In Her Eyes

by Renée J. Lukas

  Before Linda could completely freak out, I got out there, in front of miles of faceless screaming noise, and just when the song needed me, I started to sing. I was on the platform in the back, which was reserved for later in the show. The lighting crew wasn’t aware of my last-minute improvisation, so the spotlight rushed to find me as I came up from the underground entrance. If anything, it made the show more exciting. It made us more memorable than the others that night. The crowd went nuts when the light finally found me.

  I could see Linda’s profile as she paced backstage, so angry she didn’t care if she could be seen, even in glimpses. She was talking to someone, her arms waving like a madwoman’s. I knew she was pissed. She was learning to trust my instincts, but she hated spontaneous changes. She was one of those pragmatic people who needed order in her world, needed her fridge stocked with butter for her morning toast. She was probably one of those people who checked the weather report too.

  Of course, I can’t pretend I made the change because I really thought it would benefit the show. I was completely out of it, struggling to maintain some kind of poise and psych myself into impressing an audience. You have to put on a persona, like the skintight leather pants I wore, no matter how you really feel that day. It takes superhuman skill to act like the whole event is normal and that you’re cool with everyone trying to grab your pants. I’ll admit, though, some nights I loved it. On this night, though, there was a lot of garbage swirling around my brain.

  Luckily, none of it compromised my work on stage. I showed no fear under the lights, no doubts in the precision of my fingers as they worked the guitar; I was sure of every string, every note. Even if my mind was gone, the rest of me was present. I knew very well that you didn’t get chances like this every day. I wasn’t going to let Robin ruin it for me. I’d worked too hard and come too far.

  The bass almost took on a life of its own; I thought my fingers would bleed, keeping up with it. My throat ached as I screamed out the words: “She’s a wild child, she’s gonna break your heart, like me she lives in the night, the night, she lives in the night…” I kept going even after I was supposed to get softer and let the words fade. “The night, the night…livin’ in the night…” My band kept playing, and the audience loved it, probably thinking this was just improvising in a live show.

  But Jerry knew.

  He jammed alongside me, his eyes asking me if I was okay. I kept on. Then I stopped abruptly, nothing like what we’d done in rehearsal. But the guys followed my lead and ended it in a way that worked. I don’t know how they did it. They were always good at anticipating me, though, especially Jerry.

  Heading back to the dressing room, I rolled my head, my neck sticky with sweat. Finally alone at the mirror, I was relieved by the quiet. I was grateful that it was only one song. That was enough. Never stay too long, always make them want more. That’s what Jerry had told me years ago when he heard some famous musician say it. I’d never be that someone who lingered on if I had nothing new to say.

  I changed my clothes and came outside into the bitter Boston air. I blew smoke with my breath as I climbed into the van. I was met with odd stares, and some of the guys didn’t make eye contact with me. I ignored their pitiful silent rebellion and plunked myself down in the back to relax. I closed my eyes to get some rest.

  It was a long while before Jerry said anything to me. “What the hell was that?” He had the smell of fresh smoke on his breath. “You’re lucky it worked. You scared the hell out of me, Drew.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You saw her on TV, didn’t you?” His question startled me.

  “Who?” I could feign ignorance until I found out how much he knew.

  He crossed his arms and smirked knowingly. I hated that smirk.

  “The girl you loved,” he said simply, not judgmentally.

  I put my head down. “She’s not a girl anymore,” I said, almost in a whisper.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Adrienne

  The concert did get us more attention, and not everyone was ready for it. Jerry, who had been desperate for female attention throughout high school, was sleeping at a different address every night, not that I was one to talk. But at least I took a few days off. I kidded him about turning into a big slut, which for him was the ultimate compliment.

  Tony kept collecting video footage that fans posted online. I was becoming a first-class narcissist, checking them out, critiquing how I looked. Somebody got a close-up of this move I did where I let the guitar hang down at my knee for a second. I decided I’d do it again at the next show.

