by Patty Blount
My God, when did these networks develop their own personalities? Facebook’s all about starting arguments, Twitter’s worse than that stupid judge show on Etta’s TV, and the Beat was like subjecting yourself to a public evisceration. Everybody on all these social sites seemed more into picking fights, or worse, finding things to take offense to and then punishing you for offending them. People posted hate and threats and any damn thing they wanted and called them facts and then got indignant if you dared to disagree. And yet, Etta, my seventy-something-year-old grandmother, had accounts on networks even I didn’t use.
I pressed both hands to my stomach where I was pretty sure I was developing an Internet-related ulcer.
Judgy. Everybody was so freakin’ judgy.
Your lyrics are so sexist.
My own voice echoed deep in my brain. Okay. Yeah. I admit it. I’d never have given Elijah Hamilton a chance if I’d known he was FretGuy99 from the Beat. And if I hadn’t given him that chance, I’d never have gotten to sing in a band, never have met Anna, and never have gotten to discover the incredibly big heart Elijah had under his rock god image. I have two brothers and was certain neither of them loved me with that I’d die for her depth like Elijah loved Anna.
My chest panged when I thought of him. A dozen times, I wanted to text him, to call him. I deleted those messages unsent. I could still see his face the moment all hell broke loose. He’d hated me in that moment. He obviously realized it was my fault all those people had been there, my fault Anna had been in danger. Every time I thought about the ice-cold hatred in his eyes, my skin crawled in goose pimples.
It was only a few days until the county festival concert.
I couldn’t go. Not now.
I rolled over, gave my pillow a punch, and willed myself to stop thinking about him.
Instead, I dreamed of crowds and strangers and stalkers and boys with intense eyes drilling me with laser-focused glares. When I woke up the next morning, my stomach pitched and rolled, and just the sight of food turned me green. I knew I had to face Elijah and try to apologize for what I’d done.
But I was a coward.
I wasn’t like Etta, who could command any room she entered, no matter how she was feeling inside.
No.
No, that wasn’t true.
I couldn’t bear seeing him look at me like that again.
Did he actually believe I set up that park mob scene? He knew me. We’d hung out for weeks. He’d consoled me when Etta was first admitted. My God, I’d slept in his bed. How could he believe I was this monster who would knowingly, purposely post the whereabouts of his disabled sister so many Internet trolls delighted in making fun of?
I was the one who begged to pull the plug on the whole hashtag war. I wouldn’t do this for publicity. And yet, he hadn’t called, texted, or even tweeted me since. So yeah. I was pretty sure he hated me.
Tears dripped onto my pillow, and I forced myself out of bed.
I wouldn’t do it. I would not sing in this show. Even if the entire conservatory admissions review board promised to attend, I just couldn’t do it.
It would utterly destroy me to see that look again.
The alarm on my phone chimed, and I dragged myself out of bed to get dressed and do something with this day. It hit me then, a solid kick to the solar plexus, that I wasn’t me anymore. I was a thumbs-up, a star, a share, a comment.
I was clickbait.
I was something only because they said I was, and I could be nothing as soon as they decided that’s what I should be. Air backed up in my lungs, and the only thought in my head was Etta. Was this what it felt like for her? Trapped and suffocating under the inability to be who you are?
Or were.
God! I wrapped both arms around my middle and rocked, breath rasping through my parted lips halfway between gasp and sob. Enough. I wanted to go to the mall with Rachel and not have seventy-five strangers shout at me to scream for them. I wanted to perform the kind of music I enjoyed, write songs I liked, and produce shows I liked—not what a thousand faceless, self-proclaimed experts liked.
I leaped out of my bed, lunged for my laptop, and logged in to the Beat. I stared at the number of fans I had now, the number of comments, the number of shares, and for the first time since I’d joined the site, my stomach kinked in disgust. I opened my email app and sent Elijah a message.
I’m sorry.
Then I removed all of my accounts because I was the biggest coward to ever live. I ran to the bathroom, fell to my knees in front of the toilet, and decided this was the price you had to pay for fame.
