Magnolias don't Die

by AJ Collins

  ‘You look great,’ Harry says.

  ‘Mmm. I dunno. I feel a bit ...’

  ‘Sexy?’

  ‘Not really the word I was looking for.’

  ‘Hot?’

  I laugh. ‘Not really. It’s not too ... slutty?’ I untie the shirt and let it hang. It looks daggy. I tie it up again, trying to show less skin.

  ‘If you got it, flaunt it, I say.’

  ‘You’re not a girl.’

  ‘This is true.’ He comes up behind me and puts his hands on my hips. ‘But if I was, and I had this beautiful body. I wouldn’t let anyone else tell me otherwise.’

  Oh, the shivers his touch gives me. I could lean back onto his chest, into his arms and let him prove exactly how beautiful he thinks I am, but I turn and push him away. ‘Paws off, buddy. We got a show to do.’

  Harry doesn’t say anything, and I can’t read his face. Am I blowing this? It’s the third time this week I’ve brushed him off. At first, I wanted to wait until I was feeling healthy and my visitors had passed. But now I’ve run out of excuses, and I’m still holding off. He knows it, I know it. I think the anticipation might have us both on edge. How do I explain how much I want this, but I’m frightened my body will betray me?

  Harry slips on a fringed waistcoat and chucks an old fedora on his head. They don’t scream cowboy, but they were all that were left after the rest of the crew got to the costume stash. ‘Okay, let’s go,’ he says. I gulp down what will probably be my last hot toddy. That worries me too: the brandy has been taking the edge off my performance nerves.

  We carry our gear down the corridor, not a lot, just bits and pieces that could be easily stolen or mucked about with: Harry’s charts, my cordless microphone, iPad and stuff.

  ‘Why don’t you put your sheet music onto an iPad too? There must be an app for it,’ I ask.

  Harry wrinkles his nose. ‘I like old school.’

  ‘Old fart, more like it.’

  I bump him against the wall. He almost loses his balance with the sway of the ship. ‘Careful!’ he chides.

  Geez, what’s up with him? ‘Grumpy much?’ I try to bump him again, but he evades me.

  ‘Stop it.’ He moves ahead of me.

  ‘You stop it.’ I say, chasing him down the hall.

  ‘Quit it.’ He’s running now.

  ‘Spell cantankerous geriatric.’

  Finally, I get a laugh out of him. ‘Okay, barley. We’re going to break something.’

  In the lounge, Harry sits at the piano, warming up his fingers with a few runs. I set up my mic, link up my iPad to the mixing desk, then sound check. All good, we launch into our first bracket.

  It’s feeling sweet until I notice a dude at the bar full-on staring at me. He’s obviously with a girl and another couple, but he keeps eyeing me. I beam a smile, trying to distract his gaze, letting him know I’m aware of him. Does he even know he’s being creepy? He doesn’t react, just keeps staring. Maybe he’s short-sighted, can’t really see me at all — that lost-in-thought thing. I ignore him and focus my attention on the other side of the room.

  Harry launches into ‘Thank God I’m a Country Girl’. Thank god for Google and looking up lyrics. Never in a million years did I think I’d be singing this, but there you go, you gotta do what you gotta do. Even though the ship’s internet is slow as, I managed to get the lyrics for this song and five more. We’re going to have to intersperse the country songs between our usual stuff or repeat them as punters come and go.

  Creepy dude is still staring as Harry and I reach our first break, so I head to the other end of the bar to get us some water. The stools are a little high for me, so I have to hoist myself up. My legs dangle. The guy next to me is telling his mate, ‘Gonna get pissed. Can’t do it sober.’ I hate to think what he’s planning.

  I can’t help it, maybe it’s an instinctual thing, but I glance back at Creepy Dude. He’s moved a few seats closer, and he’s doing that slow head to toe thing on my body. I pull my shirt down over my stomach a bit, but it reveals too much of my cleavage. I pull it back up. Why did I wear something so skimpy? What was I thinking? I wish he’d stop staring. How do other girls look so confident when they wear this stuff? Do they like being eye-raped? Because that’s what it feels like.