  Linda arranged for us to record in a studio. We still weren’t signed by a record label yet, but it sounded professional, and now whenever we played at different places around town, there was a following of people who knew who we were and who actually bought the CD. We’d become a popular underground band that was still cool because we weren’t too famous yet.

  Some time had passed since the night in the van. I never spoke to Jerry about Robin again, until one morning. One question had been gnawing at me.

  “How did you know?” I finally asked him.

  We were having coffee at one of our favorite local breakfast spots deep in the city, off a brick-lined street. Their cinnamon dough, from which they made most of their baked goods, was worth waiting in line for, even in the occasional blizzard.

  “How did I know what?” Jerry had been too distracted lately with all of his one-night stands.

  “You know, about her.” I glanced around the diner, as if anyone would know what I was talking about anyway.

  “Oh, I saw her on the news,” he said. “The morning of our show.”

  “You watch news?” I was incredulous.

  “Shut up.” He shook his head as he stole my creamer. “It took you, what, forever to tell me what her name was. So when you did, I kind of remembered it. You said it like the Holy Grail.”

  “Fuck off.” I sat back in my seat, eyeing the patrons who had just come in. They seemed offended, as if they thought I was talking to them. Everyone who rushed in from what I’d begun calling the Arctic tundra seemed like frozen fossils in their heavy coats and hats. It was full-on winter, with slushy, dark snow collecting in the gutters and in piles lining the sidewalks.

  “No, I’m serious,” he said, leaning forward. “I remembered her name. I saw her giving an interview, and my first thought was, ‘holy shit.’”

  “Yeah, holy shit.”

  “She’s not gonna mess with your head, is she?” he asked.

  “No more than your voice does.” I’d teased him for years, but I couldn’t tell him the truth without hurting his feelings. His backup vocals sounded more like a dying whale than harmony. Sometimes I’d turn down his mic before a show, and he’d think it was a prank, it never occurring to him that his voice wasn’t very good. It’s amazing the lies we tell ourselves.

  After a pause, I said, “Since we’re being serious, be careful.”

  “Huh?”

  “You don’t want to get a disease.”

  He laughed it off. “C’mon. Sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll, baby!”

  “I’m serious, Jerry. There’s a lot of shit floating around out there.” There was still no cure for AIDS and still barely enough research, thanks to our homophobic government. It was weird how people rarely wanted to use the word in regular conversation. It would be like dropping a bomb on someone. But he knew what I meant.

  “Okay, Mom,” he teased.

  Somebody had to look out for him. It might as well have been me.

  * * *

  A few weeks later, Eye of the Storm was playing at The Oyster Tavern again. Toward the end of the show, I saw familiar dark eyes casing me in the candlelight swaying on the tables. It was Carmen. When I came off the little stage, she rushed through the crowd to meet me. I got ready to hug her, and she slapped me across the face.

  “I’m not just some piece of ass!” she shouted, as people snapped pictures all around.<
br />
  I pushed through the crowd, guiding her outside to our van, a more private place to talk. The whole time she was yelling at me, I kept thinking how gorgeous she was. Of course she was right. I thought we were just hooking up for one night, no strings. But I could see I’d broken her heart. I didn’t want to be that person, like those guys in bands who treat women like shit. It was funny. I was acting like them, though I didn’t see myself as one of them.

  Outside the van, she stared me down. It was clear I wasn’t going to be able to get out of this with any kind of grace or dignity. I probably didn’t deserve to either.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. My rote response to situations like these.

  “You sure are.” Her eyes were black and full, reminding me of a strong coffee I’d had the day before.

  I remembered what she’d said at her apartment. “I thought it was no-strings for you too.”

  “I lied.” She seemed to be fighting back tears.

  I felt like crap. She was pretty, maybe even beautiful. But I hadn’t given her much thought since that night. Maybe I should have. Maybe I was too screwed up to be a good girlfriend to anyone. I wasn’t trying to be either.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I thought you’d at least call within a few months. It wasn’t like I was waiting by my phone.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I would like to go out again. I’ve just been…”

  “Busy, I know. Forget it.” She glanced away, blinking to erase emerging tears.

