I
wake up and the events of last night come back in flashes, the way dreams do:
Lip against lip, mouths opening. Time slowing down, speeding up, slowing down. We are on the couch. We are on the bed. We are on the f loor. We are magnets. We are melting. We are drunk. We are ordering more champagne. We are drinking from each other’s mouths. We are drinking from each other’s skin. We are breathing heavy. We are
yip yip yipping.
We are cracking up. We are playing strip poker with fries as cards. We are winning. We are losing. We are naked. We are covered in sweat. We are licking it off. We are pressed together. We are going faster. We aren’t stopping.
We are going too fast.
We are slowing down. We are curling ourselves together into a ball. We are comparing our scars: white lines on my shin from slipping on wet rocks, tiny white circle of an ancient chicken pockmark on my hip, scratches on his arms from a lifetime of dogs, scraped up knees from falling off a bike, that tangle of jagged white lines on the inside of his arm for reasons he can’t say. We are breathing together. We are heartbeating
together. We are starting all over again. We are not sure where his body stops and mine begins. We are drifting off into something like sleep.
I lie here now, on this beautiful bed in this beautiful hotel room. Silk eye pillow wrapped around my wrist like a bracelet. One sock on, one sock off. My head pressed against the pillow, my face stuck in a smile. I reach out for Sean. But the bed is empty. I’m alone.
Alone.
Alone?
I sit up. There’s a glass of water next to the bed. I don’t know how it got there. I pick it up and drain it. My head aches, like my skull is slightly too small to hold my brain. My tongue feels fuzzy. My lips are sore. I get out of bed. I am naked except for the sock, and suddenly embarrassed. I pull the sheet off the bed and wrap it around myself.
“Hello?” I say. My voice isn’t working right. “Sean?” He’s not here. My whole body feels fragile, like I’m made of glass. I walk around the room, the sheet dragging behind me. Every bit of evidence from the night before has been cleared away. No champagne bottles, no room service cart. Even the balled-up napkins we used in the napkin war have magically disappeared.
My cell phone is on the table. It’s flashing. I have two text messages:
stop ignoring me
, from Amanda, and also
I’m
worried about you.
And four missed calls. All from her. But nothing from Sean. And I realize I can’t even call him. Because, ha-ha, I do not know his phone number.
I walk to the enormous bathroom. The door’s halfway open. No Sean.
I lean against the wall.
My heart is suddenly pounding. I squeeze my eyes shut.
What if I imagined everything that happened last night? Or I changed it all around in my head to make it what I wanted it to be?
A new picture starts to present itself. Me, drunk, falling all over the place. Talking too much. Laughing too loud. Spilling my whole soul to poor Sean who just wanted to eat some dinner and go to sleep.
I go into the bathroom and look at myself in the giant mirror over the sink. There are bags under my eyes and my hair is sticking out in all directions, there are pillow creases on my face and dried drool on my cheek. I turn the shower on steaming hot. I get in and let the water run over me. There’s a basket in the shower, containing tiny bottles of fifteen different types of shampoo, conditioner, and bath gel. I close my eyes and tip my head back. I wash my hair with basil mint shampoo. Brush my teeth, hard. Floss. I remind myself that what happened last night doesn’t even matter. This trip isn’t about Sean. I was just drunk. I thought we had a connection. I was wrong. This is about Nina. This is about finding Nina. But what if he’s gone now? Then what will I do?
I’m out of the shower. I dry off with a thick white towel, wrap myself in it.
I open the bathroom door and watch the steam escape. I pad out into the bedroom, I smell something. It smells salty and familiar and before I even realize what it is, my stomach starts grumbling.
“Greasy bacon, egg, and cheese?” Sean’s back, standing in front of the couch, a grease-stained brown paper bag clutched in his hand. My heart thumps painfully in my chest. I’m suddenly very aware that I’m in my towel.
“When you’re hungover, you need grease,” he says, staring into the bag. “Scientists, they’ve done studies.” He pulls out a tinfoil-wrapped sandwich. “I found a diner a couple miles away. The Jamies are still sleeping, I think.” He tosses the sandwich toward me, barely glancing in my direction. I reach out awkwardly with one hand. The egg and cheese falls to the floor at my feet. Sean goes over to the couch, sits down, and starts unwrapping his sandwich. “We should hurry up,” he says. “Get on the road as soon as possible.” He takes a bite of his egg sandwich, staring straight ahead. “It’s already past noon and we have about six hours more driving to do.”
“I’m just going to get dressed,” I say, pointing to the bathroom. “Then I’ll be ready to go.”
Sean doesn’t even look up, just nods to his sandwich.
I’m standing here in a towel and he’s staring at a sandwich.
This is worse than I thought.
T
he four of us are in the car again.
“Do you want me to turn the air down?” Sean asks. He’s not looking at me.
“That’s okay,” I say.
“What?”
“This is fine.”
“Okay,” Sean says.
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks for asking.”
“No problem,” says Sean. This is how it’s been since he came back with the sandwiches: horrible, awkward, weird. Like we have no idea how to talk to each other.
