Boring Girls(121)

“It is nothing to them,” Fern said. “They’ve done it a million times. Why would they remember me? Remember us? It was nothing.”

I felt tears sting my eyes, and Fern scowled, gripping my arm tightly. “They don’t remember, and that’s good. I was beside them tonight. We can get close to them.” She let me go and rested her elbows on the railing, looking out into the dark, blowing a stream of white smoke into the cold air. “I want this to be amazing, Rachel.”

“Amazing?”

She turned her face back to me, giving me a dark, humourless smile. I’d never seen that look on her face before, and it chilled me. I shuddered. “Yes, amazing. I want to kill them in front of the crowd.”





FIFTY-FOUR


We had to be up early the next morning, which was fine, because after my conversation with Fern, we’d gone back inside and slept hard through the night. None of us were jet-lagged by the time we went out front. There were a bunch of school buses to ferry the bands to the venue from the hotel.

The previous day’s rain had given way to a clear, sunny morning. The Donner Blitzkrieg Festival was taking place on a fairground — the main stage was in a large auditorium, the second stage was in a smaller one on the grounds, and the field was going to be filled with vendors. There was a third building for the bands’ dressing rooms. There were twenty bands total on the bill — ten on the main stage, and ten on the second, and they would alternate throughout the day. While one band played, the other stage would be changing over for the next band. We were scheduled to play on the main stage, halfway through the day. Toad said we should be grateful the stages were indoors — I had to agree. We’d be playing while it was still daylight, and I imagined it would have been pretty disconcerting to play outside in the sun and cold.

We found out quickly that the day was going to be busy. We were shown to the little cubicle in the bands’ building that would be our dressing room. On the wall was our day’s schedule — meal times, interviews, and, of course, our stage time. A large area in this building was sectioned off for catering, so we all ate cafeteria-style, filling our trays and sitting at long tables with a huge assortment of people. Another area was sectioned off for media.

I’m sad to say that my last day of freedom was so anticlimactic — I ate bacon and eggs and did some really awkward interviews with U.K. press. We did a group photo of the four of us that day as well. I think Fern looks insane in it, but I’ve only seen it the once.

I had just finished our last interview — they had wanted to talk to all of us, but our set time was approaching, so I did the interview while the other three and Toad set up our gear on the stage. I was hurrying back to our small dressing room to touch up my makeup and wait for Toad to come get me. I was nervous, of course. I’d been flustered all day. I weaved around the people milling in the hallways, rounded a corner, and slammed into someone.

“I’m sorry,” I immediately spluttered, backing up and looking right up into the slender ivory face of Balthazar Seizure.

I had blocked his true image from my mind, demonizing him, remembering a twisted, monstrous face. His good looks stunned me. Our eyes locked. I remembered that eye contact, the blue eyes, the black hair. The leering, the lips stretching into a nasty, mocking grin. I remembered the dirty towel. I remembered the feeling of his breath on me. I could not tear my eyes away from his, even as my stomach churned, filled with ice.

“I know you from somewhere,” he said in that deep voice. I physically reacted to the sound, unable to keep a sob from bursting out of my throat, feeling every nerve ending, every muscle in my body react, feeling everything in me ready to take flight, to propel myself back and away from him, around the corner, out into that muddy field, to get the f*ck away. Stop it. Keep it together, don’t give it away, don’t let him know, don’t let him remember. I tried to take control. I somehow managed to turn the sob into a wrenching, horrible chuckle, forcing my face to smile, my hands curling into atrophied, painful fists, my nails digging into my palms.

“What’s wrong? Did our collision hurt you?” He smiled, friendly, and reached out for me. I recoiled immediately but tried to cover it up with a casual laugh.

“Oh, no, I’m fine. Just in a rush,” I replied, wondering if I was shouting, knowing I looked insane, not caring, just wanting to get away from him. “My band is going on in a few minutes.”

He stared down at me for a moment, thoughtful. I didn’t understand how he could have forgotten me. This eye contact had happened before, it’s just that I’d been crying and he’d been drunk, but it hung in the air between us, heavy like an old dirty towel.