Boring Girls(122)

“I know!” His face lit up. “Of course. You’re Rachel from Colostomy Hag.” He gave me a smile. “I have to say — I’m a huge fan!”

I smiled.

“I’m actually going to watch your show from the side of the stage,” he continued. “I haven’t been able to see you guys live yet, so I’m definitely looking forward to it.”

“I have to go,” I said happily. I raised my hand in a friendly farewell and watched as his eyes took in my scabbed, bloody palm. I bolted then, running past him, running harried through the halls, bumping into people and not caring. I threw the door to our cubicle open and flung myself into it as though the walls would protect me. I turned and slammed the door, pressed my forehead against it, taking heaving, shuddering gasps.

“Rachel! What the f*ck?”

Startled, I turned and saw Toad in the room. I tried to compose myself, tried to grin, but he stepped forward and grabbed me by the shoulders, scowling darkly.

“I don’t know what your deal is. And, you know, I don’t really care.” I met his gaze, holding eye contact with him, and allowed my dislike for him to show. It was met with a matching dislike. Good to know. “Just get through today’s show. And then go f*ck off, go have your little meltdown or whatever you have to do.” He released my shoulders, but not before giving me a small shove backwards. It wasn’t hard, but it was enough to express that he did not like me and that he could — and probably would have loved to — shove me harder.

“You’re a real gentleman,” I said.

xXx

So I walked onstage for our first big festival show with fury at Toad coursing through me. Horror followed when I saw that Balthazar was, indeed, watching us from the side of stage. I couldn’t enjoy it — I couldn’t enjoy how beautiful Fern looked, how great Edgar’s performance was, how the crowd screamed appreciatively, how their hands reached towards me. I did the best I could, going through the songs, making the faces, smiling and baring my teeth and snarling, but all the while I was hideously aware of him, standing in the darkness, lurking in the shadows, like a thin black spider, waiting to pounce. I came very close to vomiting on that stage. The crowd would have loved it, but I didn’t want to show weakness.

Our set was short — only a half-hour — and as I went to announce our last song, the microphone slipped wetly out of my hand. My palm was bleeding, one large scab hanging half off. Shrugging, I raised my hand to my mouth, grasped the scab with my teeth, ripped it off, and spat it onto the floor. Blood dripped from my hand. I raised it and dragged it across my face, smearing blood over my flushed, sweaty skin. The crowd roared. I felt like I was in a frenzy. My eyes stung. I wanted to make Balthazar sick. I wanted to make Toad hate me.

xXx

Toad said nothing as he bandaged my hand once we were offstage and back in our little dressing room. I knew he thought I was crazy. It was obvious that the wounds on my hand were nothing new. I’d seen him glance at them sometimes but he’d never asked and he had nothing to say to me now. I can’t really blame him. I hated him, and anyway, I was insane, right? It made me smile, sitting there while he pressed gauze onto my bloody palm, imagining how he’d feel if he knew I’d killed two people. Smashed someone’s head in.

Doesn’t being self-aware negate any sort of insanity? I can rationalize, of course, that the things I had done up to that point were insane, but I also remember acknowledging I am insane. Which maybe means I actually wasn’t. One thing’s for sure — Fern was in the room while Toad was wrapping my hand, looking in the mirror that had been hastily nailed to the wall, fixing her powder and lipstick, brushing her long hair, and humming to herself like a lunatic. To me, she was the picture of madness. But that’s probably because I knew she was plotting mass murder while she smiled prettily at her reflection. To Toad, I’m sure she just looked f*ckin’ hot.

Then she and I went to go smoke outside, and as we walked through the building, we passed a wall lined with DED’s stage props. That same old rig, the rack of medieval weapons that they always had onstage. The battle-axe, the swords. Fern whirled to me. Our eyes met, and our faces lit up. I swear: it’s like the universe wanted this to happen. I mean, how many bands bring real, functioning, deadly weapons onstage?

“They’re asking for it,” I said to Fern, and her shriek of laughter startled the people beside us.





FIFTY-FIVE


I remember everything that happened that night. I can even play it back in slow motion, every detail crystal clear. Maybe because it was my last night free? Or maybe because I was so damn nervous. I felt so completely aware. I could feel something moving through my veins — adrenaline, fear. I felt like my whole body was tingling.