25
Elijah
RAWR!
A BLOG BY WOMEN FOR WOMEN AND THE MEN WHO RESPECT THEM.
If you haven’t been living under a rock and have Internet access, there’s no way you haven’t heard about the drama that unfolded at a Long Island playground earlier this week. Sources confirm that the hard rock band Ride Out may be on the verge of breaking up before they’ve even broken out. After lead singers Elijah Hamilton and Kristen Cartwright were surrounded by an unruly mob that resulted in an arrest for Hamilton on charges of assault, Cartwright’s entire social media presence was deleted. Hamilton, shown in cell phone video attacking a fan, is allegedly so incensed by this tweet posted by Cartwright on the day of the assault, he kicked her out of the band and refuses to take her calls. With the band headlining at the Suffolk Festival on Friday, the county hotline has been fielding phone calls by the dozen but still cannot confirm that Cartwright will take the stage.
@kristencartwright
Guys, no more #KrisVsEli. Just enjoying a perfect summer day at the playground with @elijahhamilton and his sister.
“I respect her musical talent,” Hamilton has been quoted repeatedly as saying after criticism of this earlier tweet spread: “Wanna hear her scream. #CatCall” The band’s blatant sexualized lyrics have kept them off the playlists at local high schools, but the viral popularity of the #KrisVsEli hashtag catapulted the group to home town fame. The band, formed four years ago when Hamilton and his friends met in eighth grade, only perpetuates the misogyny found throughout the hard rock genre, and Cartwright, blinded by promises of fame, turns an indifferent eye to it, defending Hamilton’s brazen sexism, claiming, “It’s all just an act.” This blogger wonders why Cartwright wastes her considerable talents on a band that so clearly does not respect her, evident every time she sings, when the only thing Hamilton looks at it is her Barbie doll-proportioned chest.
Whether fact or fiction, the one thing we do know is the #KrisVsEli battle is now apparently very real, after Cartwright’s tweet apparently attracted a mob that swarmed the pair during a playground outing with Hamilton’s disabled sister. Witnesses claim several fans became unruly when Hamilton refused them autographs, which triggered a violent outburst from his sister. In the resulting chaos, Hamilton, his sister, and Cartwright became separated. Police found and returned thirteen-year-old Anna Hamilton, who suffers from profound autism as well as a genetic defect, to her parents’ custody, who immediately enrolled her in a residence program. Cartwright and Hamilton have had no contact since that day. Does Hamilton blame Cartwright for what happened or did Cartwright finally see Hamilton for the sexist cliché he really is?
One thing’s clear…whether you’re a Ride Out fan or not, #KrisVsEli is dead, and we say, good riddance.
I stared at the screen in front of me, seeing the proof in vivid color but still not believing it.
“Eli. We should practice.”
She knew me. She wouldn’t do this. She fucking knew me, knew that I adored her singing voice, knew that I respected her, and knew I was fucking terrified of losing Anna.
But none of that changed a thing. She had done it.
I tapped the screen again and again, checking the Beat, Twitter, and Facebook, counting up all the fans and followers and likes and favo
rites. For so long, this was all that mattered to me.
“Elijah. Come on. Let’s jam.”
I logged in as myself this time, cycled through all the sites again, checking my friends lists.
Kristen had cut me off.
Deleted.
Gone with nothing more than a text.
I tossed my tablet to the table and dragged both hands through my hair, trying to ignore the searing pain of betrayal that sliced through my chest. How could she do this—now, so soon before the biggest gig of our existence?
I whipped my phone out of my pocket and texted her, but the phone remained stubbornly silent for minute after minute after minute after—
“Eli.”
Nick’s hand on my shoulder made me jerk in surprise. I looked up and saw Nick, Leah, and Sam staring at me. I’d forgotten they were there. “Guys. How—” I couldn’t even say it. It was hard enough to think it. I surged to my feet. “I’m going over there.”