“Look how polite they are!” Jamie-girl says. “That’s so sweeeeeet. He treats her like she’s this
lady
? Why don’t
you
ever treat me like a lady?”
“Well, maybe I’ll treat you like a lady when you start acting like one,” Jamie-boy says. In the rearview mirror I see him grab her boob. She squeals and starts giggling.
More images from last night pop into my head—I shut my eyes. Sean stroking my hair. Sean kissing my neck. Sean’s
hands on my…I turn toward him, he’s watching the road. He doesn’t turn toward me and smirk, or make a funny face, or roll his eyes about the Jamies. I feel my heart squeezing and a wave of loneliness sucking at my insides. How are we the same two people that did all that stuff together just last night? It feels like it happened a hundred years ago or that maybe I imagined the entire thing. I think back to Saturday afternoon when he showed up at the store, and Friday when he was staring at me at the party. We feel more like strangers now than we did the very first time we met. My eyes ache with tears trying to get out. I swallow hard, try and remind myself that I’m just here to find Nina, that things with Sean don’t really matter.
But I can’t help feeling like they do.
I bet Nina never had a morning after like this. She never seemed to feel awkward, always felt comfortable, no matter who she was with or what the situation. It’s probably one of the things that made her so attractive to people, her constant ease. I want to say
Why can’t we just be normal to each other?
I want to say
Don’t you like me anymore?
But instead all I do is force a cough, because this is the most appropriate conversation starter I can think of.
“You okay?” Sean says.
“Yeah, I just had a tickle in my throat.”
Pause.
“I hate that,” he says.
Pause.
“Me, too,” I say.
Then silence again. If we actually do find Nina, I’ll definitely need to ask her what the hell a person is supposed to say in a situation like this. But for now, all I can think to do is lean my head against the window and stare out.
I
t’s like another planet out here: giant green tubes topped with spiky red and yellow balls sit next to cabbage-size flowers with inch-thick petals and delicate ten-foot stalks curve their graceful limbs up toward the sky. The sun is setting now, all brilliant pinks and oranges, somehow different than any sunset I’ve ever seen. The colors are brighter maybe, or the light is different somehow. I don’t know. But my brain has decided we’re no longer on earth, a fact it supports with the strange plants, the hair-dryer hot air, and the red mountains off in the distance. This is, I guess, why people travel in the first place. Surrounded by all this, I am having trouble holding on to my own sadness. It no longer seems to make sense. Nothing does.
It is hours later now and we are in the desert in Arizona.
“Two more miles on this road,” Jamie-boy says, reading from a computer printout. “And then one more left and then it should be right there on our right.” We keep driving and a few minutes later, we see a long line of people standing on
the side of the road, next to a long line of cars pulled off on the shoulder.
“Looks like this must be it,” Sean says.
Jamie-girl claps her hands together. “Yeee!”
Sean parks his car at the end of the row and then we all get out, the Jamies dragging their giant duffel bag behind them.
“You can just leave that in the car,” Sean says. “I mean, you don’t want to carry it around for the whole show do you?”
“Ah,” Jamie-boy says. “But we do!” He puts the bag down on the dusty ground, bends over, and unzips it halfway. He removes two black T-shirts, hands one to Jamie-girl. They put them on, then turn around.
Monster Hands Monstrosity Tour Staff
is silk-screened in green on the back.
“Okay, so they’re not the most
professional
T-shirts, but they get the job done,” Jamie-girl says, winking. “We make them ourselves, you know!”
Jamie-boy hoists the bag back up onto his shoulder and pats it like it’s his pet.
“Thanks for the ride, guys,” Jamie-girl says. She gets next to the bag, unzips a side pocket, and removes a piece of fabric, which she unfolds and pins to the side of the duffel bag.
Official Monster Hands Merch
is silk-screened on it in the same green ink. “And for the hotel room and everything.”
“But wait!” I say. I hear the franticness rising in my voice. Reality is suddenly catching up with me, and it does
not look good. “What about the concert and you helping us get in and everything? What about us meeting the band?”
“Oh, yeah, that,” Jamie-girl says. She frowns for a second. “Well, I mean, you’ll be fine. Just buy a ticket. I’m sure there’s some left, they have a cult following but they hardly ever sell out a show. The ticket line’s right there.” She motions with her head. “As for meeting the band, well, you’re on your own with that one, sweetie. We’ve been trying to meet the band for years and the closest we’ve ever gotten is the time their manager kicked us out of their show for selling unofficial merchandise.” Then she grins. “Anyway, we gotta run, this bag o’ Monsty isn’t going to sell itself! Oh, and don’t worry about us getting back, we’ll figure it out. As you might have noticed, we’re really quite resourceful!” Jamie-boy gives me a final up-down look and then the two of them walk off, calling “Official Monster Hands T-shirts, twenty-five dollars! Official posters of the new Monster Hands album cover, fifteen dollars! Monster Hands monster hands, twenty dollars! Official bottles of Monster Hands monster water, five dollars.”
And Sean and I are both left standing there in the warm Arizona sunset staring at their backs, watching them go.
“Whoa,” Sean says. “What just happened there?” But he’s more talking to himself than to me. “I think we’ve just been Jamie’d.”
