Boring Girls Page 13

  “Don’t fuck with me again,” I hissed. “Because I will kill you. Get it? I’m not kidding. I will cut your throat.”

  “Leave me alone,” she howled, and I jerked her hair, silencing her.

  “No. You leave me alone. I don’t bother you, do I? I never have. So give me the same respect. Because I will cut your throat, Brandi. I’m sick of you. And watching you die would make me very happy.” I was full of shit, of course, but I relished in feeling her body trembling with fear, in the stench of her sweat beginning to show beneath the coconut perfume. “I’ll cut your head off and wrap it in a sheet,” I said, resisting a very strong urge to lick her earlobe. I imagined how horrified she would be if I did that, out of nowhere.

  Brandi twisted and pulled herself away from me, and I let her go. She whirled to face me, one hand rubbing her sore head, cheeks scarlet, a light sheen of sweat glinting on her forehead.

  “You’re psycho,” she stumbled, trying to collect herself. I was pleased to see no trace of smirk or sarcasm in her tone, and absently nodded in agreement, continuing to smile at her.

  “Keep away from me,” she said. “From now on. Just leave me alone.”

  “That was never a problem,” I said. “You’re the one who leaves me alone from now on.”

  She couldn’t disagree, so there was no reply as she left. I turned back to the mirror to examine my reflection, and I wondered two things. Would Brandi tell on me? I hadn’t had a run-in with Ms. Coates since the poetry incident, and I didn’t exactly relish the idea of getting called to her office. I was pretty confident I’d be able to talk my way out of any trouble, but if she called my parents, they’d get all freaked out, and I didn’t want anything to interfere with band practice.

  The other thing I realized was that Brandi had come into the bathroom and hadn’t actually gone. Presumably she’d come in here to pee. Of course, how could she calmly go into a stall to use the toilet in front of me after I’d completely terrified her? I pictured her, with my hand gripping her hair, peeing herself in her stupid designer jeans, and I laughed loudly and sharply. It echoed in the tiled room, and I clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle the sound. I caught the reek of her hairspray on my hand, and my stomach turned, jerking me from my happy thoughts. I turned on the faucet, pumping soap from the dispenser into my palm and scrubbing my hands ferociously under the water.

  I should probably note that this was the inspiration for our song “Piss Your Pants,” the lyrics of which I began to write that very day when I went back to class.

  xXx

  If Brandi told anyone about what had happened, nothing ever came of it. Whenever I’d see her in the halls, she’d avoid my eyes and hurry past. I imagined that she’d kept her mouth shut about it, too embarrassed to tell anyone that I, the ugliest bitch at school, had won against her. I treasured that memory the same way I treasured the memory of the asshole at the Surgical Carnage show. It was like I had some secret knowledge that no one else knew about. I was above the rest. I only had a year and a half left at this stupid school, but in my mind I was already done with it. I knew I was going somewhere very special, and Brandi and Josephine and every nameless asshole I passed in the hall were irrelevant to my future. And in my head I challenged every one of them, daring them to mess with me. I felt unstoppable. A nice feeling, while it lasted.

  NINETEEN

  I was loading my books into my locker after school when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Craig standing behind me.

  We hadn’t become close or particularly friendly. He still hung out with Fern and Edgar, but I didn’t join in — especially since I had no desire to drink, and that’s what they’d often do on Saturday nights after practice. I would always opt to go home afterwards, and it wasn’t just because of my aversion to drinking and my antisocial feelings about being around strangers. After practice I was usually on such a high that I wanted to be by myself to go through my lyrics and think about how rehearsal had gone.

  Craig still made me feel slightly uncomfortable. Even though we’d hung out at the concert last year and now acknowledged each other at school, I couldn’t fully erase the humiliation of that moment when I’d asked him about his shirt and he’d shot me down. I hated the fact that I’d had a crush on him and he had rejected me. I harboured a strong dislike for him, even though in an odd way his approval was important to me. I don’t know. I guess my feelings about Craig were very mixed, and avoiding him was the best way to avoid thinking about him.

