Boring Girls Read online

  I pictured being in front of an audience, finally; the cheering and applause, the lights sweeping over us, how amazing we would look and sound. Maybe Paul already had a bias against us and no one had heard of us, but after tonight that would change. We’d win them all over and show them that we were a force to be reckoned with. Their mouths would drop open when they saw how amazing Fern was on guitar, and I would show them what I could do, and it would all begin tonight.

  Socks put on our crappy demo CD as we moved onto the highway and turned it up. I opened the window, feeling the cool air blow on my face, and closed my eyes blissfully. I was reminded of going to the Surgical Carnage show — the first time going out with people I could be friends with, feeling that excitement of fitting in, and here it was again, only better this time — I was in a band, I was a vocalist, and I had a bond with the other three people in the van. We were going to do awesome things. Socks roared along with one of my roars on the CD and punched the steering wheel happily.

  xXx

  When we arrived in St. Charles late that afternoon and found the Toe, a heavy, sober feeling came over all of us. The music was off, and we were quiet as we pulled into the parking lot. I saw six guys and a few girls milling around, standing next to a parked van.

  “Is that them?” I asked.

  “Probably,” Socks replied. I studied them through the window as Socks steered the van into a parking space near the other vehicle. They were all looking at us as well, and none of their expressions were particularly friendly. Every single one of them had long black hair, the guys and the girls, and they all wore black, some with wallet chains hanging from their pants, some with spiked wristbands.

  “Don’t they look like a friendly bunch,” Edgar murmured.

  “They’re probably thinking the same thing about us,” Fern said in as bright a voice as she could muster, but I knew by the way she stared out the window that she wasn’t getting the best vibe either.

  Socks hopped out of the van and approached the group. As the rest of us dawdled in collecting our purses and knapsacks, I watched him shake a few of their hands, talking animatedly. I appreciated him making such a positive effort. They looked like a bunch of assholes to me.

  The inevitable couldn’t be postponed for very much longer, so I climbed out of the van and forced myself to approach the group. One of the guys walked over to meet me, flanked by two girls.

  “Hi, I’m Rachel,” I said. “I’m the singer.”

  “Paul,” he replied, making no move to shake my hand. “Singer and guitarist for Heathenistic Bile. These are my girlfriends, Kate and Jennifer.”

  I smiled at the two girls, receiving only sour-faced responses in reply. They looked at me almost challengingly. Great. “Nice to meet you,” I attempted.

  One of the girls flatly said, “I’m also Paul’s hairstylist.”

  I quickly looked at Paul’s rather unremarkable hair and noted that it was long and black and dyed likely out of the same drugstore box as mine. “Girlfriends, huh? Like, you all date each other?”

  “Yes,” the other girl purred, sliding a possessive arm around Paul and flashing me a dirty look. I resisted the urge to reassure her that I had no intention of hitting on her boyfriend — sorry, their boyfriend — and instead asked Paul, “So what’s going on?”

  “We’re just waiting for the owner to get here so we can load in. He should be about ten minutes or so.”

  I nodded. “Are those other guys in your band?”

  “Yeah, drummer and bassist. The other three guys are our crew.”

  “Crew?”

  “Yeah. They load in our gear for us, help us onstage. Our show gets pretty insane. Where’s your crew?”

  “We don’t have one.” I was getting pissed off.

  “Right, it’s your first show. This will be our third,” he said. “We’re probably going to have a few hundred people tonight. Heathenistic Bile is really starting to take off. A few record labels have already contacted us.”

  I swallowed and tried to infuse my voice with pleasantness. “That’s great. So maybe we should get our gear out of the van so when the owner gets here we’re ready to move it inside?”

  “Sure. You know, my guys could help you if you need a hand with your gear — if you give them a couple bucks, of course.”

  “Oh, I think we’ll be fine,” I said and turned back to the van so he wouldn’t see my scowl. There was no reason to make the gig go badly by screaming in his face that he was an idiot.

