by Carrie Pack
“Well, she’s definitely ignoring you, and that also sucks.”
“It really sucks.” My eyes are locked on a particularly large bird dropping.
Jackie tilts her head down to meet my gaze. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Her eyes are laced with flecks of gold that sparkle when the light catches them. I hadn’t noticed that. The trees flutter with the lightest spring breeze, and the sunlight dances over us. I take a deep breath.
“We had a fight,” I begin.
Jackie listens while I tell her about the incident with Brad and my subsequent fight with Kate; she doesn’t say a word until I stop talking. I wait for her to say something, expecting her to tell me I overreacted, or maybe that Brad is a bastard or that Kate isn’t worth it.
Instead, she holds my hand.
Being ignored by Kate gets easier. Jackie distracts me whenever she’s around, and Marty has consumed most of Kate’s time with the band, which has its first gig in a week. We’ve all sort of become roadies because the band usually practices after the Riot Grrrl meetings. They’re pretty good when Marty’s not yelling at Venus for playing too loudly, which is what is happening now.
“I can’t hear myself think,” Marty shouts over the driving beat of the band’s only original song. It’s a reworking of “Never Again,” the song we sang at my first Riot Grrrl meeting. Marty has renamed it “Fuck the Man.”
“You’re not supposed to,” Venus yells back. “It’s punk. It’s supposed to be loud and in your face.”
She’s a great drummer, but she enjoys annoying Marty a little too much.
“Let’s just get through the song,” Kate says into the mic. When she plays, her hair falls in front of her face and it reminds me of making out in my bed. She’d lie on top of me and her hair would fall exactly like that, framing our faces and hiding us from the world.
“Pining will get you nowhere.” Jackie sidles up to me and nudges my hip.
“I’m not pining,” I say. At Jackie’s pointed look, I add, “Not exactly. I’m just remembering… fondly.”
“That’s just another name for the same damn thing, and it ain’t healthy.”
“I keep thinking she’ll come around and we can at least be friends again.” I kick the ground hard. The dead animal smell finally wore off my boots and I’ve started wearing them again, so I’m savoring the weight and heft of the steel toes. “I miss her.”
“Doesn’t look like Miss Fussypants returns that sentiment.” Jackie nods at the stage. Kate is facing Cherie and banging her head in time with the music. She sticks her tongue out, and Cherie giggles. They seem to be having the time of their lives. Kate plays the same note on her bass, over and over, driving beat after driving beat. Cherie’s vocals are haunting and rage-filled as she sings, “We are women who won’t be silenced.” Marty plays as if she’s racing to the finish on the back of a minor chord. And behind the drum kit, Venus’s braids swing in a tornado of hair as her sticks thump out a frantic beat.
When it’s over, Marty steps to the mic and says, “Thank you. We’re Menstrual Weekend.”
Venus slams her sticks on the snare, and the sound echoes through the nearly empty room. “I told you I am not getting up on the stage in front of a bunch of people who are thinking of nasty old used tampons!”
“It’s a fierce name. No one is going to be thinking of tampons, right, Tabitha?” Marty turns toward me.
I shrug. “Well…”
“She’s not even in the band,” Venus says. “Cherie, you’re with me on this, right?”
“I liked The Claires,” Cherie says timidly.
“Like we’re some place to get your ears pierced at the mall? No way.” Marty’s nostrils flare and she glares at Cherie. Ducking behind her microphone, Cherie pretends to be enthralled by a spot on the floor. Marty sighs. “Kate, what about you?”
“I never really liked either of them. I thought you were joking about Menstrual Weekend.”
“We need a fucking name,” Marty says. “The show’s next week.”
“What about ‘Shut Up’?” Jackie smirks in my direction.
I laugh, but none of the girls onstage join me.
“Actually, Jacks, that’s a really good idea,” Venus says.
“I have to say, it’s not half bad,” Marty adds.
Cherie smiles and nods excitedly, and Kate steps up to her mic. “Hello, we’re called Shut Up.” She plays a three-note lick and adds, “Let’s rock!”
“It works,” I say over the whoops and yells of the band. “You actually got them to stop arguing and—”
Jackie cuts me off: “Shut up.”
We’re both laughing so hard we barely notice that they’ve started their second song.
Decked Out No. 5
Angry girls are Riot Grrrls
by Marty DeVane
I keep writing all this shit for everyone else’s zines so I figured it was time to start my own. I was going to name it after our band, Shut Up, but I decided if that goes tits up, I’d better have a backup plan. So welcome to the first-ever glimpse into Rage Mart. I’m your notorious host Marty and I play guitar. Shut Up is going to be playing the Decker Spring Fest next week along with Lipstick Revolver and a few other really great local punk bands. Admission is only $5 for the entire weekend so you better get your ass over to the fairgrounds and be ready to rock your faces off.
We’re going to have tapes of our first song, “Fuck the Man,” available for purchase. We’ve included a few covers so the price of $5 is a little more fair. But don’t tell the record labels or they’ll sue us for our shitty secondhand amps and Cherie’s blue nail polish. Honestly that’s all we got right now. I’m hoping we can make some scratch with this band thing so I can afford to move out of my mom’s house. She’s such a bitch sometimes. She won’t even let me practice in the house. Can you believe it? You know how some famous musicians pay off their parents’ mortgages when they make it? Not me. She can continue to pay for that shit hole on her own while dad sleeps away his life.
