Boring Girls(109)

xXx

Once Timmy came out of the bathroom it was my turn — and my god, that shower felt good. I washed my hair, horrified by the dirty water that rinsed out, and then shampooed twice more. It sucks how gross touring can be. We’d had thirteen shows in a row — and nothing but a sink shower on any of those days. Girls who want to sleep with rock stars should remember that. The guy you’re making out with may not even have brushed his teeth, let alone washed his ass, for days.

I put on a clean sundress and left the bathroom. Timmy and Toad were both lying on one bed, Socks on the other, all staring at the TV. I took Socks’s place when he got up to shower.

I’d like to say that I felt some overwhelming need to meditate on the events of the night before, that it was haunting me, that I felt the urge to confess to the others what we had done. But honestly, the only thing that had really followed me into that morning was the grossness. The blood and the whistling noise. The sweat and the darkness. The smell. The worry of getting caught. As Toad flipped channels, I wondered if anything would be on the news about the dead guy. But I wasn’t very worried about it. I felt cool, clean, and comfortable lying on that big bed.

The telephone rang in our room. Toad answered. “Hello? . . . yeah. Oh, hey man. Good, good. You?”

He chatted for a few minutes. I tuned him out until he held the phone out to me. “Rachel, it’s for you.”

“What? Who is it?”

“Just answer it and find out,” he said, so I took the phone and held it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Rachel?” a male voice asked.

“Yes . . . Who is this?”

“Uh, this is Chris, from Ripsawdomy,” he said. “Is this a bad time?”

“No,” I said, immediately breaking into a nervous sweat.

“I got your tour manager’s room number from ours,” he said. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah! It’s fine.”

“So you guys stopped in the same city we did,” he said. “Toad said you’re staying at the Cherrywood Inn.”

“I guess so.”

“Do you want to do something today?” I could tell he was nervous too, and I found myself grinning. He said he would come by the hotel and look for our bus in the parking lot in about two hours. We hung up.

“So?” Toad asked as Socks came back into the room.

“I’m going to meet him, we’re going to hang out or something.”

“A date!”

“Shut up,” I said, glaring at Toad. I fixed Timmy with a glare as well. Even though Timmy and I barely spoke, he seemed to be Toad’s little follower, so I figured I may as well treat him the same way.

“With who?” Socks said.

“With Chris,” Toad tattled.

Socks looked at me. “Really?”

“It isn’t a date,” I said.

“Go, Rachel!” Socks laughed. “Marry him and get us famous.”

“Rachel doesn’t exactly strike me as the guy’s type,” Toad said. “I mean, he dated Sophie Cleaver.”

“Yeah, totally,” I said. “Normally he likes hot chicks. What a step down, eh, Toad?”

“I’m just kidding, don’t be so sensitive!” Toad said.

“I think Sophie Cleaver’s ugly,” Timmy said.

“Well, it isn’t a date anyway. And I don’t care who he used to date, or currently is dating, or whatever.”

“Yes, it is,” Toad said. “And you totally do.”

xXx

“She’s so skinny,” Fern commented. She and I were on the bus. I’d decided to get ready for my outing with Chris there, to avoid Toad’s remarks from his bed-throne. Fern and Edgar had brought back a bag of tacos, and once we’d eaten, Fern had followed me back to the bus. Now she was reading one of Toad’s tattoo magazines with a feature on Sophie Cleaver.

“It’s because that stupid corset she’s wearing is yanked so tight,” I muttered, trying not to overdo my eyeliner. A few weeks of putting on show makeup had kind of ruined my gauge for what looked pretty and what looked garish.

Fern turned the page. “She’s got her own clothing line. Shit, this girl must be rich.”

“Please stop talking about it.”

“Oh, here we go: Sophie and heavy metal guitarist Chris Egerton called it quits in July after three years together. Three years! Shit.”