by Aimee Salter
He’s the one who gave me the pills. Did he lie to me about what they’d do?
Since I was a kid my mother told me if anyone ever made me uncomfortable, or touched me in a way I didn’t like, or anything, I should scream, and run, and not stop talking until someone listened to me. That she would always listen to me. And I knew she would.
So I always thought, if something happened to me I’d just tell people. My mom. The cops. A teacher. My friends.
But I don’t even know for sure what happened. I just know I’m sore and my thighs were slick in the shower and I feel sick and scared. Terrified. Coated with bone-deep shame that makes me nauseous. Aching with hope that I’m wrong. That none of this means what I think it means.
I know I’m supposed to tell someone, but I can’t even start to come up with the words. And if I tell Crash and then it turns out I’m wrong . . .
I stare at my phone. But he doesn’t call, and the longer I sit there, freezing and uncertain, the more I convince myself that nothing happened. That I’m being paranoid. That I can’t be the reason this tour fails.
I’m talking myself into getting dressed when my phone jangles in my hand and I almost throw it across the room.
But it’s Holly.
“Hey, sweetie!” she chirps. “How does it feel to be famous? I’m just getting in the car. Bob couriered me the backstage pass. I’ll be there before you go on!”
Tears immediately pinch my throat. I have to clear it. “Th-that’s great.”
“What’s wrong?” No hesitation. Of course she can tell. “Kelly, sweetie, what’s wrong? Did they cancel your show? It’s okay—”
“No. I just . . .” I think I might have been raped.
It’s the first time I’ve thought the word.
It’s possible I’m wrong. Please, God, can I be wrong?
“Oh, honey. I know it’s hard. And I know your mom would be so disappointed to miss this.”
“Uh huh.” I’m lying. If my mother could come back for a day, the last thing I’d want to do is waste that time talking about this.
“Well.” Her voice cracks. She clears her throat. “I’m sure she’s watching. And she’s so proud of you—no matter what. You know that, right?”
“Yeah. I-I do.”
“Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry. I know I’m not good at the mothering stuff. She’d know just what to say to help you feel better.” And there’s a little hic, from her end of the phone line and I realize she’s crying now and I feel terrible.
I breathe through my nose, force my body to calm until I know I can talk without crying.
“You do great, Holly. Don’t worry about me. I’m just messed up.”
“You’re incredible. So much smarter and more mature than I was at your age. If it weren’t for your mom . . . but that’s why we’re having this conversation, right? We both need her sometimes.”
The open line hisses in my ear as I try to figure out whether any of this would have happened if Mom hadn’t died.
“I’m glad you’re coming,” I say quietly.
“Wouldn’t miss it, kid,” she says overly-brightly and I know that, like me, she’s fighting tears. “I’m starting the car now. I’ll be on the road until about five or six. Bob said it’ll take some time for me to get inside with security checks and stuff. But I’ll be there before seven, definitely. And I’ll squeeze you real tight, because you’re doing great, and I’m stoked that I get to be there for it.”
I laugh, even though it isn’t funny. It releases the tension. “Can’t wait.”
“Me either. Now. Other than M & M’s, is there anything I can bring you? Anything else you need before you go on?”
A time machine? “I don’t think so.”
“Okay, well, I’m bringing my shotgun to keep all the boys at bay anyway. Just in case.”
For a split second, I think she knows and I freeze. But she’s joking. About Crash. Or the fans, maybe. And I’m disappointed because it means I’ll still have to tell her. If it’s real.
“I have to go,” I blurt, suddenly desperate not to be talking anymore because I know it’ll come out.
“Oh, okay. Well, hug Crash and Tommy for me. I think they’ll be busy by the time I get there. Call me anytime today, okay?”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Love you, sweetie.”
“Love you too, Holly. Bye.” That’s when I go cold. If I can’t tell Holly, how will I talk to Crash, let alone kiss him or-or anything else? I imagine his hands brushing my skin and instead of the normal electric warmth that raises the small hairs on my arms, I start to shake again.
They did it. They ruined me. And I don’t even know what they did!
The image of Bob handing me a couple pills, a slight frown on his face.
Of MacKenzie not looking at me any time after the pills were mentioned.
Maybe Bob already knows?
Maybe they all do?
The thought makes me feel grimy. Shaking, I get to my feet, desperate for another shower to get this dirty feeling off my skin.
It’s harder and harder to breathe until I’m in the bottom of the shower on my knees, gripping the side of the tub and counting my inhales, pleading with God not to let me die here in the shower like a cliché. And to tell me how I find out the truth without crying rape when every fiber screams that it can’t be that. It could never be that.
I can’t let it be that.
Chapter Forty-Two
Present Day
Crash
By eleven this morning I’d been awake for seven hours, done two radio interviews, a morning television appearance, and talked to two journalists on the phone who wanted quotes for their stories to go live before the concert.
Through it all, I’ve glanced at my phone every few minutes. I’m ready to call Kelly and to hell with the next media call that’s due any second. Something’s wrong. She should have been up hours ago.
