Boring Girls(95)

FORTY


I knew I had to do something big. Or something awesome had to happen. I was terrified that no one would come, despite Socks’s reassurances that Robbie had had a ton of interest come in through the radio program.

Fern and I had started spending more time together. I’d go to her place and we’d just hang out. Most of the time we wouldn’t even really talk. I’d bring along my sketchbook, lie on her bed, and draw or draft lyrics. She’d sit on the floor and play her guitar. It was nice to be alone with her again, even if our relationship felt like it had changed. In a way, it was as though we had never been closer.

As the show drew near, I took Fern downtown to go shopping. We picked out two matching navy blue-and-black plaid jumpers and matching collared white blouses. It was a pleasant afternoon, reminiscent of the first times we’d hung out together. She laughed at jokes, she talked and seemed excited about the show, but still there was always something missing.

I decided I’d wear a pair of the white knee socks I’d been keeping wadded under my bed, the ones I’d been using to soak up the blood from my scabby palm. By this point I’d gotten into the habit of keeping my left hand clenched in a fist so no one could notice the raw skin. Sometimes I’d wear a black fingerless glove on it, which made me look tough and hid the scabbing.

The socks were nasty, there was no way around it, with a mildewed scent and a sour undertone. But no one would notice that.

When the four of us pulled up to the Toe, there was a large group of people clustered around the building. The chain-link fence leading to the back of the venue was closed.

“What the f*ck! How are we supposed to soundcheck if there’s some stupid shit going on here already?” I said as Socks slowed the van. “Did Robbie say what else was happening here today?”

Edgar peered out the window. “Are they here for us?”

The four of us stared as Socks stopped the van in the middle of the street. There were about a hundred people on the sidewalk, from a large group in front of the venue leading into a line up that was beginning to snake around the block. From the group, we saw Robbie emerge, waving his hands at us, signalling to turn the van towards the back gate, which he went over to unlock. Heads turned towards us from the crowd of people, hands pointed.

“But it’s only noon,” Fern said.

Robbie opened the gate, then Socks pulled through, and I felt eyes on me as we drove past the crowd. My cheeks flushed. It was extraordinarily unpleasant being on display the way I was. And I’ll tell you, it’s a very different thing from being onstage, when you are somewhat in control of things. It’s like having someone study you while you’re eating your morning cereal in your Garfield T-shirt and ripped pyjama pants. It’s weird.

Robbie closed the gate behind us and Socks navigated the van to the alcove by the back door. Faces pressed against the fence, trying to catch a glimpse of us.

“There were a few kids here who slept in the line last night, if you can believe that,” Robbie said as we got out of the van. “This show is going to be incredible.”

He went on and on, and we started loading our gear in. I was thankful for the dark, cold, smelly interior of the club. It was nice to have the chilling, crawling feeling of being watched dissipate. Piss soaked as it was, this place was our refuge.

Torn Bowel arrived a little while after we did, and it was a pretty pleasant reunion. They’d just come back from a tour, and they’d been on the road for a few months. All of them sported tour moustaches and had the same look in their eyes, the look a band starts to get when they’ve been away from home for too long. They laugh really hard at jokes that no one else can understand, and there is both panic and exhaustion. The panic feeling seems to hit when you know you’re getting close to going home.

Jamie extended his arms to me and we embraced. I caught the stink of his black T-shirt, stiff with dried sweat, and felt the rank greasiness of unwashed blond hair against my cheek. I didn’t really understand the ferocity of his happiness to see me, but on both sides of me the others were all hugging, so I went with it. Besides, after four months on tour, it was understandable that he would be a little overwrought. I’d felt those twinges myself, even after our short tours. Jamie’s eyes were wide, his smile desperate, his breath heavy with night after night of alcohol and who-knew-what-else as, for some unknown reason, he leaned in to kiss me.

“Whoa, there,” I said, turning my face so his lips landed clumsily on my cheek.