Seven Minutes 'til Midnight

by Sunniva Dee

  I let out a huffed chuckle. “If you could see your eyes sometimes. They promised me torture and death if I tried to contact you again.” The joke doesn’t work. My voice cracks because I’m lying. She didn’t look like she wanted to kill me. She looked like she couldn’t bear to leave me.

  Her breathing speeds up, like she’s about to start crying. I don’t like that for her. No crying. Not again, because of me. “Please, Aishe. Can we at least clear the air about what backfired? Was it the video?”

  “Yes! The video backfired on me.” She chokes it out. Withdraws to clench the handlebars of her elliptical. The pedals rock back and forth like miniature swings under her feet.

  “It backfired on all of us.”

  “But for me, it was different.” She lets out a slow breath. “Never mind.”

  I can’t force her to do anything. There will be no more coercing of Aishe, no more seduction, not from anyone if I can help it. But in my mind, I wish for the words she doesn’t say.

  I let air out of my lungs like I’ve been holding it on purpose. With a side glance, she watches my chest deflate. One last stroke of her arm, before I return to the stationary and climb on. I direct my attention to the muted TV even as the rest of my senses remain on her.

  “I feel so fucking powerless,” I breathe. “All I can do is watch you suffer.”

  “Should have thought of that before you begged me to come on tour again.”

  “No, I’m glad you’re here. That’s not even it.”

  She swallows her pain. Aishe is some genuine, scorching divergent, someone special, and here I am, the one who fucked. Her. Over.

  “Aishe.” I try to say her name without emotion.

  “What?” She removes the remnant of the sob from her voice.

  “Have you been with anyone since you were with me?”

  The room stills, the fan above us non-existent, the television stuck on black commercial. My heart is cannon fire, its echo resonating in my head.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I need to know.”

  “Jealous?” she spits, and I say—

  “No.”

  She looks at me with irises as boundless as her soul. They’re my church, the altar where I’d crumble and bow my head so far it’d hit tile to erase my sin.

  “I want it for you.” I clear my throat when the words don’t come all the way out. She hears them anyway, and she looks at me fully in a way she hasn’t since the video that changed nothing at all.

  “You want me to have slept with a bunch of guys?”

  I shake my head slowly, my mouth wanting to shape silent approval of anything she’s ever done.

  She blinks then, and a fat tear sprouts between her lashes. It squirms over the rim of her eye, and I follow its path until it flattens to dampness on her cheek.

  The quiver in her voice belies her words when she says, “Meh. I haven’t felt like it.”

  AISHE

  We eat Coldstone. It’s the best ice cream in the entire world. My favorite is cookie dough with chocolate fudge and walnuts, and in an exuberant mood, I’ll toss in some caramel sauce. Today isn’t a caramel sauce day.

  We came here right after the workout, once Troy had dried my tears with his shirt—I made fun of him for that. After all, the gym had complimentary towels.

  It turns out staying under the radar by wearing something outrageous works. Troy is currently hiding under an enormous cowboy hat, and for now, he’s remained incognito. Me, all I have to do is keep my hair wrapped in a gym towel. I also need to stay away from my cherry lipstick. Naked is good, Troy claims.

  “You were going to talk me into the FNL gig,” I tell him as he offers me his boysenberries mixed into licorice-and-vanilla ice cream.

  “I wasn’t going to do anything I didn’t feel like.”

  “No?” I’m feeling flirty. Maybe it’s the walnuts, or maybe it’s the relief of having cried a little. Whatever it is, my towel turban droops as I cock my head to the side.

  “No.” Troy’s eyes shimmer. It’s in bright contrast to his skin as his gaze moves over my face.

  “What do you feel like, then?” Definitely the walnuts talking.

  On an inhale, he tenses, making taut muscle become even tauter on his body. He’s so beautiful. God, I’d love to coax his dreadlocks out of that hat, a result of my walnut-induced state of quasi-delirium too, I’m sure.

  “What I feel like?” He quirks the corner of his lip, teenaged-rebel-like, and it makes me giggle.

  “I feel like making Aishe smile—just like that. Fuck FNL.”

