I dashed through the backstage exit into the parking lot. I ignored the goose bumps that instantly shot across my sweaty skin. I wove in and out between rows of cars, stamping down snow with my combat boots, and stopped in the middle of the lot, craning my neck every which way in search of her.
“Emily …“ My dad appeared behind me and threw his leather coat over my bare shoulders. I was in a black spaghetti-strap dress and fishnets in zero-degree cold.
“Did you see her?” I asked, still staring around desperately.
“Who?”
“Louisa. She was, like, ten rows back, dead center. Then, she disappeared.”
“Emily …“ His chocolate eyes were shot through with concern.
My face crumpled. “I’m not crazy, Dad, I swear.”
He pulled the coat tighter around my body. “You’re not crazy for thinking songs like that would lead her back here. That’s the kind of music she loved. We can go inside and look if you want,” he suggested, but I saw the skepticism behind the gentle smile.
“No. The stage lights, they mess with my vision sometimes. And I don’t even know why I thought of her.” I shrugged off the coat, rejecting comfort like I always did when I felt like a fool. “I didn’t write those songs for her. My music’s not about her at all.”
I’m sure he saw straight through that lie, but he went along with it. “Okay, then,” he said. “Let’s go get a good spot for July Lies.”
THREAT
Rock ’n’ roll trumped love in my world. Sophomore year I’d decided guys were a distraction I couldn’t afford if I wanted to make it as a musician. I still felt the same way by high school graduation. (Yes, I graduated high school. Tempted as I was to drop out and get my GED like Tom had, my dad would have killed me.) I remained down on relationships despite being in a band with a couple.
Fortunately, Regan and Tom didn’t gross me out with constant PDAs. In fact, Regan held out on sleeping with Tom for over a year because she, of all people, had some sappy notion about being in “true love” this time. Of course, when she made the mistake of confessing that to me, I teased them both relentlessly.
Out of nowhere, I’d ask, “So, have you slept together yet? You know, Tom, Regan responds pretty well to ‘put out or get out.’”
Karma bit me in the ass one sunny June afternoon a couple weeks after graduation. I showed up early for rehearsal and walked in on them in Regan’s basement. I screamed and turned my back, stammering, “I’m going outside for a cigarette.”
Tom joined me a few minutes later, a giant grin on his flushed face. He sheepishly apologized. “Sorry about that. She was practicing when I came over. She’s the most beautiful thing on earth when she’s drumming. That’s how musicians fall in love, watching each other play.” He’d gotten disgustingly gooey-eyed as he spoke, but then he smirked and tousled my hair like a big brother instead of little Tom Fawcett who I had let in the band so my best friend could hook up with him. “You’ll see, it’ll happen to you one day.”
“Gag me, Tom.” I swatted his hand away. “And I don’t have any plans to fall in love. I don’t even plan to have sex again until we’re rich and famous. Then, maybe the occasional cabana boy or Calvin Klein model.”
A month later, Johnny Thompson waltzed into my life. Our bizarre courtship began with a She Laughs show at River’s Edge two weeks after my eighteenth birthday.
The performance Johnny witnessed was nothing special. We played as hard as we always did. When I got onstage, the passion for music that my father had instilled in me since birth rose up from my gut like a tornado. The first notes we hit summoned pure energy from the crowd like great gales of wind. And it just kept building and building. By the end, I was nothing but throat and fingers, voice and guitar, a wave of sound. And then I wanted to be in the audience. The jostling, bruising, hot sweat of colliding bodies was part of the experience for me, the culmination of everything I loved about rock ’n’ roll. Well, that’s the beautiful, visionary version of it; the bottom line is that I was impulsive.
I didn’t stage-dive at every show; in fact, I hadn’t for quite a few before that one in July, but that night the vibe was just right. I slung my guitar aside and leapt into the audience of sweaty-faced kids and twentysomethings. They were a rainbow of hair colors, a collage of grins, bare arms covered with tattoos or bracelets, and Tshirts that blared names of assorted bands, including mine. Hands lifted and tossed me, fingers wrapped around my legs and arms, and then released as the current took me elsewhere. I found out later that Johnny had been one of the many whose fingers had pressed against my biceps, ankle, even brushed my thigh, but I certainly wasn’t aware of him at the time.