  The waiter puts the water on the bar. He’s over-filled the glasses, so I have to try and slip off the stool without spilling them. Creepy Dude is suddenly there. He reaches and grabs me by the waist, lifting me off the stool and placing me on the floor. It all happens in a couple of seconds, but with the amount of sensory information my brain processes, it feels much longer: the hotness of his hands on my exposed skin, the meatiness of his fingers digging into my flesh, the strength of his arms controlling my movement.

  ‘Take your hands off me!’ I yell.

  He lets go, but I’m tingling with revulsion, as if a python had coiled its scaly, muscular body around me.

  Everyone turns to look.

  He steps back, hands in the air. ‘I was just trying to help.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to,’ I spit.

  His flushed face hardens. ‘Bloody feminist.’

  ‘Well, if being a feminist means I don’t put up with creeps like you checking out my body, then deciding they’re entitled to grab it without my permission, I’m fine with that.’

  He flounders. I stand my ground, pulse pounding in fight or flight mode, daring him to deny it. This guy is one second away from wearing two glasses of water.

  Harry is suddenly by my side. ‘What’s going on?’

  I shove the drinks at Harry. ‘Nothing. Just some jerk. It’s over.’

  I storm back to the stage to get my purse. When I turn back, Harry is talking to the creep. They’re gesticulating, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. He comes over to me, looking concerned. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘No, I’m not. Some people should learn to keep their hands to themselves.’

  ‘I don’t think he meant any harm.’

  I blink at him, not believing what he’s said. ‘You’re taking his side?’

  ‘I’m not taking sides, I’m just trying—’

  ‘He manhandled me.’

  ‘He said he was just trying to help ... Hey! Where are you going?’

  I’m out of there. So furious I can hardly speak. I grind my words out over my shoulder. ‘Start without me.’

  Every person I pass in the hallway is like a barrier. I grit my teeth so I don’t yell at them to get out of my way. The lift is busy, so I pound down the stairs instead. Once I reach level four, I pause. There’s another lounge here. No, I can’t get drunk; the alcohol will show on my purchase card. There’s nowhere else to go but our room, or overboard, and the latter doesn’t appeal.

  I sit on the edge of my bunk hugging myself. Furious. Vice-like pain in my shoulders. How could Harry not defend me? Couldn’t he see the guy was a jerk? And even if he couldn’t see, my word should have been enough. The guy handled me, put his filthy, hot hands on my skin. I bet it was caught on camera. Maybe the powers that be will investigate. What happens if I don’t go back out there? I’ll be the second girl Harry has had to let go. That won’t look good. Have I ruined things for him? Still, I shouldn’t have to put up with jerks.

  I wish I’d snuck a bottle of vodka into my suitcase. I’ve heard other crew mention they’ve filled water bottles with alcohol. I sigh. How do I deal with this? When Harry touched my waist earlier, his hands stirred something sensual, warm, but another guy touches me and whammo, I’m freaked out. I should have brushed it off, politely told him to fuck the hell off, then got on with my job. Then I think back, yet again, to that night in Harry’s bed when my body betrayed me. What the hell is going on inside me? Why can’t I be normal? Other girls my age are having fabulous sex lives. Aren’t they?

  What to do? I glance around the room — at my backpack, the drawers, Harry’s clothing hanging on a hook, my purse beside me on the bed ... Wait! And the answer appears. Just like that.


  I pull open my purse, dig down to the bottom, and there it is. The plastic baggy. I pull it out, hold it up to the light. The tablet is still in one piece. Still pink. I pick out the tablet and place it in my palm. What if it’s not an E? It might make me sick. But Paul took one. He was fine.

  Should I?

  No. I’m being stupid. I poke it back inside my purse and go to the toilet. Anything for a distraction. I can’t help but stare at myself in the mirror while I sit. I’m haggard. Not what a healthy eighteen-year-old girl should look like. When did this happen? I wipe, flush, wash my hands, then rub at my smudged eyeliner. I didn’t even realise I’d been crying. Freakin, crying, crying, crying. I thought I was past that. Life was supposed to be getting better now. I’m sick of it.

  Screw it. I’m taking the E.

  Here I go, sitting on the bed, tablet in hand. There’s a noise outside the door. Harry? I snatch my hand closed, ready to shove the tablet back in my purse. I wait. Whoever it is keeps on moving past.

