by Meg Ripley
“That’s because she had weed and wasn’t wearing a bra,” I told him. “Amazing what pot and the promise of a good lay will do to improve my mood.”
“If you’re good I’ve got some spare grass,” Nick told me, glancing in the mirror and adjusting the sleeve of his ripped tee shirt.
“Just as long as she doesn’t act like a little shit,” I said, glancing at the rest of the band significantly. “I’ll do my job.”
We went out into the conference area; a bunch of local press had gathered, along with some of the national music mags—I spotted Nick’s girlfriend in the crowd piled up in front of the long table, along with a few other magazine beat writers. The members of Juniper Woolf came out from the other side of the stage, and I was actually surprised at how normal they looked; Fran Chambers still stood out, with her violet-colored hair in a chin-length bob, but she’d managed to dress in normal clothes: a skirt that came down to just above her knees, a pair of Mary Janes, and a tee shirt ironically promoting Leading The Heroes—a band that had broken up two or three years prior, its members scattered across the country. The other three members of her band looked as average as average could be; I’d never paid enough attention to Juniper Woolf to learn their names.
We all sat down at the table in front of our individual microphones, and Ron started saying something to the press about our partnership with Juniper Woolf being great, fantastic, the best thing since digital recording. I tuned out, wishing I could have a cigarette, or maybe a beer.
“I think we’re all a bit surprised that these two bands would work together,” one of the journalists was saying, “in light of the ongoing feud between Fran and Jules.” The guy from Music Smasher looked directly at me. “How did this come about?”
“We heard that Juniper Woolf were signed to our label,” Alex said matter-of-factly. “And that makes us members of the same family now. Families feud from time to time, but they make up and love each other at the end of the day.”
“Besides,” Mark added from his spot, “we all come from the same local scene. We’ve known about Juniper Woolf for a long time now—and most of us in the band have nothing but respect for all of the band’s members.”
“We feel the same way about Molly Riot,” one of the other band’s members said. “They’re one of the South Florida scenes greatest success stories, y’know? It’s an honor to have the chance to work with them.”
“But what about the feud between Julian and Fran?” All the rest of the members of my band looked at me, and a quick glance told me that the rest of Fran’s band mates were looking at her, too.
“We’re burying the hatchet,” I said. “I can’t guarantee we’re going to be best friends, but let bygones be and all that.”
“I feel like the press always hyped up our so called ‘feud’ to seem like it was way more intense and serious than it really was, anyway,” Fran said, glancing at me. I wanted to roll my eyes, but I knew if I did, the press would latch on to my body language and make all of our lives worse. “Julian and I’ve both said the same things about each other that all the bands in the scene say about each other—it’s just one of those things that happens in a small, competitive scene when you’re all vying for the spotlight.”
“So, do you think you’re going to be able to work well together on the EP?” I shrugged, keeping my attention in front of me.
“I’m sure we can manage it,” Alex said, taking up his role as the band’s leader. “All of us are fucking pros. We can make this happen.” The questions kept coming but for the most part I continued to tune them out, glancing around the room at my band mates, and pretending to listen oh-so-intently to what was being said. As far as I was concerned, I’d done my part; I never really took much of a role in these interview-type things anyway, and the rest of the band did a decent job of promoting the most recent album, talking about touring, and talking about all the shit that went along with it.
I glanced at Fran once or twice; it was weird to see her in something other than her bizarre stage costumes. You had to figure she didn’t wear those getups all the time, I thought idly as the conference dragged on. At the very least a girl like that almost definitely sleeps naked. The strangest part of it was that she wasn’t wearing the severe, colorful makeup she normally had on from the moment she arrived at a venue. It was shocking how utterly normal she looked. Hell, if you squint, she actually looks cute. Fran was maybe all of 5’3”, with a body that I was sure she invested more blood, sweat, and tears into maintaining than half of the beach babes of Palm Beach combined. What’s her bra size, anyway? Like a D maybe? I tried to guess, but the tee shirt she wore didn’t give me much to go on.
