Boring Girls(75)

“Awesome,” Fern said. “Let’s have a good one, guys.”

We all grinned at each other, and the three of them walked up onstage. To my surprise there was a general cheer that went up from the crowd.

When they’d all settled themselves with their instruments, the house music went down and I took a deep breath and walked up onto the stage.

The floor at the front of the stage was packed, and I felt eyes on me as I walked across and grabbed my microphone.

“We’re Colostomy Hag,” I announced as strongly as I could, and immediately Socks counted in the first song.

On either side of me, Fern and Edgar started moving, she in a wash of white hair and he with his dreads flying. Awkwardness hit me for a moment, but instead of freezing up, I took a deep breath, planted my hands on my hips, and hoped that my stillness looked like a deliberate attempt to contrast their movement. I scanned the front row of people, making eye contact with all of them.

Their heads were moving, and I was pleased to see some girls in the crowd as well, mainly looking at me and Fern. I didn’t get a sense of boredom or mocking from anyone. They all seemed into it.

I began singing and moving to the music, trying very hard to win them over by throwing myself into the song as roughly as possible. I moved up close to the crowd, and while no hands reached up to me, the guys there definitely got more into it. As they started moving and headbanging, it fuelled me as well. I threw my hair around, I let it lay in front of my face and roared through it.

At the end of the song, the crowd cheered loudly. I could feel all of us onstage swell with relief and pride.

Towards the end of the set, with the crowd clearly enjoying it, I noticed a guy who had pushed his way to the front. Throughout the last song he placed his elbows on the stage and leaned on them in an obvious sign of boredom, and every time I made eye contact with him he mimed a very dramatic yawn at me. I did my best to ignore him, not sure of how to deal with him, and tried to focus instead on the other people who were having a good time. He was a like a scab or a zit that you try to ignore but is a constant nag.

When we paused before our second-last song, the crowd cheered, and the guy cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Hey, bitch,” he shouted at me. “Why don’t you get off the stage and let a good band play?”

Fury boiled inside me. “Hey, prick,” I shouted back into the microphone. “Why don’t you come on up here and kiss my ass?”

The crowd shrieked in approval and support. I grinned at all of them as the next song began. I’d won, not only the confrontation with the guy, but also the crowd’s full respect. I moved to the other side of the stage where a few guys were throwing their hair around and knelt down by them. Glancing to the side of stage I saw Jamie and a few of the other Torn Bowel guys watching. When they saw me looking at them, all of them grinned and pointed at me. I bristled with pride.

I moved back to the centre of the stage and started singing, but when I looked down at the crowd again I saw the * smiling at me. He curled one of his hands into a loose fist, brought it up to his mouth, moved it away, then brought it forward again, smiling at me the whole time as he offensively pantomimed what, apparently, I could do to him.

I raised my middle finger with my free hand, continued to sing, moved up to the front of the stage, pressed it directly onto his forehead and shoved. He stepped back. Everyone around us cheered. The guy kept grinning at me and moved his hand down between his legs, grabbed himself, and leered at me.

I snapped.

I threw my microphone to the ground, where it landed with a loud bang and started feeding back. I guess the guy at the sound desk caught this and shut it off immediately. Fern, Edgar, and Socks kept playing, but I felt their eyes on me as I launched myself off the stage, landing directly on the *.

He fell backwards and the crowd parted to accommodate us. I landed on top of him but one of my knees smashed on the floor. I barely felt the pain. My eyes were riveted to his face. He clearly hadn’t expected me to leap onto him and he’d hit his head when he fell, stunning him. When his eyes focused on me again, I made sure he saw me hock a huge glob of spit into my palm, and I then slapped his face with it.

I could hear the band continuing to play and I knew we were surrounded by people watching and cheering, but I felt detached from it all. He lay beneath me, trying to wipe the spit off his face, looking up at me in confusion. I wanted him to be disgusted, I wanted that reaction. That regret. The spit hadn’t done it. I was vaguely aware of flashes going off around us. People were taking pictures.