  I open my palm again. The tablet’s surface looks like cracked earth, worn from where it’s been in my mouth before. Does E have a use-by date? What’s it going to feel like? I wonder if Harry will be able to tell I took something. My hand shakes as I pick up the tablet with my thumb and forefinger. It’s smaller than I remember. I take a breath. Am I doing this? Yes. I place it on my tongue, grab the water bottle from my bedside drawer. Sip. It’s gone. Too late for regrets.

  I wait for some sort of buzz. Nothing. I lie back, breathe deep, let my mind skim over the last few nights. They’ve been great: a few nerves but nothing major. I’d say I’ve actually been enjoying myself. Coming into my own at last. Then tonight. Did I overreact? I don’t think so. I mean, what made that guy think it was okay to grab me like that? But ... maybe I shouldn’t have yelled.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have smiled at him.

  I get up and examine my image in the mirror. Okay, let’s be honest — the clothes are showing too much for my liking. I knew that before I went out there. But the internet is full of women telling me to be proud of my body, my sexuality, to be comfortable with myself, to be myself, that dressing like this is not slutty, not asking for it. It’s owning it. How do I come to terms with that? What’s wrong with being attractive? Is that why this keeps happening to me? Is being attractive asking for it? Sigh. Look at me. I’m doing the very thing I said I wasn’t going to do: selling my body as part of the package.

  It hits me then, the truth: my lack of confidence isn’t about my voice, my performance. I’m past that now. It’s about being looked at. The way Samuel looked at me that night.

  He’s still alive in every man out there.

  I glance at my backpack. Visualise his unopened letter, the words ... reminding me. Am I ready for that? No. But it could be the answer to this paranoid nightmare in my head.

  ~

  Harry is halfway through a song and looking unhappy when I get back, but I’m finding it hard to care; my body is buzzing nicely, my head in a cloudy place. I squeeze onto the piano stool next to him, try to look contrite. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You okay?’

  I nod, smile, watch his hands on the keys, the way they drift effortlessly from note to note, like they’re independent beings, separate to him. He winds up his song, and I grab my mic. ‘Let’s do this.’

  Four songs in, it really hits me: a wall of adoration rolling in from the audience and whooshing through every atom in my body. Every song is a symphony. Every lyric an opera. And I’m the coolest, hippest, hottest chick that ever strutted a stage. Look at me sing! Look at me dance! I’m all curves and sass. Shaking that thing.

  The room is filling up with post-dinner passengers. I’m pumped because this lot is animated, up for a dance. Great. So am I. I wander about the dance floor as I sing, down through the lounges, getting up close and personal. One guy offers me a shot of something clear. Vodka? Sambuca? How can I refuse? It’s a party. Somewhere inside, I might be vaguely aware that this confident, sassy chick isn’t me, but I don’t care. I’m along for the ride for as long as it lasts.

  During our next break a crew member calls a bingo game. I want to participate, keep the fun going, but Harry drags me away. He’s still not looking happy. Glowering even. I grab him in a big hug and tell him how grateful I am to be working with him. How much I love performing with him. I add a sneaky, ‘Do you want to go back to our room?’

  His response isn’t what I expect. ‘Stop it. What are you doing?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re acting crazy. Are you on something? Coke?’

  I give him a wide-eyed look. ‘What? I’m just having fun, doing what I love. This is my drug.’ I wave my arms to encompass the room. Then I whisper, all conspiratorial, ‘Some guy just gave me a couple of shots of tequila. I figured why not. I deserve it after that jerk. Sue me.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Settle. You don’t want us kicked off in your first week, do you? Whatever you do reflects on both of us.’

  I attempt a solemn look. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I’m not kidding. Every room is monitored. You can’t get away with anything here.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine by me. They’ll be able to see what happened wasn’t my fault.’

  I grin, but I’m losing the battle. Harry takes my hand. ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk. Get some air. We’ve got some time to kill before the next bracket.’

  ‘Whatevs.’