“We’re looking forward to spreading the word about our music around the country,” Fran was saying, in answer to some question or another. “Our biggest priority right now is to make good on the potential the label saw in us, when our video went viral.” I smothered a snort. Juniper Woolf had written some kind of anthem for a local feminist group, and made a video of themselves performing it at a protest, getting the crowd to chant the chorus acapella when the cops shut down their sound system for violating the noise ordinances or something like that. The video had gotten something like a million views on YouTube, which was probably what had gotten them the contract in the first place.
The press conference finally came to an end, and the band and I headed back to the green room; Ron followed us, and I reached into my pocket for my cigarettes—I knew it was going to be a long talk. “So there’s a new item added to the package,” Ron told us as we settled into our seats. I lit up and took a deep drag, holding it in my lungs for a moment before I exhaled.
“What’s the new addition?” I looked at Dan sideways.
“Tour diary,” Ron said. “Well—promotional tour diary, anyway. You guys and Juniper Woolf will write up your experiences, or make videos—whatever you want—and they’ll get posted to both bands’ sites for fans.”
“Seriously?” Mark looked about as irritable as I felt. “We’re musicians, not journos.”
“No one’s expecting you to turn in a Rolling Stone level blog post,” Ron told him. I took another drag of my cigarette and didn’t look at him; as far as I was concerned, anything the record label added to the deal at this point couldn’t possibly be worse than the original plan anyway. “In fact, as long as you hit a minimum of 400 words in your post, you’re solid. Whatever you want to write about.”
“Could be fun,” Nick pointed out. “We could make a bunch of nonsense videos and shit. Pass the time between shows at least.”
“Do all of us need to do it?” Alex sounded surprisingly unwilling for a guy who’d sold out at the drop of a hat when the label dangled half a million for the next album.
“At least one post per day,” Ron said. “Like I said—four hundred words, or three minutes of video, whatever you want to do for your day. Decide amongst yourselves how to divvy it up.” Ron paused to let us all take that in and started to turn around to leave. “Juniper Woolf is coming over here in a few minutes,” he added, looking at all of us and then letting his gaze linger on me. “Behave.”
Fortunately for everyone, the band brought beers with them. I stayed in my chair when they came into the room, watching the four band members and trying to figure out what they were like beneath the personas they’d always assumed. Alex gave Fran a hug and they started talking about something—what, I had no idea; I waited for Mark to pass me a beer and lit another cigarette while the conversation went on all around me.
“Why so quiet, Jules?” I glanced at Nick, who’d buddied up with Juniper Woolf’s bass player.
“Just taking it all in, son,” I told him, shrugging. Nick threw himself down onto the couch next to me, leaning in close to my ear.
“Nate’s got some bomb weed, man. We were going to go out back and light up. You in?” I looked around the room; Alex obviously wouldn’t come with—he was doing the drug-free thing for the most part now, after his run-in with the dealers. Dan wa
s busy nursing a beer and talking to another member of Juniper Woolf, and Mark was nowhere to be seen.
“Sure,” I said. Maybe a little dope would make things look up a bit. Nick and Nate slipped out of the room first and I waited until it was obvious that no one noticed before I went after them.
Nick and Nate had already managed to get a bowl filled by the time I found them behind the building; Nate took his hit and passed it to me. It was pretty decent stuff—not as good as my brother grew, but I could hold it in my lungs for about a minute without hacking it all up. “So,” I said, as Nick took his turn, “what’s your take on this partnership thing?”
“It’s all marketing,” Nate said with a shrug. “We’re the bigger act, and of course between you and Frannie the shit-talking has been epic.” He grinned, taking the pipe from Nick and pausing to hit it again. He passed it to me, and I took my second hit. Nate blew out the smoke he’d pulled in and coughed. “Actually, it’s not a bad deal for anyone.”
“Did she pitch a bitchfest when she heard about it?” I raised an eyebrow as I blew out the last of the pot smoke in my lungs. I was starting to feel it, tingling in my ears, throbbing at the back of my eyes. Decent shit.