  “Oh you’ll be in so much trouble with Janet.”

  “Fuck Janet too.” He bites his lip impishly, and God is he cute when he’s impish.

  “I can’t,” I say.

  “Aishe, come on. All we need is for you to say yes. FNL writes skits on the fly, and they change them on the fly too. You’ll have influence once we’re there. Most probably, your screen time will be very short, and you’ll be hidden behind the guys.”

  “Let her be,” Troy mutters. “She already said no.”

  Janet is the maddest person I’ve ever seen without exploding. Hands clenching and unclenching like she wants to punch me in the face, she glares between Troy and me. Bo is here too, because this is serious business. Apparently, Nadia said yes to an appearance as long as it was within a predefined framework. Well, my framework would be: let’s reenact what brought me to that video shoot in the first place!

  Just kidding.

  All I know is I want to swear on a daily basis. Also, Troy is the air I breathe and the goddamn devil I want to stomp out like a cigarette under my shoe.

  My thing is I have no actual reason to bow out of this “awe-inspiring” offer. I’ve had people from the crew come by and talk about fifteen minutes of fame over the last few hours too, but you know what? That’s not something I’ve ever been after.

  What I want is peace. And maybe love. Peace and love. Yeah, I know that sounds cliché, but what do I care how it sounds?

  “Bus call,” Troll says, popping his head in the door. His reminders have never been more welcome. “Sprinter van waiting by the elevators on level two of the garage. Flight’s on schedule.”

  “Last chance, Aishe,” Janet clips out, “or I’ll have to turn down an incredible opportunity for the guys. Do they really deserve that?”

  Troy stands abruptly. “That’s enough, Janet. Aishe, let’s get going.”

  “Oh have you cleared the flight with Troll, then, since she doesn’t have a role on the New York trip anymore? As far as I understand, there are no merch sales at the interviews.”

  I accept Troy’s hand and shoot Janet a glare; she’s making me feel self-serving, and I hate that feeling. I want the best for the band. That doesn’t mean I want to play myself in a funny skit. Why can’t she see that?

  “Janet, let’s get a few things straight,” Troy says in a voice that’s deceptively low. “I am Clown Irruption. Troll is not. Who I take with me on a trip is my business, and the only function they need to have is that I want them with me.”

  When he turns his head and lowers his eyes to her face, the amount of contempt I read in them could be crippling on the right person. That person is not Janet.

  “Oh I’m sorry. You’re entitled to your entourage, of course.”

  Entourage!

  I want to smack her in the face. I have never been, and will never be, entourage. I made Clown Irruption a good penny as a merch girl before, and I will again.

  “As far as I understand, the band wouldn’t be filming skits with FNL right now anyway,” I say. “Wouldn’t it just have been a first meeting, a setting of mutual goals, and then the band would be coming back in a few weeks, after Japan?”

  Troy sends me a surprised look, and I curl a smirk at him.

  Ja
net doesn’t have any words right now. She’s trying to formulate them, but they seem to escape her. We reach the elevators, and when her face settles in explanatory folds, ready to jump in for a smack-down, Troy tugs me toward the exit and says, “See you down there, Janet. Aishe and I are taking the stairs. Exercise, ya know.”

  The door shuts behind us in a metallic thud. Unplanned, the sound is exaggerated, in-your-face, and exactly what Janet deserves. I let out a snort, and when Troy joins me, his face smoothening with humor, I burst into laughter.

  He slumps against the door, body slack as he lets go too, and when Troy lets go, it’s in long, deep haw-haws that make me laugh even harder.

  “God. Her face,” I whisper.

  Troy’s gaze glitters with humor. He wipes the corner of an eye, stuttering, “That door!”

  I mimic, Pow! and fold over, protecting my aching stomach muscles.

  Finally, he straightens, fingers tipping into his front pockets. “Ah, well. That was fun.”

  “Seriously.” I feel my grin linger as we start on the steps down to the garage.

  “How did you know the FNL plans anyway?” he asks.

