Boring Girls(102)

“No, no, it’s okay,” he said, waving his hand at me for some reason. “You’re in the opening band, right?”

“Yeah. I’m Rachel,” I said, walking closer and extending my hand to him, immediately feeling like a fool. He reached to shake it, looking down at me, and though his hood was up the long light brown hair tumbled forward from it and his eyes were really blue, like-the-f*cking-spring-sky blue, and his face looked smooth, really nice skin, he was handsome, no — he was cute, even despite the stupid chin-beard, and I swallowed hard. As we shook hands, his brow furrowed and a frown spread over his face. “I’m Chris.”

“Yes, you’re in Ripsawdomy,” I said brightly, trying to make sense of what was happening. I figured that my head would only come halfway up his chest if we were standing closer. I tried to calculate exactly where it would reach without looking anywhere but at his face.

“Yep.” He puffed on his cigarette, studying me, and his frown deepened. I felt awkward, wondering if he disliked me, wishing I had at least brushed my hair this morning, wondering why the f*ck I cared. I recognized him as the guitar player, but not the singer, who also played guitar. I didn’t want to make too much eye contact with him, even as he stared at me, knowing somehow that he would easily read my nervous turmoil. The cigarette was starting to make me feel sick, but I guess it wasn’t really the cigarette.

I fumbled for something to say, and as my mind raced, a hideous stench reached my nostrils, wafting in the cool morning breeze. It stank worse than anything I’d ever smelled, like shit and blood and something even worse, and it hit me like a rock to the face. I yelped, “What the f*ck?”

Chris didn’t even react. He gestured with his hand. “There’s a slaughterhouse next door.”

“That’s brutal!” I clapped my sleeve over my lower face.

“I’ve played here six times,” he said, unfazed. “Stinks every time.”

I didn’t want him to associate me with bad hair, lame conversation, and that horrible abattoir reek, but I didn’t want to leave either. “You’ve played here six times?”

“Yep.”

“I understand it’s a really, uh, classic venue or whatever.”

He stared at me. “Yeah, I guess it is sort of . . . classic.”

Immediately I was back in high school, in the hallway with Craig, and my idiotic grapevine comment. I realized I couldn’t see Craig’s face in my mind. I couldn’t remember anything except he had long light brown hair, as did the giant in front of me. Odd how things can change, yet stay the same: here I was standing in front of a real metal musician, on tour, beside my own tour bus, and yet I still sounded like a bungling idiot.

I puffed on my cigarette to buy myself time, aware of his scrutinizing frown. I met his eyes for a split second and all I saw on his face was disapproval, and I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Well, sorry,” I said, throwing the butt into the gravel. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“No bother,” he said.

“Heh, well, okay. Have a good day,” I managed to get out, then turned and made my way back between the buses as gracefully as I could in case he was still watching. My cheeks pounded with blood. I didn’t give a shit what he thought, right? It galled me that I just couldn’t manage to sound cool, no matter how hard I tried. I looked like a fool in front of that guy, and now he’d think our band sucked even worse than he probably did yesterday. Well done, Rachel.





FORTY-FOUR


Bennys’ parking lot filled up quickly, a definite sign that it would be a great show. We had a small dressing room decorated with the requisite penis graffiti. I pulled on a pair of my bloodstained white knee socks. Fern had stayed in her bunk all afternoon until our soundcheck, and emerged looking worn and withdrawn. She put on her makeup quietly, and I watched her in the mirror. Our eyes met and I smiled at her, and she smiled back, but it was a tired smile. The sound of Timmy checking the gear onstage and the chattering of Toad and the guys faded to a wash as we looked at each other.

xXx

We were halfway through the set and it was a good one. Despite Fern’s melancholy, she was absolutely savage, kicking the audience in front of her into a frenzy. For some reason Edgar was on top of his game too, a wash of flying hair, and I figured it was because we’d done six shows in a row and were starting to get into a good physical and mental place to be for the tour. I was in pretty fine form as well — I’d torn a scab off my palm accidentally, leaped in the air, and when I landed, I smeared some of the blood down the side of my face. I whipped around to the left and saw Chris’s towering figure watching at side of stage next to Timmy.