Boring Girls(119)

Socks and Edgar returned with a greasy bag of breakfast sandwiches, the kind on a soggy croissant with bacon and cheese and egg and butter. The coffee tasted horrible. The five of us silently ate, not even bothering with chit chat.

We still had an hour or so till the flight once we’d finished eating, and I wandered to the ladies’ room to brush my teeth and splash some water on my face. I looked in the mirror, acknowledging that I looked like shit. My hair didn’t even look real. It looked like someone had pasted dirty dull black string in clumps on my head. I still had the streaks of makeup from last night’s show on my face. The harsh light in the bathroom only made it worse.

But that’s the good thing about airports, any time of day. Most people look like bags of shit. People are sleeping on the floor no matter what time of day it is. People barf on planes. They have long flights. They’re hungry and tired. The most put-together, rich, professional people just go into survival mode. You’re dragging around heavy bags on your aching back. You’re sweating. Plus — you’re confused. Who the hell knows where they’re going in an airport? So at least no one stared at me too much.

Once done in the bathroom, I wandered a little and came upon a row of payphones. I dialled a collect call to my family’s house. My father accepted the charges, and I felt a tightness in my chest crawl up my throat.

“Rachel! How are you!” he cried, and I heard him call to my mother. “Marilyn, grab the other phone. It’s Rachel!”

There was a click as she picked up the other extension. Melissa was obviously beside her, and then I was lost in their voices, exclaiming happily they’d seen the band on the music channel on TV a few weeks ago, we were doing so well, they were so proud.

“How was the tour?” Mom asked.

“Fine,” I whispered in a thick voice, the lump in my throat swelling even larger, filling it up. It was difficult to breathe.

“We are so proud of you,” Dad agreed. “So! You must be on your way home now!”

My throat was dry, and I cleared it. “No,” I said hoarsely. “We’re actually going to England right now. We’re at the airport.”

“When are you coming home?” Melissa asked.

My eyes filled with tears, and I closed them, leaning my forehead against the phone. “In a few days.”

“Congratulations on everything that’s happening for you,” Mom said. “We miss you.”

“We love you,” Dad added.

“I love you too,” I said, tears rolling down my face in hot, wet tracks. Yes — premeditated murder is a really positive experience.

xXx

“Is that chick on crack?” Toad grumbled as we filed onto the plane. Fern was talking brightly to the attendants, to other passengers, just animated and sunny. I had a seat alone, thankfully — well, not alone, but not with Toad or any of the guys. I had an aisle seat, and to my right was an old couple who immediately put sleep masks on and would likely remain silent and stiff the whole ride. I pulled up my hood, put the scratchy airline blanket over me, and tried to fall asleep as well.

Once we were airborne, I unlatched my food tray and tried to rest my head on it. The white noise of the engine was nice, the gentle normal chatter I could barely hear around me was actually sort of soothing as well. I had the blanket over my head like a cheap ghost costume, minus the eyeholes. I saw leaves, orange and yellow and red — bright autumn leaves, spinning slowly and coasting along gently. I rose from the ground to take in more, and I saw that the leaves were moving along a gutter, a white cement curb, clear and cold-looking rainwater moving along the gutter, carrying the coloured leaves in it, slowly spinning and coasting. And my stomach sank as I saw the sewer coming up, ready to swallow the leaves. I tasted panic in my mouth as I reached forward to save them, to pluck them from the stream before they were lost forever, swallowed into that black cavernous abyss, but I had no hands, I reached out but saw nothing, I couldn’t see anything except those leaves, helpless and doomed, spinning and coasting to be lost forever, until the harsh, sharp shriek of someone’s baby jarred me awake, the blanket falling away from my face.





FIFTY-THREE


We took off from JFK feeling like shit and landed at Heathrow far worse. Socks, Toad, and Edgar looked grim as we all climbed into a taxi outside the terminal. Even Fern’s jittery grin was gone. It didn’t help that rain was pissing down, hammering on the roof of the taxi as we joined the stream of traffic. I was next to Fern in the backseat, and she put her head on my shoulder. Her big woollen cap was soaking wet from the downpour. It made my cheek itchy, but I didn’t push her away.