  But there he was at my locker. I was annoyed that I did still have a reaction to him. He was attractive. But just because I thought he was a tiny bit cute didn’t mean I wouldn’t be able to eventually find someone else who I actually liked. Because I knew Craig was an asshole.

  “How are you doing?” I said.

  “I’m good,” he said. “How’s everything going with the band?”

  “Awesome,” I said. “We’re sounding great.”

  “Yeah, Edgar played me one of your recordings last week.” He grinned. “You sound amazing, I have to say. I was surprised, hearing you sing like that.”

  “Thanks,” I said, lifting my chin slightly.

  “What I wanted to ask you was, do you guys want to play a show?”

  “We’ve sort of talked about it.”

  “Okay, because I know a few guys who have a band. They were thinking of doing a show. Just a small one, you know, in St. Charles. They’re looking for a band to play with, you know, to make a night of it.”

  I paused thoughtfully. “Well, I could ask the guys.”

  “Yeah, I was going to call Fern and Edgar about it tonight. But I wanted to talk to you about it also.”

  “What’s their band called?”

  “Heathenistic Bile,” he replied. “They’re okay. I haven’t seen them play before. They’re from St. Charles, I think they’ve played a few shows. But they’re really small. I have a demo CD, I could bring it tomorrow if you want to hear it.”

  “Sure,” I agreed. “I’ll check it out. Talk about it with the others.”

  He nodded. “There’s just one thing, ah — the singer, my buddy Paul, well, I guess when I told him about your band he was kind of . . . well, he wasn’t too into the fact of there being a girl singer.”

  I hesitated. “Well, he’ll see that I’m really good.”

  Craig leaned against the locker next to mine. “Yeah, that’s what I said. I told him I’d heard you and that you were good. But, I mean, he just thinks that girls shouldn’t be in metal.”

  “Hasn’t he heard of Gurgol?” I scoffed. “Marie-Lise?”

  “Yeah, of course. But, you know, some people are like that,” he shrugged. “So maybe you guys can talk to him and work it out. I don’t really know what else to say. Paul’s a great guy, he’s just not into the idea of it. I’m sure he’ll change his mind.”

  xXx

  I was absolutely infuriated. This crap friend of Craig’s hadn’t even heard our band, was looking for a band to play with, but was going to be stupid about us just because of me singing? It would be one thing if he heard our music and didn’t like it, or if I sounded terrible. But I knew I didn’t sound bad, I knew we were a good band, and he was writing me off because he was an asshole. I didn’t want to play with a bunch of jerks, but at the same time a show sounded great. I didn’t like the concept of having to hope Craig’s friend would change his mind and decide to give my band a chance. I mean, who the fuck was Heathenistic Bile anyway? Was heathenistic even a word? A bunch of illiterate sexists writing us off because they don’t think girls can be in a heavy metal band? Ridiculous.

  I called Fern that evening, fuming mad. “I mean, I don’t even want to play with a band like that!”

  Fern was quiet for a few moments, thinking. “I don’t want to play with them either. But at the same time, wouldn’t it be so satisfying to prove them wrong?”

 
“No! I don’t want to prove anything to people like that.”

  “Well, I do,” she said. “If they think you’re not going to be able to sing, and that I won’t be able to play guitar, they’re dead wrong. We’ll show them. And we’ll do it because we’re coming in pissed. They won’t know what hit them, and they’ll have to admit that they’re wrong.”

  “But what if we aren’t any good? I don’t want to prove them right.”

  Fern spoke sharply. “Rachel, if you don’t believe we are good, then why are we doing this at all?”

  She was right. But I trooped on angrily anyway. “I just don’t see why we have to go into this having to prove ourselves. It’s bullshit.”

  “Every band has to prove themselves,” she said. “Girl or guy singer. No matter what. Some bands fail and some succeed, and it’s based on proving how good, or bad, they are.” She sighed. “And let’s be real. There really aren’t many girls in this type of music. I have a feeling deep down inside me that if we move forward with the band, we’re going to see a lot of this type of attitude.”

