’s wrong behind my façade. “If you don’t mind, I’d like a minute alone with my daughter.”

  My father pauses mid-rise from his chair and looks from Craig to my mom to me. Craig lifts his hand to motions it’s still okay for him to go.

  “Of course, Shirley, I’ll walk Daryl out to my assistant to set-up our next session. If you could wait a moment, I’ll send an orderly in to observe you two discretely.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary...,” My mother begins, but he cuts her off.

  “Institution policy. No unsupervised visits.”

  She nods obediently and Craig goes to his desk to call for a babysitter. Shortly after, one of the big guys who restrained me after my freak out a few nights ago walks in. My wrists ache at the sight of him.

  “Ladies, I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Craig says, as he ushers my dad out, who remains silent, but does attempt an uncomfortable pat on my shoulder as he passes. That’s all I can handle anyhow.

  As the solid, fiberglass door closes my mom turns to me, her forehead tight with concern. She’s always been a worried mother hen. This whole thing must be killing her.

  “Are you okay with this? Did I blindside you?”

  I shrug, but decide comforting her is better than adding to her apprehension. Only one of us needs to be a mess.

  “It’s fine. I was a little surprised, well, a lot surprised when he walked in. I had no idea you still spoke.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” She smiles, sheepishly. “Your father hurt me very much when he vanished, but my lingering anger was always for you girls. When he reappeared, full of remorse, that anger shifted to pity. Still, I knew I couldn’t give in to his request to get close to you, and I wasn’t sure what you’d do if you knew he was back. I wouldn’t risk putting you through the pain he gave me.

  “But, I’ve got this soft spot for him. Perhaps you couldn’t bond, but I could tell him about you. I sent photos and we spoke every few months. Always very surface level, but I just felt like it was the right thing to do. To forgive is divine.”

  My mother, constantly the Good Samaritan. I nod in acceptance. I can’t say I know how I’d have handled it. Probably more vindictively, but that’s what makes us different. Maybe she’s right to bring him in.

  “It’s all right. I’m willing to give this a try. Not for him, but for me, and in a way, for you too.”

  “Thank you, sweetie. I wasn’t sure what else to do. I just want you back.”

  She clasps her unadorned hands and her eyes glimmer with so much hope I don’t have the heart to tell her I’m not sure which version of me we are going to find when we get that girl back.

  Chapter Ten

  Sonny, Davey, Oli, Jack and I sit perfectly spaced out in folding chairs behind a table covered with a black cloth. A booth with merchand
ise greets the fans as they enter the cavernous room in case anyone wants to buy something for us to sign, but most anxiously clutch their own memorabilia: shirts, posters, magazines. Most popular seem to be copies of our album on vinyl. Who knew that’d make a comeback?

  “I’m so going to make her day,” Jack whispers, salaciously to me as a redheaded cutie approaches poster in hand. “What beautiful name do I make this out to?” he asks, Sharpie posed to scrawl his sloppy signature. The cuff of unfilled stars that encircles his raised wrist makes me smile. Three similarly, marked arms move back and forth across the table grabbing and returning each signed item. Our matching tattoos all reside on our dominant arm. When we decided to get them, no one had any ink there. That’s changed since then. Davey and Jack now both have full sleeves encroaching in on the stars, but the simple, black lines remain intact in their original state.

  I’ve got a few other tattoos as well. I can see the top of the K that lives on the outside of my other wrist as I pin the blushing redhead’s poster to the table to add my name. That tattoo I put thought into, others I did on a whim, like my cliché lower back tattoo–a sun to represent my hometown.

  After that, I made sure to markup less traditional places. Vertical up the ribs. Along the top of my shoulder. My foot. I’m up to seven. The most recent is a music note behind my ear. I only did one side. I like it better that way. More asymmetrical, like me.

  “Here you go, Alexis,” I say, as I pass back the poster and she reluctantly walks away, her eyes never leaving Jack. He elbows me like ‘told ya’ and I roll my eyes. After three more fans come and go, there’s a break in the action. Minimally tattooed Sonny is responsible for the hold-up, chatting away at the start of the line. Since I’m at the other end, I take this free minute to stand up and stretch. A dozen eyes immediately dart to me to gawk as my gray tank rises just enough to reveal an inch of skin. Usually, at these signings, I bring up the rear so that everyone in the band has someone to talk with if things bottleneck. People just tend to yammer with me the longest.

  Tonight seems an exception. Several people are taking their time with Sonny and Davey. It happens sometimes when someone who is more into composing, or geeks out on guitars, gets their attention. Samantha is good about keeping it moving, but she seems distracted tonight. She hugs a wall across the room texting on her phone rather than corralling the crowd and dealing with the venue staff, photographers, and other people in charge of shit that are scurrying about. Not sure what’s up with her. Hopefully, she’s working diligently to change out those fugly curtains on the bus.

  Samantha glances up from her phone and gives me a signal with her hand to sit back down. Fuck that, I’m getting bored and I like meeting fans. I’m too sober to chill and do nothing. Maybe I’ll go down to the other side of the table and wave over a few guys to cut the line. If Sam won’t handle our business, I will.

  I saunter casually over to Davey and Sonny, their words becoming clearer as I approach.

  “Yeah, the guitar riff on ‘Trees Make Paper, Weed Makes Money’ was all me,” Davey boasts, which is true.

  A short, paunchy guy engrossed in the conversation tugs at his too-tight skinny jeans with as much enthusiasm as his response.

  “Killer! That’s the best song title ever.”

  “That was me,” Sonny replies. So not true. Seems she and Davey are playing up their involvement in writing our songs. Sure everyone contributes, but they’re glazing over my part. Sometimes they say stuff like that to impress a hottie, which is clearly not the current case, but perhaps their embellished stories are starting to eat up too much time…

  I give an electric grin to the muffin top man and his friend standing in front of the table as I put my hands on Davey and Sonny’s shoulders startling them.

