Boring Girls(91)

“Yes, you’re right,” the interviewer said quickly, smiling back, glad that our conversation had gotten back onto a positive note. “There has always been violence against women at concerts, and I’m glad you’re addressing it.”

“Well, everyone should be damn well addressing it,” I said. “There are enough girls at these shows that we should be looking after each other.”

xXx

The Flesh for Lunch tour seemed to end before it even began, really. A week and a half isn’t a long time at all, especially when you’re playing really cool shows every night. By the last night, though, I have to admit I was a bit relieved. We hadn’t bothered doing laundry, so all the clothes we’d brought were getting raunchy. The food provided each night by the different clubs pretty much sucked — usually just a plate of greasy sandwich meat and, for some reason, a huge variety of buns and bread, and cheese that looked off the minute it hit the table. Not eating well paired with the huge amount of phys-ical energy it took to perform each night proved to be very draining. And I don’t even want to get started on the mystery bruises and bumps on my body.

The final night in England, we got to our hotel and I sank into bed, shocked by how exhausted I felt. It seemed like I had been running on some sort of high, knowing we had shows each night, and now that I knew all we had to do was get up and get on a plane the next day to go home, I was ready to collapse.

“It was a good tour,” Fern said from the next bed over.

My eyes were closed, and through my haze of exhaustion I heard the flick of her lighter. “Yeah, it was. Some really good shows.”

“Definitely.” She blew smoke audibly.

“The Goreceps guys were really cool,” I murmured. “I hope they’re glad they brought us along. It seemed like we brought our fair share of fans to the shows, even though I don’t really get how that’s possible. Can you believe people over here know us?”

“They seemed nice,” Fern said stiffly, referring to the guys from the other band. “They didn’t seem like they were doing anything shitty to anyone.”

I lay quietly, listening to her smoke.

“Rachel, do you think we’ll get near those . . . *s again?” she finally asked.

“I promise we will.”

“Because . . . sometimes I just don’t know how to make the shit feeling go away, and I really don’t know . . . I just don’t know what to do.” Her voice lowered, strained. “I don’t know how to deal with this. I mean, here we are in England, you know, we just did a tour, we played some great shows, and it’s like none of it even matters. I feel like I’m watching everyone around me, and none of them are paying attention or something. Like I can’t understand what they have to be so happy about.” I heard the light ringing of glass as she ground out her cigarette in the ashtray.

“We’ll get close to them,” I said.

Then she was silent, and I waited to hear the slow, heavy sound of her sleep breathing. Part of me wanted to speak again, to reassure her again, but I didn’t know what more I could tell her. I had no plan, just a goal. I rolled on my back, and in the dim light filtering through the window blinds, I watched the remnants of a wave of her smoke drift silently through the room like a storm cloud moving through the night sky. I dug my fingernails into my palm and felt the relief of the warm trickle of blood.





THIRTY-EIGHT


We landed in a rainstorm. We piled our gear and ourselves into a van cab, putting together the last of our money to afford it. We were silent during the ride back into the city, and I became very self-conscious of the fact that we totally reeked. From the instruments, which stank like cigarettes and old beer from the dirty venues we’d played, to the bags of our filthy, sweaty clothes, to just plain us, I’m sure the cab driver was pretty unimpressed with us.

“It was a good tour,” Socks said from the front seat, turning around to look at us. I was sitting next to Edgar in the middle, and Fern had curled up in the back next to a pile of our backpacks. I stared at Socks, feeling as though I was half asleep. His long hair looked greasy, and he was clearly exhausted. I’m sure I looked no better. “We had some good shows and some good press. Good job!” He grinned and gave us all the thumbs-up.

From beside me, Edgar laughed and I smiled tiredly back, and there was no sound from behind us at all. I wondered if Fern was asleep.

“We have to focus on money,” Socks continued, and I wondered if he’d spent the flight home brainstorming. “Next time we tour we have to ask for more money. And we almost sold out of shirts, so we need to print more. Which we have no money to do.”