When I ended up near the left side of the stage, I felt Tom’s hand close around my wrist to haul me back up. My leaps always freaked the hell out of him. I tilted my head, trying to look up at him, but the stage lights blinded me. I grinned maniacally and yanked my arm out of his grasp, letting the crowd pass me toward the center. Then I kicked my legs out, forcing them to set me down, and shoved my way to the front like I had as an audience member.
Regan met me there and helped me onstage. Her fuchsia hair was sweat-plastered against her head, her high cheekbones driven even higher by her huge smirk. Unlike Tom, Regan didn’t panic; she understood and fed off my adrenaline rush. However, after she fished me out of the crowd, her smile faltered, and she gestured wildly at her neck.
I sat back on my heels to catch my breath and ran my hand across my neck, asking, though it wasn’t even audible to me over the ringing feedback from my guitar and the crowd’s screams, “Am I bleeding?”
Regan shook her head adamantly, slapping a spot slightly lower, just above her chest. I didn’t get it until she mouthed, “Necklace.”
I looked down, genuinely alarmed, and saw that the oval locket and red guitar pick that I always wore on a metal ball chain around my neck were gone. I got up quickly, nearly twisting my ankle in the process. The heel on my left shoe was broken and my right shoe missing. I staggered over to the mic while Tom unplugged my guitar to reduce the noise level. I blinked at the audience—all open mouths and raised hands—trying not to let the situation faze me. I pulled off my left heel and displayed it. “Okay, guys, you can keep the shoe. I really liked it because it came with the dress, it’s vintage, it’s got this cool beadwork, but whatever, keep it. But I want my necklace back. That necklace means a lot to me. Please toss it up here.”
I stared out at the crowd, unable to make out individuals beyond the first few rows of people. I knew that they’d reacted as to be expected; in fact, at any other place I probably would have gotten my clothes ripped off or worse. Losing the necklace was entirely my own fault, but I still wanted it back.
I decided to test the pull I had over them. “I asked nicely, but now I’m telling you, if I don’t get the goddamn necklace back, we will never play here again.”
Five seconds later, it landed just a foot in front of me, locket and pick still miraculously attached to the chain. As I bent over to retrieve it, my right shoe landed in front of Tom. He brought it over, shaking his head in awe.
I returned to the microphone, necklace clenched tightly in hand, and gave the audience a little curtsy. “Thank you! We’ll see you in a couple weeks,” I told them, and headed offstage. It took all the grace I possessed to pull off that exit.
I sat on the couch backstage in silent amazement, just turning the necklace over and over in my hands until Tom ducked in to say that he was leaving. He had this weird reverse stage-fright thing where he got incredibly nervous after the show and had to get out of there. He always loaded up the equipment and volunteered to drive it back to Regan’s. He’d even done it before he could legally drive.
His departure snapped me out of my stupor and got me thinking about music again. “You don’t want to stick around?” I asked, opening my guitar case. “Work on some new songs?”
I always asked, but he always shook his head, allowing a slight smile to flir
t with his otherwise anxious expression. “Emily, I never stay. You start the songs. We’ll work on ’em tomorrow when we rehearse.”
Regan and I had created a tradition of staying after every show, waiting around for our friends and fans to finish their beers and conversations and trickle out of River’s Edge. When it emptied, we remained backstage or reemerged onto the stage, sitting at the very edge of it. And we wrote. Well, mostly I wrote. Regan usually chain-smoked and listened. Occasionally, when I came close to perfecting a song or stumbled upon a tune that she liked so much she couldn’t resist, she pulled out her drumsticks and beat out a rhythm on whatever surface was in front of her. I never had to write down the chord progressions, I just played until my fingers had them memorized. Lyrics I recorded in a notebook that I carried with me at all times.
This process could go on all night and often did. Typically around the time she ran out of cigarettes, Regan would murmur, “I’m gonna go.”