I’ve just picked my phone up when a text buzzes from Kelly.
Can you call me when
you’re out of the interview?
But my phone rings before I can tap through to call her. It’s another journalist, so I type out a reply while I’m answering his questions.
Crazy here. In another interview.
I’ll call when it’s done.
I’m trying not to feel hurt that, since she didn’t mention it, she’s obviously forgotten my TV appearance this morning even though she said she’d watch.
My eyes are already grainy and my heart’s beating too fast—because of the show, because of her, because she’s coming on tour—something I’ve ached for since the ninth grade. But now’s not the time to get too excited. She has to be great tonight. I have to do whatever I can to help her be great so they’ll bring her on the European leg. Right now she’s only booked for five cities and that’s not enough.
Reluctantly, I turn my attention back to the call. I need to tell all these people how amazing she is and how much she’ll add to this tour.
Because the label is stupid, Tommy and I have to take a tinted-windows limo to get dropped off at the top of a roped-off walkway so the fans who’ve been waiting to see us can watch us walk from the limo into the arena.
These are the parts of this job I hate. Not meeting people, that’s pretty cool. But the set-up, using a limousine—like that’s how we just get around. Like we just expect there to be crowds of screaming people wherever we land. Like we aren’t nervous—and like we enjoy girls screaming in our faces and crying when we touch their hands.
The whole thing is surreal and even after a year of it, I still can’t shake the self-doubt when that tidal wave of shrieks rolls over us as we step out of the car—Tom first, then me. Always in that order, because that “builds anticipation”, which is completely natural too, right?
We give a few hugs and sign a few CDs. Tom gets offered a chest to sign and grins, shaking his head, then does it anyway—on her collarbone. The girl and her friends scream and jump around toge
ther, then we head inside. I grab the first security guy I see and ask where Kelly is, but he just shrugs and says try her dressing room.
Thanks, Sherlock. I never would have thought of that.
I’m making a beeline for the greenroom—Kelly’s dressing room shouldn’t be far—when Amber appears and waves us toward the stage.
“Soundcheck is early today guys, we’re having some trouble.”
I follow Tom through the wide, cement corridor that follows the outer edge of the arena and branches into doorways and a maze of rooms behind the stage. It’s always kind of cool walking on stage for rehearsals or whatever because the place is empty. It’s weird too, singing to a hollow room. But it’s all part of the routine.
Soundcheck takes forever because they’re having problems with the board. I hope Kelly’s went better since she gets nervous about details.
I wish we could have been here to clap for her, but we were at the studio when she did hers.
As we leave the stage, I pull my phone back out to text her. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I just realized I never sent this text to Kelly earlier.”
Tommy gives me The Look and I growl at him to shut up.
“Dude, she’s freaking out today!”
“I know, okay? Shut up. I thought I sent it.”
Tommy shakes his head, then flicks his hair back over his shoulders, his black hair absorbing as much of the flourescent lights as his heavy silver piercings reflect.
I type quickly.
Sorry babe, I thought I sent you
a note earlier. We’re here. Where
are you? I’m coming to find you.
this is gonna be awesome. Love you.
FROM KELLY: Love you too. In
costuming hell. See you later.
I knew it would be like this—both of us torn in different directions until this crazy ride stops at midnight tonight. I hate it. I want to be with her. Touch her. Tell her how amazing she’ll be. Try to soothe her nerves. Because I’m nervous and this isn’t new to me. She has to be ready to shit her pants.
The hours until the show fly by. There’s another interview on the empty stage, costuming, make-up—which I hate—and then meet-and-greets with our “biggest fans.” I keep texting Kelly, who’s just as busy as we are, I guess. I hate that I haven’t seen her yet.
Finally, as the opening act goes on stage and the crowd roars, we’re in the greenroom warming up with less than an hour to go and I finally have a minute to breathe.
“Where is she, Amber?”
Amber murmurs something to the PA who glances at me and pulls the microphone down on her headset and rushes off, pushing a button at her waist and talking into it like she’s saving lives.
I’m not letting Amber weasel out of this. “Where—”
Amber puts a hand up to stop me. “She’s busy throwing up and refusing to see anyone.”
“Where?”
“You can’t do it to her, Crash. She’s already a mess. You show up and she’ll fall apart. Then you’d have to go on stage. You need to let Bob handle it, okay?”
“No. Not okay. She needs help.”
“And Bob and his team are giving her everything she needs. You need to get dressed and confirm that song order. This is where we have a job to do, Crash. Your love life needs to wait.”
Fuck that.
I turn my back on Amber and dial Kelly. I’m going to help.
Chapter Forty-Three
Present Day
Kelly
“Babe!” His voice is bright and tight and my heart sinks. “I can’t believe we haven’t talked today. I’m sorry I forgot to send that text. You okay?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Kel?”
“I’m here,” I croak. “Listen, Crash, I have to tell you some—”
“Crash, we don’t have time!” It’s Amber, her voice quiet in the background, but it snaps me to attention. Amber’s there. Of course she is.