  Fern and Edgar had already opened the back of the van and were gathering the gear. “That guy is a fucking moron,” I hissed when I had rejoined them. “Those two girls are his girlfriends.”

  “They’ve been shooting daggers at me the whole time,” Fern muttered.

  “The rest of those dudes over there are their crew,” I said sarcastically. “They’re so big time after playing two whole shows.”

  Socks had come back to us in time to hear my last comment. “Well, not really a crew — a couple of their friends. They seem like good guys. The band guys, though, well . . . I don’t know.”

  “Apparently their live show is insane,” I reported.

  “What does that mean?” Edgar asked.

  “Oh, I’m sure we’ll find out,” I muttered.

  The owner arrived and unlocked the back doors, and as we watched Heathenistic Bile’s pals start carrying in guitar cases and rolling in amps, the band stood with their girlfriends, smoking cigarettes and laughing amongst themselves.

  “Apparently some record labels have been talking to them,” I said.

  “Oh, bullshit. It’s all bullshit. They’re just full of themselves,” Socks replied. “Their bass player was telling me that a few hundred people are coming tonight. I don’t see how, but I hope he’s right. That’d be amazing.”

  “I wonder what they mean by insane,” Edgar worried. “We’re going to look boring.”

  We loaded in our gear after them, carrying in the drum cases, guitars, and amps. The guys from the other band stood by and watched us, which I found extremely irritating. Every time I would come back out for another load of stuff I could feel their eyes on me, particularly the girls’, sizing up me and Fern. I wanted to scream at them that we were not there to pick up guys. We were in a band and we just wanted to play music and have fun.

  The Toe was disgusting. It stank like years of old spilled beer, and it didn’t make matters any better that right beside the back door was a giant, reeking dumpster. I had to stop myself from gagging a few times as I made my trips past that thing. The stage in the bar was really small and only a few feet off the ground, and there were a few places on it that were apparently unstable and had been marked off with tape so that we would know to be careful if we stepped there. The owner was a tired old guy who Sharpied an X on our hands so that we couldn’t drink, which was fine by me. Socks was the only one of us who was of age, and I noticed that the Heathenistic Bile guys were X’d as well.

  There was still about two hours until the doors opened, and apparently Heathenistic Bile was using that time to soundcheck. Our gear would sit at the side of the stage until they were finished. So the four of us decided to go eat and come back to the bar later on.

  The street in front of the Toe was deserted, not exactly lending credence to Paul’s claim of hundreds coming to the show. The area itself was pretty dirty and rundown, and we found a really sketchy restaurant up the street.

  “So there’s a guy there named Mitchell, he’s the Toe’s sound guy,” Socks reported once we’d ordered our cheap food from the stained menu. “He’s going to mix our sound tonight. He’s also doing Heathenistic Bile’s sound.”

  “But how can he do our sound if he’s never heard our music?” I asked.

  “He’ll just wing it. I’m sure he’s been doing sound there for years, done tons of bands. He seems like a grumpy guy.
Tonight is going to suck,” Socks warned us. “Make no mistake.”

  “I’m still worried about what kind of show they put on,” Edgar said.

  “We saw them load in their gear,” Fern reminded him. “I didn’t see any crazy props or anything, just instruments. I guess they probably just get really into it.”

  “I guess,” Edgar said.

  “Well, we’ll get into it too,” I said stubbornly. “We’ll upstage them.” I spoke more confidently than I felt. I’d never gotten into it before, but I was hoping that once I was onstage in front of a crowd, something would just sort of kick in instinctively.

  “Besides, we have two chicks in our band. That sets us apart from them already. They’re just a bunch of boring kids with big egos. What they’re doing has all been said and done before,” said Socks. “We already have an edge, just going in.”