Anyway… Binn County Fairgrounds, this Saturday at 7pm. BE THERE!!!
Oh and some of you bitches should be reading my zine, Rage Mart. You know the drill. Two stamps. One dollar. Angry feminist prose.
Fuck the Man (lyrics)
by Marty DeVane and Cherie Wong
It started on a cold night in September;
He looked at me so strange.
I tried to tell him it was over;
He took my hope and made it rain.
Chorus:
Fuck the man;
fuck my uncle;
fuck it all my friend.
We are women who won’t be silenced,
never again the end.
After, I ate a hundred ripe raspberries;
Then I stole a blue canoe;
And I took my shoes off in the water;
With nothing else to do.
Chorus
When it was all over,
I tried to tell someone.
I had no reason to be a liar,
And yet you called me one.
Chorus
Never again, the end. (Repeat 5 times)
Chapter 7
I plan to go to Spring Fest with Jackie and Monique because Jackie’s the only other Riot Grrrl I know with a car. But at the last minute, Monique backs out. Her aunt died, and she has to go to the funeral in Chicago, so it’s just me and Jackie. It’s fine with me because I like hanging out when it’s only the two of us. Jackie is funny; her dry sense of humor keeps me from being intimidated by how cool she is. Mostly.
“I hate the way people drive around here,” she yells. “Use your stupid turn signal!”
“Turn signal? Is that the stick attached to the steering wheel? Or the big honky thing in the middle?”
Jackie fight
s the smile playing at her lips. “Ha, ha,” she deadpans. “You’re soooo funny.”
“I’m hilarious.”
“Then why am I not laughing?”
“Because you’re a stick in the mud,” I say matter-of-factly. Then turning serious, “Why don’t you smile more?”
Jackie’s driving so she can’t turn her head, but her eyes shoot in my direction.
My heart flutters as my own words reach my brain. “Shit. I didn’t mean it like that,” I say. “You don’t have to smile. I just meant that I, um…” I turn to look out the window to hide my blush and to stop myself from blurting out that I think she has the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. “You seem sad sometimes.”
Jackie clears her throat. “I’m not sad.” After a few moments, she adds, “I guess I don’t feel like I have a lot to smile about.”
Her eyes dart in my direction again as if she’s gauging my reaction.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
She sighs. It’s a little like exasperation. Maybe I’ve asked the wrong question again. But before I can apologize, she answers.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m black. I’m a lesbian, and I live in the whitest of the white suburbs. It’s not exactly where I’d like to be.”
“Where would you like to be?”
“Chicago. New York. Hell, I’d settle for Cincinnati. Anywhere but here.”
“I can understand that.”
“Can you?” Her words come out clipped. Her mouth tenses. It’s a subtle difference, but even after a few short weeks, I’ve noticed that’s the first sign that she’s frustrated.
Again, my mouth works before my brain, and I ask, “Are you mad at me?” I want to smack my head on the dashboard as soon as it comes out. And my voice is shaking. Great.
We’re stopped at a light so she turns to look at me. “No, I’m not mad. I just don’t think you get it.”
I open my mouth to object, but she holds up a finger. It brushes my lips.
“Can we talk about something else?” she whispers. “I don’t want to get in a fight.”
I want to ask her what she means, but I stop myself. If she wants to change the subject, I will. Obviously something is bothering her, and if she’s not ready to talk about it, I won’t force her. I hate when someone does that to me. And maybe the best way to prove to her that I get it is to respect her wishes. I bite my lip.
“We could listen to some music,” I suggest as I dig in my bag for the tape I brought.
Jackie ejects whatever is in the player and takes the tape. Without even asking what it is, she pushes it in.
As the frantic beat of a Joan Jett song fills the car, Jackie drums on the steering wheel. The tension is gone from her jaw. Knowing that she let me in a little bit makes my stomach do a flip, and, in a moment of bravery, I reach across the center console and put my hand over hers.
Because they’re the first act, Shut Up only plays to about twenty or thirty people, which is about a dozen more than we expected. Jackie and I make our way to the stage, stationing ourselves immediately in front of the band where they’ll be sure to see us. I wave to a couple girls I recognize from the rec center and motion for them to come to the front with us. This is a Riot Grrrl show as much as it’s a Shut Up show. The girls should be front and center.
When the band finally takes the stage, there are eleven of us in the front row, thrashing and singing along to “Fuck the Man.” Before long, some girls we don’t know join us as Shut Up launches into their first cover: Bikini Kill’s “Rebel Girl.”
Something about that song in this moment takes me out of myself, and it’s clear that Riot Grrrl is so much bigger than our little group in tiny Decker, Illinois. I look at the girls around me—dancing, singing, laughing. The connection is like an electrical current running through us. We are part of something, and it’s pretty darn special.
Shut Up’s set is only fifteen minutes long. Most of the songs are covers, but Marty declares it a success.