And if I tell him this right now, he’s got to take that while he’s staring his own rapist in the face. I shake my head. My tongue goes numb.
“Make time,” Crash growls. “I’m talking to Kelly.”
“I don’t care if you’re talking to the Pope. You’ve got a job to do.”
“Sorry, babe,” Crash sighs. “It’s just been manic over here. Where are you?” Amber curses behind him. Noise from a door opening and music rising from behind it.
“I . . . I’m fine,” I stammer. I can’t do this to him with her right there. I’ll get through tonight. Tell him later when we’re alone. I won’t ruin opening night. It’ll give us time . . .
“Let me come give you a hug. I know you’re nervous, but this is going to be amazing, okay? And we get to do it together.”
“Yeah, I . . .” Even I can hear the weakness in my voice.
“Did you throw up yet?” he asks quietly.
I nod, then realize he can’t see me and clear my throat. “A couple times.”
“Nasty. But it’ll get easier, I promise. This is the worst it’ll ever be. Just ride it out. Tomorrow’ll be easier.”
I can’t think about tomorrow.
Amber’s voice pierces the background again and I close my eyes. “You better go, Crash. D-don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Really.” Lies, lies, lies.
Crash curses at her, then, “I gotta go babe. See you in a few?”
“Okay.”
“Break a leg.”
The line beeps, then goes dead. I stare at it a moment, then carefully place the phone on the make-up counter in front of me.
Makeup counter. I’m in a dressing room. I shake my head.
I can’t believe this all started with a YouTube video.
Sitting at the formica counter, my reflection lit in the mirror behind it by the glowing bulbs that march in perfect formation around its edge, I’m supposed to touch up my face. Instead, I struggle to inhale. I don’t even recognize myself. I adjust the hair of the person in the mirror with shaking fingers. Avoid looking at my gold hair, cut stark for drama, reddened eyes lined in deepest black.
Merv comes and goes and I’m alone. I wish I could stay that way. Dark thoughts, terrible thoughts plague me until I’m on the couch, bent forward, forehead on my knees.
I don’t know how long I sit there struggling to breathe. But eventually, there’s a tap on the door I barely register over the thunder from above.
“Come in,” I croak into my own lap.
A creak and the rush of the pounding, the voices, the echo. I shiver.
“Can I get you something, Ms. Berkstram? It’s almost time.” The PA’s voice is quiet, but unconcerned. Apparently, she’s accustomed to neurotic artists losing their shit.
I shake my head.
Inhale through the nose. Exhale through the mouth.
Sitting up straight, I grab for the arm of the couch while my head spins. Wait for it to clear.
Inhale healing. Exhale pain.
“Are you ready?”
“Not even a little bit.”
She chuckles like I was joking, offers me a hand to my feet, and uses the other to push a button on the little black box at her waist. “Artist Two is on the move,” she says into the microphone of her headset.
Another voice crackles, “Roger. You have five minutes until cue.”
It’s time.
I let her lead me out of my cave. My security wall—four guys personally selected by Merv, each big enough to have to maneuver through standard doorways—appear around us as we step out of the dressing room and into the fluorescent maze of the cement hallways, wide enough to drive golf carts, ceilings vaulted to allow equipment movers easy passage. I am engulfed by them, steadied by their presence. Even if he’s waiting, they won’t let him near me. I squeeze my hands so hard, my nails—grown out so I can pick guitar strings, just like Crash—almost pierce my palms.
I go rigid when a roar, a tidal wave of demand, beats at the
foundations of the arena around us.
Then the answering pulse begins, Tommy on the drums. The heartbeat of this life.
The beast stamps its feet in time, howls when Crash croons to it, the gravel of his voice soars, grinding through my skin and bone to the heart underneath.
I stumble. Oh, Crash, why did they do this to us?
“Don’t worry,” one side of the wall says, patting my shoulder with a palm the size of a Christmas ham. He has a kind smile. “They can’t wait to see you.”
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
“Kelly! Kelly!”
I freeze, but it’s just Holly. The security guys were all given pictures of her, so they let her through when she shoves between the two to my right and throws herself at me in a rib-cracking hug before she pulls back and puts me at arm’s length, her eyes wide and wet.
“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry! The traffic in the city, everyone was coming here. And security took over an hour to let me through, and—”
“Kelly?” The PA who was shadowing us steps up to my side, her lips thin. “We really do have only a short time.”
“You have time to let me wish my niece good luck!” Holly barks.
I cough and wish Merv was here. He’d like Holly.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, I’m afraid we don’t. If Kelly would like you to, you can walk with us. But we have to move. Now.”
Holly’s face is thunderous. Her hands to go to her hips as the PA talks. I touch her arm. “It’s my fault,” I say.
“Of course not—”
“No, it really is. My nerves got the best of me. I didn’t go to the greenroom or anything. I made them let me stay in my dressing room. Now we only have enough time to walk. So, will you walk with me?”
She glances at the PA skeptically—knows I’m capable of taking the blame to keep the peace. But she must decide to believe me because she loops her arm in mine and smiles as we walk.