Sometimes I went with her, but mostly I stayed, not leaving until the sun rose the next morning, shining through the crack beneath the side door. Every once in a while, I’d wake up late the next afternoon to Tom’s or Regan’s gentle prodding, having fallen asleep in a little ball at one end of the couch, my guitar, notebook, and an overflowing ashtray on the floor beside me.
I always brought clothes to change into after the show and was just lifting the ends of my hair out of the neck of my T-shirt when Johnny sauntered backstage. Regan warned, “Em, there’s a guy …”
But before she could finish, Johnny tapped me on the shoulder. “Hey, Emily Black. Is that your real name?” he demanded without even introducing himself.
I whirled around, my face a mask of irritation. He towered over me a good six inches. His spiked hair—bleached but streaked with a brilliant red—had wilted from the heat of being in the crowd. It hung in hair-sprayed chunks like daggers pointing down at his glittering, gray eyes. I would be lying if I said I didn’t notice those eyes or the way his sweaty T-shirt clung to his thin but well-defined torso, and his jeans hung low on his bony hips. I noticed, but that didn’t mean I was going to do anything about it. I hadn’t done more than notice for years.
“I thought everybody had cleared out of here.” I looked over his shoulder at Regan, who glared at the back of his head from her usual chair.
“Me, too,” she answered icily, irritated as I was by the intrusion.
Johnny didn’t pick up on our cold reception. “I was outside talking to your bassist. I’m Johnny and I’m from Chicago. I thought I could set up some shows down there for you.”
“Tom? I thought he left.” My eyes stayed fixed on Regan’s.
Johnny shook his head, the sparkle of his metallic irises pulling my gaze to his face. “Is it your real name?” he insisted.
“Yeah, it’s my goddamn name.” I snagged the lit cigarette that dangled from Johnny’s hand and inhaled from it, claiming it as my own.
Johnny’s lips curled upward as he laughed. “Whoa, didn’t mean to piss you off. I just thought it sounded cool, the kind of name that’s asking to be famous.”
Regan and I exchanged a glance. Both of us had him pegged as a sleazy promoter trying to pass himself off as a scenester. There’d been a few of those showing up lately, all of them unsuccessfully trying to work their way into their pitch by hitting on me. Regan and I tormented them ruthlessly until they ran off with their tails between their legs. We didn’t like people who thought they could take advantage of us just because we were girls.
“If I get famous, it won’t be because of my name. No one ever needs to know my name, just the band’s.” I tapped the cigarette precisely so that ash landed on Johnny’s black canvas sneaker. He didn’t flinch, which admittedly impressed me a little bit.
I’d given him the perfect opening to state exactly what he could do to get She Laughs’ name known, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he snatched the cigarette back. “I know. That’s how I feel about my band, too.”
“That’s a new one,” Regan jeered, the cracked vinyl on her seat squeaking as she pulled her bare feet up on to it. “None of the other promoters pretended to have their own band.”
Johnny pivoted to face Regan and mirrored her cold stare. “I’m not a promoter. This is my band. We’re playing a show in Chicago next weekend. That’s what I was talking to Tom about.” He withdrew a flyer from the pocket of his torn jeans and offered it to Regan. She refused, so he handed it to me.
I inspected it, repressing laughter. “My Gorgeous Letdown?”
“My first girlfriend broke up with me in a letter. That’s how she addressed it.”
“So you named your band after it?” I asked incredulously as Regan snickered.
“Well, where the hell did you get She Laughs?” Johnny took an angry drag from his smoke.
“Regan’s mom came up with it. After I punched a guy who laughed at me when I said I was in a band.” I seized his cigarette again. Johnny snatched my wrist before I could inhale from it. I tilted it back in an attempt to burn his hand. He quickly recoiled. “You should call your band the Arrogant Bastards,” I said with a smirk.
“Why? Because I came back here and tried to talk to you? You played a good show. That’s all I wanted to say. Just because you’re the queen of some backwoods scene … Whatever.” His scowl exaggerated the sharpness of his cheekbones.
I grabbed his elbow before he could storm off. “Excuse me? If this is such a nothing scene, then why the hell are you here?”
