Boring Girls(72)

“Well,” I said brightly, “I think I’d like to take my interest in writing and instead of doing lyrics, maybe get into journalism or something. When school starts, I’m definitely going to make an appointment with the career counsellor and talk about a plan.”

My father nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

“Writing lyrics is my passion, but I know it isn’t practical.”

“So you are going to stop this whole band thing and look at things more practically?”

“Of course. But I would like to do just this one thing, just for the experience. It’s only four days. Will you guys please think about it?”

Their eyes met across the table once again. “We’ll talk about it after dinner,” Dad said. I smiled gratefully, glad they had bought it. There was no way I was going to give up the band, of course. College was the last thing on my mind. But I was proud of myself for having come up with that stuff, and having conveyed it so convincingly.

xXx

A few hours later my mother came into my room and sat down at the end of my bed. “So your dad and I talked about this whole idea, and we’ve decided that you can go.”

“Awesome! Thank you!” I said. Now I needed to call Socks and tell him I was in, but of course my mother had more to say.

“We have to talk about a few things first, though, Rachel.”

I nodded and widened my eyes, looking at her with what I hoped was a concerned and attentive expression. She started talking about how my future was important, my grades were important, and they had always been proud of me, and blah blah blah. She gave me some useless warnings about the dangers of drugs, of drinking and driving. I nodded the whole time, agreeing with everything. And then she started talking about what had happened at the Rosewood Café.

“Mrs. Spangler told me that you were laughing because you had gotten blood on the customer,” she said worriedly, studying my face. “Do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

“It was horrible. I was so embarrassed and uncomfortable.”

“Why were you laughing?”

“It was a horrible, totally terrible reaction to feeling so embarrassed. I couldn’t help it. And of course, I made it worse,” I said sadly. “I’m sure Mrs. Spangler thought I was crazy.”

My mother shrugged and nodded. “She said it was very odd.”

“That’s what I thought would happen,” I said. “It was so awful. I felt like a moron.” I stared down at my hands, clasping and unclasping them in my lap. I could feel my mother studying my face.

Finally she said, “Mrs. Spangler was very disturbed, I think. I don’t think she understood that you were laughing because you were uncomfortable, or nervous, or whatever it was.”

I looked up, startled. “Why else would a person laugh about that? It was horrible! Does she think I’m a psycho or something?”

My mother touched my hand. “Mrs. Spangler doesn’t matter. Of course you’re not a psycho,” she said, smiling. “I just wanted to talk to you about that. Your dad and I weren’t sure if we should say anything about it.”

“You should have talked to me about it earlier!” I said. “All summer you guys have been walking around here thinking I’m insane?”

“Not quite,” she said, laughing. “Okay. But I feel better about it now, and you’re right, we should have asked you sooner. Now go ahead and call your friends.”

I wonder how Mom would have reacted if I had told her how exciting the whole thing had been. How I had thought about it since and laughed even more. Or about how I secretly had a fantasy, deep in a dark place inside myself, where I imagined showering someone with my own blood. The way they would fear it, the disgust and horror, the way they would scream as I poured and smeared and slathered my unknown, alien blood all over them. This was so exciting I could barely even admit it to myself, and the thought of communicating it to my mother almost made me start laughing all over again. Luckily, I managed to hold it in.

xXx

I suppose it was around this time that I started nurturing my desire to be feared. I wanted to surprise people who underestimated me, and rather than simply impress them, I wanted them to regret having felt that way. I became fixated on that moment of realization — whether it was the look on the guy’s face from that concert after I had punched him, when his eyes widened and his hands caught his own blood, when he realized that I had done it to him, or the way the coffee shop customer’s eyes had registered that same fear as I wiped blood on him, or even Brandi staring at me in horror. I wanted to inspire fear and revulsion in people who tried to undermine me. I wanted to watch their opinion of me change, read it in their eyes. The fantasy of covering some judgmental * with a bucket of my blood was definitely appealing to me. I wanted disgust and fear and for them to know that I was in control. I had no outlet for any of this, of course, and I had a tour to plan for.