  I laughed. “Yeah. For a second I forgot that pretty much everyone on earth is an asshole.”

  xXx

  Craig brought me Heathenistic Bile’s demo CD the next day, and that weekend after rehearsal the four of us sat down to listen to it. The CD only had two tracks on it, both bad recordings, both songs okay. Nothing about their music sounded very original to us, but it was fine.

  “At the very least, I think we should call this Paul guy and talk to him,” Edgar said. “It would be great to play live and try out the songs and see how it goes.”

  I was hesitant. I didn’t want to play a show with jerks, but I could understand that playing a show was for the good of our band, even though I would have rejected it had it been my decision alone. We didn’t need Heathenistic Bile.

  “I’ll call him,” Socks offered.

  xXx

  And so the show was set up. Three weeks from that weekend we would drive to St. Charles in Socks’s van with the gear and play at a club called the Toe. We wouldn’t be paid to do the show. Apparently the show’s promoter was a DJ on some St. Charles college radio station, and his whole deal was getting metal bands to play to keep the scene moving and help independent bands. I wasn’t keen on having to spend money to play — even driving the van to St. Charles would cost us gas money — but I came to understand that this is the way it worked. You can’t expect to be paid to play your music, certainly not at your first show. The cover would be five dollars, and that money went to the Toe for hosting the gig.

  The natural side effect of this was the stress of hoping that a lot of people came out so that the promoter wouldn’t be disappointed in us or Heathenistic Bile. Our band hadn’t played before, but Heathenistic Bile had.

  “Paul says that they’ve done two shows before,” Socks said one day after we’d rehearsed our eight-song set. “He acts like they’re big time, like they’re some experienced band.” Socks himself, having drummed for several bands in the past, had played about twenty shows. He’d warned us that the turnout to this show wouldn’t be very good. “Two shows is hardly enough for Paul’s band to have built up a fan base. I mean, I’m sure that their friends will come out, but the way this guy brags about it you’d think that they’ve toured or something.”

  I hadn’t had any contact at all with Paul, only Socks had, and he’d also spoken to the DJ promoter guy to work out what time we should show up and when the show would start, that kind of stuff. Instead I started working on flyers for the show. Apparently Heathenistic Bile was making flyers for St. Charles, but I knew we had to pull our weight as well. I didn’t want this Paul guy or any of his bandmates thinking we were lazy, giving them more reason to dislike us.

  I drew a flyer in black and white with all the necessary information on it: the location of the Toe, a nod to the DJ’s metal radio show, the ticket price, the door time. I drew the name “Heathenistic Bile” in a jagged font, and beneath theirs, I added “the first ever concert of Colostomy Hag” in a slightly larger font. I couldn’t resist making ours larger, even though it was disrespectful to the other band because they were headlining the gig. It galled me that I had to put our name underneath theirs at all, but it would have been rude not to do so.

  I filled the centre of the flyer with a stark marker drawing of my old favourite, a violent and bloody rendition of Judith and her maidservant pinning a wretched and mutilated Holofernes to a stained mattress and slicing into his neck. For good measure I couldn’t help but try to make Judith resemble me and the maidservant to resemble Fern, with long blonde hair streaming from underneath the ruffled cap on her head. I didn’t know what Paul looked like, or else I would have tried to make Holofernes resemble him.

  I worked hard on the flyer and everyone loved it. One evening Fern and I went to the copy place and made a big stack of black-and-white photocopies, then I borrowed my mother’s staple gun and we proceeded downtown.

  We stapled posters to every telephone pole we came across, noting happily when people would stop to read it. We knew none of them would come, of course, but it was a good feeling to be out promoting our band, even if it was just along our hometown’s crappy streets.

  We stopped to put a poster up on the bulletin board at Bee Music, and the guy working behind the counter came over to check out what we were doing. It was the same long-haired guy who had directed me towards the DED CDs that day long ago.