“Nah,” Nate said, shrugging. “She figured it’s the cost of doing business: sometimes you have to lick boots.”
“Which I’m sure she has no problem with as long as it’s for an audience,” I said as the pipe made its way around the circle again.
“You know—you actually should talk to her, Jules,” Nate told me. “When she’s not trying to get people to pay attention to her band, she’s a pretty dope chick.”
“That’s what they keep saying,” I said. Nick hacked and sputtered from a too-large hit.
“Dude, where do you think Nate got this from?” I shrugged.
“Fran’s roommate grows,” Nate told me quietly. “Sort of a home project—she’s more interested in the botanical part of it than the smoking. So we get all the free grass we can stand.”
“Fran smokes?” I’d figured if anything she took uppers—coke in the bathroom, or Ritalin, something like that.
“Sometimes,” Nate said, shrugging it off as we finished off the bowl and packed another. “She’s more into edibles. Says the high lasts longer and she doesn’t hack her lungs out as much.” I nodded; I was starting to feel the weed more—it was actually better quality than I’d thought at first. Head high, not body—more focused, less like a fucking slug on a rock.
“We gotta find a way to get this shit on the bus,” Nick told me, giggling.
“We’ll see just how much of a partnership this whole two-bands-one-bus thing is gonna be, then,” I said, grinning in the haze.
“Alright, last few hits then we have to head back,” Nate said. “Otherwise someone will notice we’re gone.
CHAPTER THREE
I groaned as I woke up out of a nap I hadn’t meant to take, to the feeling of the bus swaying around me and something digging into my back. “What the fuck, man.” I twisted around and reached under me and found what it was: an Xbox controller. I threw it onto the floor of the rec area and sat up.
“Yo, Jules,” Nick said, coming into the area. “What’s the haps, man?”
“Fell asleep,” I admitted. I looked up and saw that he was filming me. “The fuck, man?” I smirked at the camera. “This is like the fourth time you’ve come to film me. You got a fucking crush on me or something?” Nick laughed.
“Looking for fascinating tour journal material,” Nick said, throwing himself down into one of the chairs. He continued filming. “What do you think about the show in Orlando tonight?” I shrugged.
“It’ll be a show,” I said. “Hopefully this time we get through it without Alex slipping and falling on his ass in a pool of glitter.”
“If they’d given the techs a chance to clean up, that wouldn’t have happened,” Fran said, coming into the rec room. I scowled at her; it had been a week since we’d played the first show of our “partnership” with Juniper Woolf, at Bardot, and while I didn’t exactly hate her anymore, I didn’t think I’d ever be her biggest fan.
“If you didn’t throw around glitter all the time there wouldn’t be anything to clean up in the first place,” I pointed out, keeping my voice as level as possible—I remembered at the last minute that Nick was still filming.
“And now,” Nick murmured in a nature documentary narrator voice, “we watch as the two apex predators confront each other at the watering hole.” I rolled my eyes at Nick’s comment, smiling almost against my will.
“Everything’s cool,” I said, sitting back in my seat. “Fran and I are the best of friends these days, right Frannie?”
“Practically siblings,” Fran said, sinking down onto the couch. She must have gotten her hair touched up before we got on the bus that morning; the deep violet-purple was more vivid than it had been before. Nick turned the camera onto her, and I could see him smirking behind it.
“So, Fran Chambers: how’s the first…three hours of touring life with Molly Riot?”
“Pretty damn good,” Fran said, reaching into a pocket in her skirt and taking out a pack of Pall Mall blues. She shook one free and found a lighter from somewhere else to light it with. One of the rules we’d set was that smoking—pot or cigarettes—should only happen in the rec room. Like a trained monkey, I reached for my own pack and lit up, too. “Looking forward to the show tonight.”
“What about you, Jules? Going to get crazy up on the stage in Orlando?”
“We always do,” I said, shrugging.
“This is boring,” Nick said, ending the recording and standing up. “I’m going to see if I can catch Mark jerking off.”
