Page 56 of Down Beat
TWENTY-ONE
Rey
“Bullet With Butterfly Wings” – The Smashing Pumpkins
Yeah, Wallace told me in not so many words where I could stick Tabby’s seven hundred dollars. She doesn’t need to know where it comes from, just that she has it back. Fucking raping bastards. She’s not exactly somebody who can afford that bullshit.
I jog down the concrete steps two at a time, blistering to get on stage and get my frustrations out. Toby shoots me a scathing glare as I approach the steps, much the same as he would when I dropped him in the shit with Mom as kids. I ignore the moody bastard, and weave between where he and Kris play at the rear of the stage to retrieve my guitar.
Fuck him and his self-righteous pep talks. Does he honestly think that grilling me twenty-four seven is going to do any good? Way to shove the splinter in a little deeper there, brother.
I take position at the front of the stage and stare out over the grassy area that will be alive with a sea of moving bodies tonight. Emery crosses to where I stand and knocks his foot into my calf as he strums his bass. I catch his encouraging smile and give him a sharp nod before pulling out my pick and tearing into the song.
For the next hour my worries lessen piece by piece. Each break between songs gets easier to bear, each time we play our cohesion more and more evident. By the end of the sound check I’d almost say we’re back on good terms.
Almost.
“You get water backstage tonight,” Toby drops casually as he pulls the dust cover over his drum set.
I set my guitar in the stand and frown. “Water?”
“Can’t have a repeat of last night,” he states. “Not when we have two sold-out shows that will kill us to cancel.”
“And why the fuck would we cancel them?” I thrust my arms across my chest, widening my stance while he continues to avoid looking at me.
“Can’t play if you’re passed out, hey?”
“Fuck you.” I make it halfway off the stage before he calls me back.
“You really going to place this on me, Rey?”
I spin on my heel, considering the implications of laying my brother out. “I never said any of this was your fault, Toby. So don’t go putting words in my fucking mouth. I get it’s my fault,” I shout, throwing my arms wide. “I get that. But what doesn’t help is you constantly making me feel like shit for slipping, okay? I’m a fuckup, yeah. I know that. You know that. But making me feel as though I can’t ever be anything else doesn’t help.” I shake my head, adding before he gets a chance to speak, “You fucking label me before I have a chance to do it myself, so maybe yeah, this is a little your fault. I never was the good kid, was I?”
He says nothing, lips twisted as he stares me down. He knows I’m right. I know I’m right. I wasn’t the good kid in the family. Toby was the all-star sportsman, our sister the academic genius that excels at everything she does. Me? I’m the misfit, the square peg in the round hole.
I never fit in. I still don’t. I just figured out how to build a career around it.
“Ignore him,” Kris says quietly as I pass him side of stage. “He’s just being a big brother.”
“Yeah?” I scoff. “Well, right now the last thing I need is my goddamn family.”
He frowns, the concept seeming foreign to him. “Come on, man. Your family loves you.” He swallows, and I realize what a jerk comment it was to make to him before he says the next line. “At least yours acknowledge who you are.”
“Shit.” I scrub a hand over my face, and then glance at Toby. “I’m sorry, Kris.”
He shrugs, jerking his head to indicate we should keep walking. “No sweat. It’s easy for people to forget shit about me when I hardly ever say a fucking thing, right?”
I grin at the guy, thankful for his friendship. He’s a dark horse, a bit of a recluse, which is an oxymoron in itself given his career choice, but he’s an all-round good guy. He cares too much, and I guess this persona of his is the only way he knows how to cope with that.
“What are we having for dinner?” I ask as we descend the stairs into the tent set up behind the temporary stage. “They ordering in here, or are we heading back to the hotel?”
“Think it’s up to us.” He snatches a bottle of sports drink off the free-for-all table. “What do you want to do?”
“Hide and pretend my drunken ass isn’t plastered all over the interwebs at this very point in time.” I collapse into one of the beanbags and look for Emery. “Where did Em go?”
Kris shrugs as Toby jogs down the stairs. He shoots me a heated stare, and then marches out the exit flap, punching the canvas out of the way as he goes.
“It’ll blow over.”