  “Hey,” Sonny says, with a grin. “Talking our creative process with these guys. They’re writing their first record.”

  “Awesome, maybe one day we’ll see you on a festival line-up with us,” I comment, with a wink as I start to wander away, effectively moving them along to Oli with my departure.

  “Oh shit, that’d be so cool,” the taller of the two murmurs, just loud enough for me to catch it as I close in on the rest of the line.

  The din of voices amplifies with excitement by my unexpected roaming. I shake each eagerly, outstretched hand and snap a few selfies before I reach the end of the mob and a waiting Samantha. Her bare arms are crossed and hug her hunched body as she leans into my ear. “Probably time to sit back down.” While her tone is light, there’s an undercurrent of irritation. Probably with me for breaking protocol. She likes things to follow her set process.

  “Something more interesting on your phone tonight?” I inquire, innocently, ignoring her mood as we cross the room back to my chair.

  Her skillfully arched eyebrows raise in surprise. Usually, I’m buzzed at these things and don’t give two shits about her.

  “Working out some last logistics for Canada. Making sure there are no complications.” She scans the dwindling crowd and my preoccupied bandmates as I plop down in my spot. “Now keep your butt here till we’re done. Leave the cattle herding to me.”

  ***

  I’ve never slept so long in my life. Every limb tingles like it’s just been roused from the brink of atrophy. After my session with Craig and my parents, I was so spent I just took my allotted pills and retreated to bed. The only memories from my hibernation are the brief glimpses of the glow from the rising and fading sun through my sole window, my consciousness fading in and out like the light.

  Today feels different. Like I’m pulling out of my slump. I’m ready to get back to that place I was before my last panic attack. It’s time to let Craig lead me back to myself.

  ***

  Another kick-ass show over and with only half the alcohol I typically consume in a set. I beam proudly as I throw myself into Rickly’s arms as soon as I spot his handsome figure waiting to the side of the stage. He smells faintly of booze.

  “Don’t worry babe, I just had a shot or two,” he murmurs, as his hands snake behind my back to pull me in tighter. I kiss him deep and long and let our tequila and whiskey breathe mingle in celebration of our restraint.

  ***

  Craig and I began our session in his office but the space was giving me a weird vibe, like the essence of my dad still lingered in his vacant chair, so I asked if we could move outside. It’s the first time I’ve felt the sun in at least a week and the warmth is intoxicating. Being from Arizona, it feels strange not getting a daily dose of vitamin D. I loved visiting the rainy Northwest when we toured, but I could never have stayed there long-term without getting depressed.

  Craig sits adjacent to me at a picnic table patiently waiting to begin as I delight in the fresh air. He has learned not to push me, and I appreciate that. You can’t make me do anything I don’t want to without disastrous consequences. Samantha and the label learned that, too. They wanted us to write our second album as soon as the first hit stores, but I needed a creative break and time to revel in the tour. Gather some more life experiences to write about. The pressure waxed and waned, but dissipated when I at least put a few words down on paper and started experimenting with the band on a song. It’s a track that went unfinished…

  “So Kennedy,” Craig pulls me from my sunlight induced reverie. “Before your last incident, we were making great progress. We were focused on defining that period of your life where you felt in control. When your blackouts began, as it was. I’d like to talk about when the nature of the blackouts changed. From a time of freedom and lowered inhibition, to a time of darkness and insecurity.”

  I square my shoulders with resolve. I have to talk about this to regain our momentum.

  “And when you’re ready, I’d like to talk about what happened the other night.”

  I flinch involuntarily and he switches to his soothing voice, afraid he will scare the rabbit back down the hole.

  “Not now, though. We have much to work through an
d going back to where we left off is the best place to start.”

  Good. Honestly, I don’t want to recount the incident yet because I don’t want to tell him I’m worried my harasser is back fucking with me. That would sound too much like a regression. If I talk like that now, he may think all the progress we made last week was erased by my freak out. I need to figure out how I’ll frame it to sound the least crazy, if there’s even a way. Oh, I heard a mysterious voice calling my name and then a shadow tried to break down my door. Sounds perfectly sane.

  I twist the ends of my hair around my fingers thinking where to begin.

  “Well, I guess the blackouts stopped being fun when I tried to be more sober.”

  ***

  I’m enjoying my post-show buzz and suppressing the urge to take it a level deeper. I’ve already had two offers for drugs and four for shots. I’m sticking to mixed drinks tonight as a test to see if that’s enough to have fun but not get shit-faced. So far so good.

  Rickly agreed to do the same and he’s making his way to the moderately, bustling bar to get me another tequila sunrise and him a whiskey and coke. Somehow, I feel older ordering those drinks rather than our usual shots. So sophisticated.

  The rest of our bandmates are buzzed roaming through the crowd of primarily college students. Oli and Trent stand beside me flirting with some co-eds. Seems the ladies are in the midst of finals hell and heading home soon, much to the guys’ chagrin. It’s probably for the best as it’s a ‘school night’ for us as well. We have to head back to the buses before last call at two o’clock so we can get to Houston in time for the morning radio shows.

  Run Before You Walk is also taking it a bit easier tonight than usual, crammed cozily in a worn leather booth in a darkened corner. They’re anxious for tomorrow as Houston is their hometown and the spotlight will be mostly focused on them, per the label. It’s actually Orphan that links us as we’re both on their roster. Thankfully, our mutual fan base and admiration for each other’s music has made touring together a good fit. I only wish Orphan had let those factors influence the tour’s lineup for Canada.