  He was trying to motivate us, but it didn’t do anything to lessen the feeling of dread at the table. My stomach was starting to feel queasy, and we ate the greasy food in near silence. It was a far cry from how great we’d all been feeling when we left earlier that afternoon.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The doors were set to open at 7, and our band to take the stage at 8, so we went back to the bar shortly after 7. We showed the guy at the door our wristbands and walked into a dark, pretty much empty room. I was shocked to see less than twenty people sitting at a few of the tables around the room. Loud music played on the overhead speakers, but the room was dead.

  We stared at the emptiness in disappointment, and then Socks turned to rally us. “Okay. Let’s go get dressed and then get our gear set up. We have less than an hour, right? So let’s get ready to rock.” I appreciated his effort, but all it was doing was depressing me even more. “I’m ready to go, so I’m going to find Mitchell and then I’ll meet you guys at the side of the stage in a little while.” He smiled and gave us all an inspiring thumbs-up, and then walked off towards the bar.

  Fern, Edgar, and I went past the bathrooms towards the little room we had been shown where the bands could relax. We opened the door and all the guys from the other band were sprawled on the disgusting, torn-up couches. The walls were cov­ered with graffiti and marker scrawling, mostly of sex organs in all manner of stupid mutations, and band stickers posted here and there.

  “Hi guys, getting excited?” Paul greeted us. One of his girlfriends was applying black liner to his eyes.

  “There aren’t too many people here,” Fern said.

  Paul shrugged. “It’s still early. People come later. By the time we get onstage, this place will be packed.”

  “Right on,” the bass player agreed, and everyone in the room except for us laughed.

  I wanted to ask them whether or not sitting on those filthy couches was a good idea, considering the amount of piss and bugs that likely festered there, but didn’t bother. It was actually a pretty fitting environment for those assholes, as far as I was concerned.

  Edgar decided to go find Socks and start getting ready, and Fern and I took our knapsacks into the girls’ bathroom so that we could get dressed and do our makeup.

  “It’s cute how his girlfriend is doing his eyeliner for him,” she hissed, struggling to put on her pantyhose without placing her shoeless foot onto the disgusting tile floor.

  “Oh, she’s his hairstylist too,” I said, tugging down on my skirt to straighten it out. I was really starting to feel sick from nerves, and I took deep breaths to try to calm down.

  “How helpful,” Fern scoffed. “I wouldn’t be so pissed about it if they were nice people. Those girls act like we’re prostitutes or something.”

  “Yeah. It’s irritating.”

  Clothes on, we turned to the cracked mirror over the sinks to quickly put on our makeup. “Fern . . . are you nervous?”

  “Yeah, a bit. I’m more disappointed that there aren’t many people here.”

  I was almost relieved that there weren’t, because in my nervousness I was doubting my own abilities, worrying that we weren’t any good. Once ready, we walked through the bar, across the large empty expanse of floor to the side of the stage. I felt the few people who sat there watching us, and it was a pretty lousy feeling. Socks was onstage already, setting up his drums, and even though the music was so loud I couldn’t hear, I saw his lips pursed in a merry whistle. I really wished that I knew how to summon up that level of cheerful relaxation.

  Edgar was talking to a tall guy at the side of the stage. Leaning in, he introduced us. “Robbie, this is Rachel and Fern. Guys, this is Robbie. He’s the DJ and the promoter.”

  “Great to meet you,” Robbie greeted us, smiling. “I’m really excited about your band.”

  Fern and Edgar went to set up the rest of their gear, leaving me standing with Robbie and now having to make conversation.

  “Heathenistic Bile is great, really great,” Robbie continued. “There aren’t many local metal bands. We’re happy you could make it.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “We’re excited for it.”

  “There aren’t many people here,” he continued, gesturing needlessly to the dead-empty dance floor in front of the stage, “but you know, word will spread and more and more people will start coming out. You know, the last Heathenistic Bile show, we had about fifty people come out.”

  “Is heathenistic a word?” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “I was just wondering, is heathenistic actually a word?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess it means, you know, ‘like a heathen.’”