“No.” Nick’s hand on my shoulder tightened. “You want to make everything worse? She’s scared, Elijah. This online shit? It’s not a game.”
I laughed once. “Oh, she’s scared. It wasn’t her sister that a crowd terrified, was it? You don’t see me deleting all my accounts because of it. I put the band first in everything.” Maybe that was the reason for Kristen’s sudden social withdrawal? Was she pissed off because I put the band ahead of her? I sank back to the stool and hung my head. I couldn’t make my mind accept it.
Kristen abandoned us. Quitting the band was one thing. But after that kiss, I never expected her to turn away from me. “That fucking Rawr chick and her fucking blog! This is her fault. Calling me names, judging me, calling me out on shit that’s all speculation and fiction. So I have a rep. Fuck, yeah, I do. So what? How could she think—” I broke off, shaking my head. Kristen should know who I am by now. Better than anyone else. I never hid from her. I let her in and—I clenched my teeth together when the absurd irony struck me between the eyes. I should have followed the advice in my own song lyrics and not let anyone in. I thought I mattered. Just a little. I thought we were friends. I thought—fuck me, it doesn’t matter what I thought. “She ghosted me, guys. I…I thought she knew me. But she…she ghosted me. This is bullshit.”
“Yeah,” Nick agreed quietly. “It is. But, Elijah, the show is this weekend, and we have to do it. With or without her.”
He was right.
Black rage rose in me like a tsunami, and I wanted to jump up and smash every piece of equipment in my garage, every picture, every video, every fucking musical note that reminded me of Kristen. Fists clenched, I stood, shaking with the effort to control that urge until it passed. After a long moment, I slowly exhaled and managed to choke out, “Let’s jam.”
Leah moved to a stool near our soundboard. Nick and Sam took their places while I set up the camera. Nick counted us in, and before we played the first note, I cut them off when a new whim struck. “Hold up, guys. I want to play this.” I grabbed my notebook from the table against the wall and showed it to Sam.
“Hey, isn’t this Kristen’s song?” He handed the book to Nick.
“Not anymore. Now it’s ours.”
“Eli, I—” Nick shook his head.
“You in or out?” I cut in.
They exchanged another look and finally nodded. “Okay. You play it first solo. We’ll chime in when we get the feel.” Nick picked up his sticks.
I nodded and shut my eyes. I wouldn’t be singing the original lyrics, the ones I’d written with Kristen. Oh, no, no, no. The song was mine now.
All mine.
I grabbed my bass, jacked in, and waited for my cue, the words clogging my throat while I searched for substitutions that tasted as sour and foul as Kristen’s desertion.
It can’t get worse; this is the way it hurts.
It can’t get worse; this is the way it hurts.
Don’t know how it all went wrong,
Thought what we had was so damn strong.
I showed you my heart, tore down my defenses,
They said I’m a jerk, said I’m offensive.
I braced for more pain, feeling like I was picking at scabs instead of strumming strings. Through a clenched jaw, I shoved out the next line with a bone-deep metal scream.
And you just turned away.
Fists clenched, I let the sound echo through me, afraid I’d explode if I didn’t get the words out. Every last one. I attacked the chorus with a murderous aggression, but it didn’t help release any of the tension that kept building inside me.
What can I say?
What can I do?
Everything I am means nothing much to you.
It can’t get worse; this is the way it hurts.
I got nothing but my name,
Nothing but my songs,
Feelin’ so much pain, but the words still come out wrong.
It can’t get worse; this is the way it hurts.
You called me your friend, said you were sure,
Can’t believe I was that insecure.
I fell fast and fell so hard,
I was yours, now I’m just scars.
I repeated the chorus, powering through the final notes, only dimly aware of Nick’s drums and Sam’s guitar behind me. When it was done, I paced the garage, sweat running down my face and panting like I’d run a marathon. A throat cleared behind me, and I looked over my shoulder to find my dad standing in the door to the kitchen, dressed in pajama pants and a T-shirt. He applauded slowly. “Wow. That was…uh…pretty intense.”