“Let’s go for pizza to celebrate!” She throws an arm around Venus, who looks ready to throttle her. “Or bowling. The bowling alley in Stuckey has that black light thing Saturday nights. We could all wear white and glow like we have radiation poisoning.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works,” Cherie says. “And anyway, I’ve got to get home. Mom wants me to babysit the twins so she and Dad can go look at new cars.”
“The glamorous lives of freshly minted rock stars,” Kate says with a self-deprecating laugh. “Bowling and babysitting.”
“I’d be down for pizza,” Venus says, “but bowling is out of the question. No way I’m wearing shoes that someone else’s stank feet have been in.”
“Fine. Whatever.” Marty’s arm drops from Venus’s shoulder, and she places both hands on her hips. “We’ll do boring old pizza then. Kate, you coming?”
“Let me drop Cherie at home and I’ll meet you there.”
“Sure,” Marty says, her smile unflagging as she turns to me and Jackie. “You guys can come too. I know you’re not officially in the band, but since you kind of named us…” She trails off.
“What a warm and friendly invitation,” Jackie says in a monotone.
“What is everyone’s damage today?” Marty says in exasperation. “We just rocked this thing and you guys are acting like we played checkers all afternoon.”
“There was a lot of black-and-red flannel out there,” I admit. “Maybe it was a game of checkers in disguise.”
Jackie snickers. “Not helping,” she mutters.
I bite my lip to keep from giggling.
“Let’s go,” Marty says. “We’ll meet you at Vincenzo’s in thirty, okay?”
Kate is already halfway to her car with Venus and Cherie in tow, so only Jackie and I are left to agree.
When Marty follows, Jackie turns to me and cocks her head to the side as though she’s studying me. “You okay?”
Unsure of what she means, I ask, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. Seeing Kate again. You’ve kind of been avoiding her. I thought maybe it was still a sore spot.”
“I don’t think I’ve been avoiding her. Have I?” I’m not playing dumb. I hadn’t realized. I somehow had stopped thinking about Kate. Huh.
Jackie shrugs. “Maybe you’ve moved on?”
Her questioning tone makes me self-conscious. Maybe I’m suppressing latent feelings or something. “Was it too quick?”
Jackie bites her lip. “No, it’s good I think. Just steer clear of rebounds.”
“I don’t think I have anything to worry about there.” I hold my hands up in surrender. “I’m done dating for a while.”
Jackie raises an eyebrow. “Never say never.”
“Well, not never. Just not now… and definitely not Kate.”
“Definitely.” Jackie’s smile lights up her face.
The band, loud and raucous, is still riding their performance high when we arrive, and a few other Riot Grrrls—Jenny and Becky are tucked into the end of the booth next to Venus— have joined them. I let Jackie lead me to the table and squeeze into the booth next to her. It’s a little cramped, but instead of being uncomfortable, I feel safe. For the first time in my life it’s as though I’m right where I belong—with these girls, who not only share my interests but who also want to hang out with me.
“So I was thinking,” Marty says. “Maybe we get more girls contributing to Decked Out. It’s not like we’re going to have all this time on our hands if Shut Up keeps getting gigs.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Kate says. “It would give us more time to write music if we’re not so focused on the zine.”
“I’d love to write something on the pressures of being an honor student and female,” Jenny says as she tosses a piece of crust onto her plate. “I get sick of having to be per
fect all the time. God forbid I get a B or don’t look cute while doing it.”
It’s unreal. I thought I was the only one. I had no idea Jenny felt pressure like that, too. I smile at her and take a sip of my pop.
“It would be nice to play more originals,” Venus adds. “I know I’m sick of doing covers. But I’d still like to write stuff for the zine.”
“I don’t see why we can’t do both,” Kate says.
“What’s wrong with covers?” Marty asks with raised eyebrows.
Venus sighs. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t play covers, I’m just saying we should write more original songs.”
“Are you going to write these songs, Vee? Because if it’s all going to fall on me and Cherie to do the writing, we’re going to have to play some fucking covers.” Marty is riled up. She’s talking with her hands and speaking at full volume. She and Venus never seem to agree, and, for whatever reason, Marty won’t let an argument go.
“Does anyone mind if we change the subject?” Kate says, raising her voice to be heard over Marty. “This is getting tedious.”
“Sure,” Marty says with a sneer. “Why don’t we talk about what happened with you and Tabitha.”
I half-choke on a bite of pizza. Jackie places her hand on my thigh and offers me a sip of her Coke. I chance a sideways glance at Kate, but she’s focused on glaring at Marty.
“Wow, you really know how to turn a party into a funeral,” Jackie says. “Great job.” She moves her hand to my back and rubs it until I stop coughing.
“Why don’t you mind your own business for once?” Kate says under her breath.
“That better be directed at Marty,” Jackie warns.
“Or what?”
Jackie shakes her head, “Never mind. It’s not my problem.”
Kate sits up and tilts her head. “No, I want to know. What did I ever do to you?”
Jackie stands up, but I touch her wrist in an attempt to comfort her. “I’m not wasting my breath. It’s not like you’d listen to me anyway.”
Kate scoffs into her pop. “Whatever.”