  “Just a guess.” I shrug, enjoying the lightness that comes with a good laugh. “That’s how it worked for Luminessence last year, when they wedged them in mid-season. It makes sense too. I mean, how would they have Clown Irruption skits ready overnight, and especially since you guys haven’t even signed anything yet? That would be a total waste of money and time.”

  “I’m seeing a new side of you, Aishe Xodyar.” Troy holds the door open for me. “Look at you, all logical and practical.”

  “I can be logical and practical,” I say, passing him.

  “Hmm. I know you best as the love-fire hunter.”

  “The Love-Fire Hunter. What a great title for a film,” I say, making light of it so I don’t have to return to my obsessive period. Then, I think of the train wreck of a skit it would’ve been for FNL. Ending with Emil, Troy, and me…

  “I’d only watch it if you were the main attraction. You are the perfect fire hunter. If anyone can get it, it’s you.”

  “That’s a bit morbid, everything considered, don’t you think?”

  “Is your story over yet?”

  I swing to look at him. His voice is teasing, but those eyes are serious.

  An engine roars closer, and our Sprinter van appears from behind the concrete wall.

  “Oh look who’s already in her seat,” I say, smirking.

  “Miss Janet.” Troy gives a wave, and the van slows to a halt. “She conveniently doesn’t see us. Good thing the driver does.”

  TROY

  Our New York trip is like a regular day on tour—if it were jacked up on cocaine, steroids, and crack. We get five hours of sleep and slump into the makeup chairs of our first morning show at four a.m.

  Interview. Sordid questions Bo evades and Emil takes by the horns and answers too candidly for this PG show. We play a tune on one show. Two on another. “Deep in You” is the main song everyone wants, so it’s the one everyone gets.

  Nadia and Zoe show their faces in two of them, with the promise of not having to answer any questions, while we keep Waris and Aishe out of the limelight. Until the FNL meeting.

  Yes, it happens after all. Janet is as high as the day itself, cheeks blooming with excitement and smarminess while she introduces us. This can happen, we’re told. Oh yes, because we won’t be filming until next month. Does that work for us? They’ll pin us in on the twentieth.

  Ignoring Janet, I say, “One of the girls in the video won’t be available, though. Just making sure that’s not a deal breaker.” Our pretty foursome is currently enjoying a private tour of the FNL souvenir shop. It’s the least they could do, the intern told us while not ripping her eyes off Bo.

  “Right, right. Janet informed us of this last night.” I’ve forgotten the suit’s name. Dr. Pepper, maybe. Or Kravitz. He tips a jovial chin up, broadcasting a fresh razor mark under the top fold. “We have ways around that, of course. No worries. It’s not the first time we can’t gather everyone on a team at the same time. We’ll be fine.”

  “What were you thinking, though?” Wide open, Emil is grinning with the possibilities ahead. “Like, a weirdo reenactment of the video or something? This could be so fucking hilarious.”

  “Yes, yes, that could be!” Dr. Pepper tips his head erratically, in a diplomatic display of meh. “The writers are already having a ball with this. How it works is, they first toss out ideas, then they start homing in on what will make the audience laugh the hardest. You know what I’m saying?” He folds thick fingers in his lap and leans forward, starting on that odd head-dance again. It makes me wonder if this is his affirmative after all.

  “He should get that checked out,” I mutter to Elias.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  By the time we’re on our way to the airport, it’s dark again. Selena does her baby snores in Bo’s lap, belly up and diaper slightly askew above the lining of her faux jeans. I turn to study Aishe between Waris and Zoe. The girls are comparing FNL souvenirs. They’ve got bags and bags of that shit—travel mugs with the FNL logo on it, t-shirts, wiggly pens with some sort of feathers on them. Aishe’s eyes are sunnier than I’ve seen them in a long time when she holds up a rubber duck the size of a fist.

  “Look! It’s the one from, ‘Gimme my ducky ba-a-ack!’ Did you see that one?” The quote is said in a cute pout, her tone hitched up to Smurf levels.

  I lower one eyebrow and pair it with an arching of the other. “No idea.”