You really don’t know.
“Hey, Mr. Hamilton.”
“Nick. Sam. You guys sound really great. All ready for the big show?”
“Yes, sir.”
Nick took Leah’s hand. “Mr. Hamilton, this is my girlfriend, Leah.”
“Hi, Leah.” Dad nodded with one of those tight-lipped smiles and scratched his neck. “Uh, so I was just passing by and wondered if you guys worked up a thirst? I got ice tea for you inside.” He jerked a thumb toward the kitchen, then disappeared back inside when everyone accepted politely.
Sam took his guitar and propped it in a stand. “Hey,” he turned and called back to me from the door. “You coming?”
I nodded. “Yeah, in a second.” I lifted the bass off my shoulder and killed the camera. I glanced at my phone, sitting on the table where it had landed… It was still dark, a mocking fuck you. I joined everybody at the kitchen table, tall glasses of iced tea gripped in their hands. I took the last glass and chugged it. When I put the glass down, all three were staring at me.
“What?”
Nick shook his head. “It…feels weird. Not having Anna come out to no, no, no with us.”
Another knife slashed through my gut.
“Hell, it’s weird being able to jam when your parents are here,” Sam added, shaking hair off his face.
“Yeah. Weird,” I managed to agree.
“I keep waiting for them to come out and shush us.”
I stared at my empty glass and watched the ice melt, wishing I could just evaporate along with it.
“How’s it going, Eli?” Sam asked, jerking his chin toward the family room, where the TV played in the background. “Your parents getting along?”
I shook my head. “The house is empty. There’s like…nothing to do.” There was no way they could possibly know. But they both nodded like they did.
“That’s good, though, right? Anna’s safe, and your parents maybe won’t keep fighting so much?”
I shrugged again. I wasn’t hopeful. “Maybe.” Sam was right, though. They were different. Not happier. Never that. But lighter somehow.
So was I, and that fucking pissed me off.
“Have you seen her since…”
I twisted the glass on the table, the screech it
made sending a chill down my back. “Yeah. I visit her every day.”
Nick drummed the table. “Yeah? Is she okay?”
Okay. What a bullshit word that was. People ask how you’re doing, and you automatically say okay. Yeah, I’m adequate, well enough, tolerable, thanks so much for asking. Didn’t anybody see how shooting for just okay was totally lowering the bar? A cop-out? A cheat? Okay is not the same thing as being good, excellent, or awesome. It’s not even close. So why did I have to be okay because Anna was okay in her new home? Because, a tiny traitorous part of me forced me to admit, she was okay. I wanted to crack my skull apart and perform a self-lobotomy to remove that part.
“Fine.” Yet another bullshit word. “She hasn’t had any violent episodes since she got there. She sits and rocks. Maybe that means she’s scared. Or maybe it means she’s better than fine. I have no fucking idea.”
“It hasn’t been long, Elijah. She’ll settle in.”
I shook my head. “She shouldn’t have to. I hate this, Sam. I hate it that we locked her up.”
“I know, man. But at least the trolls online can’t get at her now.”
There was that. I nodded, appreciating the silver lining—even if it was just a cheap imitation.
I gulped down the last of my ice tea and then stared at Leah. “You’re her friend. What the hell is up with her?”
Leah’s eyes popped wide, and then she shook her head. She laughed halfheartedly and admitted with a tight expression, “Kristen and I have never been friends.”
Oh.
“How come?”
Leah squirmed. “I don’t know. It’s not that I don’t like her or anything… I mean, she’s never done anything mean to me. Too competitive, I guess. We’ve been sharing the same stage since we were six years old, and it’s just not big enough.”
“Do you think I’m sexist?”
Next to Leah, Nick jerked like someone just stuck him with a knife. “Eli—”
“No, I need to know.”
Leah shifted, hunched some more, drained her glass, and finally shrugged. “I don’t know, Elijah. I don’t know you well enough to tell. For what it’s worth, I can tell you this: you guys have no idea what it’s like for girls, always being scared.”