Johnny wrenched out of my grip. “Because I heard you were good. And you are. So I thought you’d be a fun band to play with. Your bassist seemed into doing a show with us, but he said—”
“We’re not opening for your stupid band just because you’re from Chicago. We’re not a bunch of hicks starved for the big-city lights.” I expertly flicked the cigarette just to the left of Johnny into the can next to Regan’s chair.
“Christ, how’d you get so cynical?” Johnny flung his hands up in exasperation.
I narrowed my eyes. “Because up until three years ago I was involved with a lot of guys like you.”
“Guys like me? What does that mean? I’m sorry. I mistook you for a girl band with talent, not another one of those psycho anti-male bands—”
“We’re not a fucking ‘girl band’! We’re just a band. And we can book our own gigs, thank you very much! We would never open for your horrendously named band,” I fumed. The “girl” thing always got me riled. As if having ovaries had any impact on musicianship.
Johnny was equally pissed. He screwed up his face like a petulant child and retorted, “I wasn’t going to ask you to open for my band. We would open for you!”
At that I collapsed onto the couch in a fit of giggles. It was almost as good as one of the guys I’d hooked up with in the past coming back and begging to open for She Laughs.
“What?” Johnny raged, his fair skin flushing almost violet.
“I’m sorry.” I took a deep breath to calm myself and wiped tears of hysteria from my eyes. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
Johnny blinked uncertainly. “Okay …”
I turned to Regan, who had her arms wrapped around her knees, chin balanced on top of them, watching the exchange with mild amusement. “How about it, Regan? Should we let Johnny and the Gorgeous Letdowns open for us in Chicago?”
“We should hear a tape first,” she said.
I cocked an eyebrow and swung my gaze in Johnny’s direction. He coolly tapped another cigarette out of his pack, clearly trying to decide if we were messing with him. He lit the smoke and snapped his Zippo shut. He stared directly at me and exhaled. “Fine, I’ve got a tape in my car. Come listen to it.”
Regan stretched her arms overhead, yawning. “Not tonight, I’m tired.” Her feet thumped to the floor one after the other. “You can leave a copy with us.”
But Johnny’s silver eyes remained locked on mine, daring me.
No. I didn’t do this anymore. I did
n’t flirt with guys like him. I didn’t go anywhere with them.
Then again, this was different. He’d hunted me down instead of the other way around. And, admittedly, I liked the little rush of power that gave me. I found myself saying, “I’ll listen to it now.”
The three of us headed for the parking lot and as Regan hugged me good-bye, she whispered, “If you really want to play with his band, don’t sleep with him.”
My chuckle broke the blissful, late-summer-night silence. “I know that.”
Regan shook her head. She recognized what I didn’t want to admit: the reckless instincts and impulses I’d repressed for almost three years had taken over.
I slid onto the cluttered cloth seat on the passenger’s side of Johnny’s car. My feet crunched Coke cans, empty cigarette packs, and fast-food bags. “Sorry about the mess,” Johnny said with a shrug. “Been living out of my car for a few days. Was up in Madison meeting with a label about putting out our EP. Everyone was talking up She Laughs, so I decided to come down here and check you out.”
It was probably one of the most girly things I’d ever done, and I don’t know why it happened—sudden, inexplicable nervousness?—but I giggled when he said “check you out.”
Bemused, Johnny’s voice softened. “What’s so funny, Emily?”
I didn’t like being caught in a moment of vulnerability. “Just you, the situation. It reminds me of so many other guys,” I remarked flippantly.
He frowned. “I don’t want to remind you of anyone.”
“Well, why don’t you play me your tape? If you’re as good as you say you are, you’ll blow thoughts of anyone else out of my mind, right?”
“Hey, I never claimed to be that good. We’re definitely not better than you.” He leaned toward me, twisting his body between our two seats to rummage in the back for his tape. His T-shirt rode up, revealing a sliver of pale abdomen. He obviously worked out. All the other rock gods had had nicely toned arms, as musicians usually do, but none of them had had abs like that. I bit my lip and forced myself to look away. A tape sitting behind the gearshift caught my eye. I’d never met anyone besides my father with that tape.
I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone Page 9