  “I’ve never heard of either of these bands,” he commented, studying the flyer.

  “Heathenistic Bile is from St. Charles and Colostomy Hag is our band,” Fern told him.

  The guy looked at us. “You guys play in the band?”

  “Yep,” I retorted, hoping I didn’t sound defensive. “I sing, and she’s on guitar.”

  “Rad!” the guy exclaimed. “I didn’t know there were any metal bands in Keeleford.”

  “You should come to the show,” Fern offered.

  “Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t have any way of getting to St. Charles, but I’ll try,” he said. “That’s cool, two chicks in a metal band. You guys should do a show here. I know a bunch of people who would come.”

  “Hopefully the next one,” I said.

  “Cool. Well, good luck with it. If you want to leave a couple of these flyers here in the store, I’ll hand them out to people who might be interested.”

  That was awesome of him, and we left the shop feeling really good. I knew it was on such a small scale, but I was starting to feel important, as though we were making contacts and promoting the band and getting on the road to doing something amazing. It felt like we were somehow rising up and above, as if we were somehow becoming different.

  TWENTY

  All of us took turns reposting flyers. Ours would get torn down or posted over with different ones. I’d go downtown and see that our flyers had been covered with advertisements for some craft bazaar at some church nearby, and I couldn’t help but get pissed off at them. The Wesley Presbyterian Church Craft Bazaar and Free Horror Movie Nights at the Southdale Movie Theatre became our enemies, halfhearted as it was. They probably hated us too, because we’d cover up their flyers in retaliation more thoroughly than they’d covered ours. We’d joke about having violent run-ins with the sweet old grannies from Wesley Presbyterian, with them beating us down with their umbrellas. One Sunday afternoon when I was downtown with Edgar, we actually saw a sweet old granny striding efficiently down the street with flyers under one arm and an umbrella in the other, and we erupted into gales of laughter, likely confusing the old dear as we passed her.

  xXx

  We had a half hour to play at the gig, so we had honed eight songs, bringing us in at just under thirty minutes. We rehearsed like mad every Saturday, and sometimes during the week as we got closer to the show day. One of my major motivations was not leaving Paul or his band with a leg to s
tand on in terms of us being a weak and silly band. It was akin to my feelings about Craig: dislike paired with a guilty desire to impress. I roared, I growled, I wheezed and whispered. I was sounding amazing. Edgar had improved as well, and Socks was consistently great. Fern’s guitar playing had become almost flawless, and towards our last rehearsals she was playing her solos perfectly.

  We talked a bit about what we wanted to wear onstage. Socks insisted that he could only play in shorts and of course his white socks; at every rehearsal he had taken off his shoes and placed them neatly beside his drum kit, claiming he played better without wearing them. Edgar didn’t see anything wrong with just wearing some variation of his usual black T-shirt and black cargo pants.

  Fern and I decided to wear matching black tops that laced up the back, and I would wear a blue plaid skirt and she a red one. I secretly loved that blue and red reflected the colours of Judith and her maidservant. The week before the show, Fern bleached her hair again, striving to make it as white as she could, and I dyed my hair black again. I couldn’t help but feel that Fern was rather obviously copying Marie-Lise, but she looked awesome, so I put it out of my mind. Was how I looked so original? Not at all, so who was I to even think anything about how Fern looked?

  xXx

  My parents were supportive of the gig, even though they politely declined my politely offered invitation to attend. My grades hadn’t slipped and, if anything, I was much happier than I had been before the band started, so there was no reason for them to argue with me about it. When that Saturday afternoon arrived, my mother sent me out the door with “break a leg” sentiments.

  The van pulled up, Socks and Edgar having loaded the gear the previous night, and I climbed in the back, feeling the buzz of excitement and adventure. Fern was bouncing in her seat and reached over to hug me, Edgar let out a whoop as Socks pulled away from the curb, and we were on the road. Colostomy Hag was on its way to a show.