  “But wouldn’t the proper word just be ‘heathen’? It can be used as an adjective as well as a noun. Or heathenist?”

  “I don’t really know.” Robbie looked confused as to why I would even care. “You know, I should probably let you get ready.”

  I felt bad. “Yeah. Hey, you know, thank you very much for this, and helping and everything. I think you’re doing a great thing with these shows, and I’m happy we can be part of it.”

  “No problem,” he said and smiled at me before disappearing back into the bar.

  I stood and watched the others set up, trying to keep from looking at the people in the bar. I could feel their eyes on me and started to feel even sicker, but I tried to keep a bored, relaxed expression on my face.

  Socks seated himself behind the drum kit and Fern and Edgar took their places on either side of the stage. My microphone stand stood alone at the front of the stage between them like a spindly flag that I was going to have to stand behind for the next half hour. I burped and tasted my greasy dinner, and realized that vomiting was an actual possibility.

  Fern and Edgar looked over at me. I could see fear in their eyes as well, and I looked at Socks, who grinned and gave me a nod. It was time.

  I took a deep breath, lifted my chin, and walked onstage with what I hoped was a purposeful, confident stride. I stopped behind the microphone and stared into the abyss in front of the stage, squinting under the bright lights shining in my eyes, and realized that the overhead music was still blasting loudly.

  I didn’t know what to do. I stood there like an idiot, jealous of the others for being able to tinker with their instruments, and searched my mind frantically for some way to signal for the music to stop playing. But I didn’t know who was in charge of the music, and I couldn’t see much because of the stupid lights. My face started to burn with horror.

  The music came to a full and abrupt stop and the sudden silence was almost worse. After a hideous pause, I cleared my throat and was horrified to hear the sound amplified through the microphone.

  “Hello,” I faltered. Hello!? What the fuck! “Hi. We are Colostomy Hag.” The silence that followed was even worse than my polite, cheesy introduction. I heard hard clapping begin, a single pair of hands, and looked over past Edgar to see Robbie applauding alone at the side of the stage. I knew he was trying to be supportive, and
I tried to smile at him, but the lone clapper somehow made it even worse.

  Thankfully Socks immediately counted in the first song, and we launched into it. My cheeks were burning with embarrassment in that first minute, especially when I realized that I was not going to be “rocking out” in any way. I stood behind the microphone, squinting through the lights, and tried to bob my head along to the music. I could feel failure coursing through my body. Peripherally, I saw Fern start moving a little bit, but on the other side of me, Edgar remained stock still as well.

  When we finished the first song, a smattering of applause went through the room, and I tried to smile with confidence. “Thank you,” I said, relieved for a moment until I remembered that we still had seven more songs to play.

  We launched into the next song and I did my best to try to act like I was into it. I realized that I was just tapping my toe like some kind of moron, so then I awkwardly stopped doing that and bobbed my head instead, letting my hair cover my face a little bit, hoping that somehow it would look cool. I let out a few roars that hopefully sounded impressive, and the set continued. At one point I looked up and saw a long-haired guy in the middle of the dance floor in front of the stage, headbanging furiously. Excitement flooded me, until I saw the guy hurriedly rejoin his friends at a nearby table, laughing. So he’d just been making fun of us. Great.

  The applause between songs lessened after each one, and by the time we had two songs left, there was actually dead silence in that space. Even Robbie was nowhere to be seen, which was probably more of a blessing than anything else. All I could do was wipe my sweaty palms off on my skirt and wait for Socks to count us in. At least we were close to being done. In the rehearsal space, the set always went by quickly. This felt like a sweltering, bright eternity.

  Halfway through the second last song, a small group of people formed in the middle of the room. I peered out, squinting, to see who it was. Anger started to build in me as I saw it was Paul and the other guys in Heathenistic Bile. Paul stood with his arms folded and a small grin on his face. He looked ridiculous — with all the black-and-white makeup on — and he had the nerve to stand there, smirking at us?