  We head to one of the outside decks and stroll towards the bow. I feel like skipping, but I control myself. We watch the ocean, lit up by the ship’s lights, the waves breaking into sparkly, foamy showers. A few metres out, the world is a black undulating blanket, except for where the moon is casting a shivering trail. It’s the stuff of fairy tales. The air’s humid, and I close my eyes, throw my head back and let the ever-present breeze blow over my body. It’s like being wrapped in warm fairy floss.

  Sighing, I lift Harry’s arm and snuggle under like a duckling. ‘Life is good.’

  ‘It’s not fame and fortune, but it’s okay, hey?’ he says.

  I nod, fuzzy with affection. ‘The best.’ I lift my face, hoping for a kiss. It doesn’t arrive.

  ‘Don’t blow it,’ he says, his eyes out to sea instead of on me.

  I pout. Big deal. My body is happiness itself and nothing and no-one can disappoint me right now.

  We head back in. The bingo is still being called, albeit constantly interrupted by a raucous American couple who have been here since the start of the night. Now they’re jolly with alcohol, laughing and yelling out numbers to confuse people. It’s all being taken in good spirit.

  Towards midnight, there’s still about forty people hanging around, but the dance floor is empty except for the Americans who are doing some amazeball moves to our pop music. We finish our final song and begin saying goodnight when, on cue, up comes the predictable drunken dude wanting ‘one more song’. He stumbles as he approaches and steadies himself by grabbing my mic stand. I step back, not wanting a microphone-shaped hole in my teeth. ‘Do-ya play that Joe Cocker thing? You know the ‘hat’ song?’

  I look at Harry, who’s unplugging his keyboard. He shakes his head. ‘Sorry. It’s pack-up time.’

  ‘Ahhh, go on mate, it’s for my spessshal lady.’ He leans in close, and I reel back from the intensity of his breathy fumes. ‘Gonna propose, mate. You gotta help me out.’

  My loving heart can’t help itself. ‘Ohhh.’ I raise my eyebrows at Harry. ‘Come on, we can’t let him down.’

  Harry slumps his shoulders. ‘At least it’s not Nine Inch Nails or Chisel,’ he says under his breath.

  ‘Sure, we can do that,’ I tell the dude.

  He immediately turns and yells. ‘Mish! Mishy!’

  Mishy is sitting with another couple. She has pale pink lipstick and red shoulders with white strap marks. She’s done a good job getting burned even though it’s been overcast every day since we left. Dedication, I expect. She looks tired, sucking on her Marga
rita. She doesn’t want to get up.

  ‘What?’ she yells back.

  ‘Com’ere,’ he says, beckoning to her.

  He gets down on one knee and nods to us. We start the song, and he begins to unbutton his shirt. Oh god, what did we get ourselves into? Mishy comes forward, all giggly in her bright pink sarong and braided hair.

  ‘Oh my god!’ she squeals.

  They have the room’s attention. Drunk dude has his shirt off, and he’s swinging it above his head. One minute he’s gyrating his hips, getting into it, the next a security bouncer the size of a truck is standing beside him, arms crossed, feet squared. ‘Put it back on,’ he says. The bouncer glares at us, and we don’t have to be told twice. Music off.

  The drunk grins. ‘Just a bit of fun, mate.’

  The bouncer doesn’t budge. The drunk dresses himself, gives the bouncer a good-natured salute and returns to his friends and beer. He seems to have forgotten what he came to do. Game over. Poor Mishy will have to wait.

  It’s bedtime. But the happiness fairy has stolen all my sleepiness. I like being this open, this free, this not giving a care about being in my t-shirt and undies. Harry’s at his computer with his headphones on. And there’s his beautiful, wide shoulders begging for my hands to massage them.

  ‘Feel good?’ I ask, attempting a husky voice.

  ‘Mmmm?’ He can’t hear.

  I lift one side of his headphones and whisper into his ear. ‘What are you doing?’

  He takes off his headphones, snaps his computer closed and stands. ‘Working on a new song.’

  ‘For moi?’ I ask, all cutesy.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  I glance at my bunk. It’s got stuff all over it: clothes, make-up, brochures, papers. Crap. I don’t remember doing that. I gather everything in my arms. Some of it lands on the floor, the rest in a heap on a chair. I throw back the bedcovers, hop in and pat the mattress.