  “What? But it’s a classic! You know, it’s like, ‘Gimme my ducky ba-a-ack!’” she repeats in the exact same way. Then, she looks at Nadia, who repeats it with her. Next, Zoe chimes in too, laughing.

  “Jesus.” I shoot a they’ve-lost-it-stare at Emil next to me.

  “That last time, though,” Emil says, grinning. “I almost remember it now.”

  “God, we need to find that skit for them,” Aishe chuckles out. “So-o-o funny.”

  “Total classic, I hear,” Bo mutters.

  “Ha, never mind. They’re Swedes,” Zoe says. “What do they know?”

  Emil’s hand shoots out and hooks around her neck. Then he launches half of his body over the row for a make-out/raspberry-blowing session. It ends with Waris being helped out of the way by Elias, Selena startling awake, and Bo telling everyone to shut the hell up. Good thing Janet is in the passenger seat up front. Even so, she’s all knotted up, arms flexing hard over her boobs and her legs more twisted than crossed.

  At the airport, I get out first and stand with the car door open. It’s a sliding door. There’s no need for anyone to hold it. I still feel like watching my friends hop out one after the other. Bo flips open Selena’s stroller.

  I’m rewarded when Aishe finally jumps out. She heaves three plastic bags onto her shoulder and meets my stare in passing. Still playful, still with that glint of carefree in her eyes, she holds up the rubber duck again and whispers, “Gimme-it-ba-a-ack.”

  Gimme-it-back.

  Tired as a motherfucker, I thud my head into the pillow of my Boston hotel room. She was playful. I’m sure of it. She held up the duck. She didn’t mention the actual duck that time, though, so she could have referred to something else.

  I’m probably overthinking shit.

  Fuck, but I took something from her I can’t give back. It’s done. I seduced her. Emil was right; Aishe Xodyar is an incredible woman. She’s all beautiful flames and passion. Her body reacted so quickly to me, and even when her mouth said, “No,” her arms took me in. Her legs scissored around my ass and pulled me toward her, accepting me so deep I saw stars. And when she came that first time, every damn fiber in my body was saturated with how I’d made her feel. I didn’t care about Emil, how he sat in a chair behind us with a smirk on his
face and a towel in his hand. “What did I tell you?”

  Love. Guilt. Regret. And the sensation of having reached the heavens with someone. It’s like it happened yesterday.

  I let out a quiet laugh and turn on the light. Sit up in bed. A pair of drumsticks wait where I left them on the night table. I grab them and run through some single-stroke rolls against my thigh.

  She remembers like it was yesterday too. And she remembers it differently. Her anger is gone now. It was easier when she was furious; it felt right, because no apology in the world suffices for what I did.

  I speed up my rolls, rocking my body to the rhythm. Varying with flam-taps and triplets, I rush from single paradiddles to doubles.

  Aishe, this amazing carnal woman who deserves it all, she doesn’t have sex anymore. It’s my fault. I did this to her, lunged her into guilt and regret and withdrawal from closeness. She was the girl with the Gypsy curse, the one with the love fire. She’d do anything for love back then, so blatant about it, we all saw and knew. But I was her friend.

  I slow to a standard 4/4 beat with my right hand, calming my heart down. But my left hand still does its thing, starting in on a polyrhythm.

  It’s been a whole year. The only person she’s been with in that time is me. Emil and I marked her for life.

  I jolt to the edge of the bed, let my stick slap the polyrhythm louder, bash it out of a bottle, a Coke can, the alarm clock, speeding up my right drumstick until the 4/4 beat is fast enough to feel good. But if she doesn’t feel good, should I?

  I leap to the desk and run my sticks along it, over the TV, testing the solidity of the screen. I layer in syncopations against the hollow wood of the drawers beneath, make them thick with the beat until they stutter, but still—still it’s not enough. My suitcase is small and hard-shelled. It’s served me before. Come to papa, baby.

  My drumsticks rev the engine of a Lamborghini Diablo SV. I stomp the beat with my foot. Impatient, I will the rhythm to stagger, tilt on wheels as it comes alive. I throw my body into it, speeding up, going faster with each second. I keep no pace. I fucking destroy it like I destroyed her.