  The guys in the band, seeing the familiar situation, gave each other sideways glances as they loaded up our instruments in the back of the van. They were fascinated by the women I hooked up with, always surprised that they “played for my team,” as they’d say.

  “I mean it,” I said quietly. “I would like to go out again…” I searched my mind for her name.

  She turned around. “It’s Carmen,” she said with a slight smile, as if she could read my mind.

  “Wait,” I said, leaning against the van. “Tell me your full name.”

  She looked quizzically at me. She didn’t seem to realize that I rarely got to that question.

  “My middle name is Carmen, but I think it’s more exotic than my first name.” She paused. “It’s Jenny. Sounds like a schoolgirl with pigtails. Never call me that. If we go out again, I’ll tell you more.”

  “Got it.” I couldn’t help but smile as I watched her turn and sprint across the street, with the slightest backward glance at me. I was still watching.

  Chapter Twenty

  Adrienne

  Because of the show at The Esplanade, our manager, Linda Sumter, was able to book us in bigger venues. We met with a production company to make a video for “She’s a Trap,” and the excitement among the band was growing steadily every day. We’d be shooting it the next week.

  The shoot didn’t go easily. It felt like Robin, the college girl, was with me the whole time. When Mike, the director, wanted me to slip stockings down my leg, I stopped the whole thing.

  “I’m not doing it,” I said. I felt like telling Robin, who was now hanging out in my conscience, “I get it now.”

  “C’mon,” Mike coaxed, to the agreement of the guys in the band.

  “Hell no!” I placed my hands on my hips. “If all of you are keeping your clothes on, so am I. I’m not rolling around on some bed half-naked to sing this song, so fuck off.”

  There were groans. I was not making it easy. Now they were going to have to work through lunch. Boo hoo. But I didn’t care. I thought of Joan Jett and Patti Smith. I could show sexuality as a singer, but it didn’t have to be all I was.

  We finally came up with a concept everybody could get on board with, one that didn’t involve me as sex kitten. And I got to wear my black leather jacket. So I’d say it went well in the end.

  Fans kept emailing each other videos from our live shows, and Linda assured us that the exposure was most likely the final step in getting a record deal. I could practically see the dollar signs in her eyes.

  * * *

  One morning, as I was fumbling for my coffee, still sleepy, still close to unconsciousness, Ursula grabbed me from behind.

  “Hey.” I turned around, blinking, to get myself awake. “You’re up early.”

  “I heard you in here.” She looked at me as though something was on her mind. “I don’t want you to leave.”

  She caught me off-guard, but I was impressed by her bravery. She certainly had more than I did.

  “Who told you I was leaving?” I asked.

  “Peggy. I overheard you two talking.”

  My mind raced back to a couple of days ago, to an argument I had with my more uptight roommate.

  “That was just…” I stuttered. “She’s never liked me.”

  “I like you.”

  “And that’s not good either.” I leaned against the counter, head down. It was too early to have this conversation. “I mean, I know it’s not easy to live with someone you like.”

  “Oh, get off your high horse,” Ursula said. “I got over that a while ago. I mean I like you as a friend, a roomie.”

  If she was lying, she did a good job. Or it was true.

  “I only told Peggy I wasn’t gonna stay forever.”

  “So you’re leaving,” she said.

  “No, I mean I don’t have a date set or anything. I only said that because she was in my face again, and I wanted her to know that I’d be out of her hair soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “I don’t know.” I resumed fixing my coffee. The truth was, I’d been wanting a place of my own for a while, but the rent in the city was too high to go it alone. “I’m not going anytime soon.”

  This seemed to pacify her for at least the near future.

  “Go back to bed,” I said.

  She turned around, then with a backward glance, gave me a little smile and left.

  Finally, I had a little peace and quiet…until my cell rang.

  “It’s finally happened.” Linda’s voice was full and chirpy, so I almost didn’t recognize it.

  “Huh?”

  “Wake up, shake off the sleep and get down here. You’ve done it!”

  Before I could lambast her for the cryptic message, the phone clicked.