“That’ll be good for the site,” I half-muttered, taking a drag of my cigarette. I glanced at Fran as Nick stepped through the curtains separating the rec area from the rest of the bus. We were alone, together. Great.
“So,” Fran said, rocking a bit in her chair as she found an ashtray without looking, “I figure now that we have a few moments at least semi-alone, we can hash out whatever the fuck our problems are with each other.”
“That’s direct,” I said. I blew the smoke out of my lungs. “Okay, you first, since this is your big idea: what’s your problem with me?”
“I only get one?” Fran grinned and took another drag of her cig. “Honestly, I just jumped on board the shit-talk train because you said that bullshit in New Times.” I frowned.
“What bullshit?” I knew I’d talked a lot of shit about Juniper Woolf in general and Fran Chambers in particular, but I couldn’t remember specifics.
“And I quote,” Fran said, tilting her head back; her neck was longer than I’d ever noticed—and the neckline of her blouse was lower, too. “‘Fran Chambers is nothing but a fucking shill.’”
“Oh,” I said, grinning wryly. “That bullshit.”
“Hurt my feelings,” Fran said sarcastically. “If I’d known you were going to be such an asshole about getting a little glitter to the face I’d have at least made it worth my while—thrown something that’d do some real damage.” In spite of myself, I laughed.
“All right, fine,” I said. “So, your problem with me is that I told New Times—”
“And everyone else who would listen,” Fran cut in.
“Whatever,” I said, rolling my eyes at her. “I told them you’re a fucking shill.”
“That started it, yeah,” Fran said, grinning slightly.
“Well for that I am deeply fucking sorry.” Fran giggled, and I had to admit that it was actually kind of cute.
“Your turn,” she said. “Anything other than me throwing glitter at you and piling shit talk in the mags that you have against me?” I thought about it. What did I really have against her? The glitter thing sounded petty the more often it came up. The shit-talking had gone both ways.
“That about covers it,” I told her after a moment. Fran nodded.
“In that case, I regret throwing glitter at you, and I am
so very sorry that I let myself descend to your level in shit-talking.” I snickered.
“Okay, we’re done talking about this, right? Water under the bridge?”
“So far under it, it’s basically out to sea right now,” Fran replied. She stubbed out her cigarette and looked at me. “You know—no bullshit here—you’re actually kind of cute when you smile.” I raised an eyebrow at that, but before I could say anything to counter it, Fran stood up and skipped out of the room, calling out a question to her band mate Kieran about whether they had any more Cheez-Its left.
CHAPTER FOUR
The crowd in Orlando was huge; Ron had to change the venue a few days before the show because we’d sold it out as soon as it was announced and people were screaming about it. Fran had been fine playing the first show of the tour in Miami, but as soon as she got a glimpse of the crowd filling up the House of Blues, she’d gone white as a sheet of paper. “You get nervous?” she’d turned on her heel to face me, and instead of pale, her cheeks were bright red.
“So, what if I do?” she’d asked me tartly before brushing past me to the green room in the back. We were sharing that space, too—at least for about half the dates of the promotional tour, since the venues were smaller.
By the time I went back myself, she was nursing a beer, with a shot glass in her other hand. “Who wants to do round three?” she’d asked, looking around the room.
“I’ll catch up,” I told her, sitting down at the card table she’d claimed.
“Double for you first, then,” Fran had said, snagging the bottle of Fireball from her drummer, Jaime. She had poured—a little sloppy, but not enough to be a sign she was actually drunk already—and shoved the glass towards me.
“They’re doing shots together?” I’d rolled my eyes at Nick’s pretend-shocked question.
“We buried the hatchet, remember?” I knocked back the double and put the glass down.
“All right,” Fran had said, filling her shot glass and mine. “This is the last one before stage, by the way—at least for me.” We clinked shot glasses and knocked back their contents, and sure enough that was the last shot that I’d seen Fran take before Juniper Woolf went on stage, though she kept the beer going at a slow-but-steady pace.