  * * *

  The band and I waited on the beer-stained couch in the small loft where we usually met, at Joey and Marty’s place. We were a frumpy menagerie of wannabes.

  “You’ve got a chance at a record deal,” Linda said breathlessly. She didn’t waste time. I think she wanted to see the full whites of our eyes already. “Shock Box.” She handed me a scribbled note she’d received, no doubt from an executive who was too busy to email or call.

  “Shock Box, the record label?” I had to be sure.

  She nodded, her usually tight mouth brimming on the verge of a full-on smile.

  “You should be aware,” she continued, “they’ve heard the entire CD. They want to release ‘Hot Silk’ first.”

  The guys’ whooping laughs almost, almost, drowned out my scream.

  “Hell no!” My whole body pulsed from deep inside, a place of rage I didn’t know I had.

  “It’s the hit,” Linda said, as if surrendering.

  “No,” I said. “The hit is ‘She’s a Trap.’”

  “It’s not as catchy,” Linda said. “And you know it.”

  This was my nightmare come to life. “Hot Silk” was a tribute to heavy metal, with sort of a fox-trot rhythm and lyrics that were just…we’d been messing around in the run-down garage where we practiced, some of us drinking. The lyrics were not something I’d ever wanted to go public with.

  “I have to change the lyrics,” I said.

  “You can’t.” Linda was unyielding. “Look, I know.”

  “Do you?” My face was red-hot. “It’s about a woman’s vagina!”

  “Hey.” Jerry’s hand was on my shoulder. It felt intrusive all of a sudden. “You’re the one who said to get the power
you have to talk like the guys in power.”

  “That was someone else,” I said absently, unaware that I was unconsciously moving away from the rest of the group on the couch.

  “What’s the big deal?” Marty exclaimed. “It’s like every other song out there! This chick who drives you nuts, and she knows it, and she won’t give it to you. Kinda like you.” His grin did nothing to ease the tension.

  “The point is,” I said, “do we want to put out another one of a million songs like everybody else? The big bands make a name by doing something different.”

  “Being PC won’t put us on the map,” Jerry lamented. “C’mon,” he whined. “We’ll make the next song about a penis.”

  I looked at him with the burning annoyance of a thousand suns. “Shut up.”

  “He’s right.” Linda crossed her arms, in full-on business mode. In that second, she reminded me that she was, at her heart, all about making money. We were a few seconds away from becoming her meal ticket.

  “No,” I said. “I won’t do ‘Hot Silk.’ When’s the meeting?”

  Linda’s grave face returned. “They won’t do the meeting if you don’t agree to release that song as your first single. They’re set in stone on this.”

  “You’re kidding.” My whole body pulsed. Damn you, Robin. But deep down I knew she’d been right. I wasn’t going to contribute to the sea of pop culture misogyny. At my core, I knew the truth about how I felt. When I finally made it, I wanted to make it as an artist I was proud of, not someone I couldn’t look at in the mirror.

  Jerry was practically kneeling in front of me. I could feel his desperation. “Look, Drew, I totally admire your…feminism. But think of it this way. We use the song to get ourselves on the map. Then we get our other songs out there and turn ‘Hot Silk’ into an anti-sexism anthem.”

  “There’s no way to turn that into anti-sexist anything.” I covered my face with my hands, moaning painfully. Why did my one shot at success have to be some major moral dilemma? Why couldn’t it have just been a normal contract, if such a thing existed, and a reason for all of us to go out and celebrate? I’d always wanted to be friends with the other guys in the band, and it had seemed as if I was, as if my gender was never an issue—until it was. In their world, things like this never come up. They never have to consider what it would feel like to be degraded to sell a record. Or if they are degraded in some way, they pretend they like it, because gee, all guys want sex, right? This was going to be a no-win situation for me. In that split-second, I knew I needed to make them understand. But I could feel the hostility aimed at me, even from Linda, and I knew they weren’t going to understand, at least not now. “I want to make it as much as anyone, but I can’t do it. I can’t.” I got up, slung my jacket over my shoulder and stormed out.