We stand at the end of the line, behind a girl in black flip-flops, a denim miniskirt, and a gray T-shirt with the
neck cutout that keeps drifting down exposing one smooth tan shoulder. She has a pair of large gray rubber hands strapped over her real ones like gloves.
“I have no idea,” I say. “I really have no idea.” The girl in front of us turns around, she’s beautiful—heart-shaped face, perfectly arched eyebrows, long dark hair. When she sees Sean, she smiles a big gorgeous grin. “You know those guys?” She motions with her monster hands to where Jamie and Jamie are working their way down the line.
“Not really,” Sean says. “Although we did just spend the last like thirty-six hours with them.”
“Oh my, my, my,” the girl glances at me, then back at Sean, then glances at me again. She’s trying to figure out if I’m his girlfriend. “Ah yes, the Creepy-Jamies infamous in the Monsty scene for being total scammers and also…being rather, um,
open
about their private activities. Did you happen to notice that during your thirty-six hours of Jamie?”
Sean nods. “We’ve been treated to some triple-X live Jamie-on-Jamie action.”
The girl reaches out her monster hands and puts her hand on his shoulder. “Oh, you poor dears,” she says. But she’s looking only at him.
I feel a hot prickle of jealousy creeping up the back of my neck. A warm wind blows and ruffles her silky hair.
“So where are you guys from?” the girl asks.
“Awfully far away,” Sean says.
They keep talking as we work our way up to the front of the line. They’re chatting it up like long-lost best friends and I feel completely invisible, which I don’t mind at the moment, because I sort of wish I were. Fifteen minutes pass and we’re only a few feet away from the doorway now. The girl in front of us flashes her ID and heads inside. And that’s when I spot a big sign
21+ for entry. No IDs, No Entry, No exceptions!
I nudge Sean, who takes something out of his wallet and shows it to the bouncer. A fake ID. I’m standing at the front counter, paralyzed. “Come on, Nina,” Sean says, standing just past me inside the doorway. I look at him. Of course. I have her passport. I take it out and hand it to the very hairy guy who’s sitting on top of a tiny wooden chair. He barely glances at it before stamping the inside of my wrist with the face of a tiny monster and ushering me inside.
Spit Pavilion is one giant room with scuffed wood floors and super high industrial-looking ceilings. There’s a stage straight back and a bar off to the left with dozens of people crowded in front of it and hung up behind it is a giant white-horned animal skull, the kind of thing you’d see tied to the front of a truck. The place smells like a mix of beer and wood smoke. I glance at Sean. His hands are in his pockets and he’s looking around, maybe trying to find the monster hands
girl? I force myself to turn away and remind myself why I’m here.
An opening band is playing: two guys on drums and a girl in lederhosen and combat boots singing:
Nein nein nein! No no no! Nein nein nein I shoot you with crossbow.
And then, finally, the lederhosen girl stops singing, and a guy in a bright red suit comes onstage and takes the mic.
“That was Lady Bratvoorst direct from Germantown, Maryland. Give it up for Lady Bratvoorst everyone!” The crowd lets out a weak cheer. “And now, The Spit Pavilion could not be more fucking thrilled to bring back one of our very favorite bands of all time. We love them. You love them.
Your momma loved them last night.
Put your gray rubber hands together foooooor Monster Hands!” The crowd goes insane, cheering, screaming, making loud growly monster noises while two guys run out onstage and a third cartwheels out behind them. A moment later the music starts and the bar explodes in even louder cheers. All around me, people start dancing. I feel something inside me beginning to lift.
And then I feel something cold and wet splashing on my leg.
“Oh shit! I’m sorry!” I turn to my right, there’s a great big guy about one-and-a-half times the size of a regular person, with curly blond hair and giant rubber monster hands, standing there grinning apologetically. “Gravity!” he calls
out. “It’s particularly strong over here I think!” I look down, there’s an empty beer glass tipped over on its side, pouring out around my flip-flops.
“It’s okay,” I call back.
“No one likes beer-feet! Let me get something to dry you off at least.” The guy takes one of my hands in his monster hand and drags me toward the bar. I turn back to look at Sean, but the spot he was standing in just seconds ago is now empty.
“Hey, Eddie! Big clumsy idiot over here spilled all over this girl! Hook me up with some napkins!”
The bartender smirks as he pours two different bottles simultaneously into a glass. “Spilling on a girl so you get to mop her? Oldest trick in the book!” He turns toward me. “Watch out for Danny over here!”
The bartender hands Danny a big stack of napkins which Danny promptly hands to me. “Lest you think I am not a gentleman, I will not attempt to dry you.”
I bend over and dry myself off, and when I stand back up, Danny is still there smiling.
“I swear I didn’t spill on you on purpose just so I’d get to talk to you,” Danny says. “But if I’d seen you before I spilled…I might have!”
“Thanks?” I say. “I think?” Danny’s smiling a big goofy grin, more funny than flirty. I crane my neck looking for Sean again. Where
is
he?
“Shall we dance?” Danny says. He sticks out his hand.
I keep looking around. No Sean. I feel a stab of disappointment. But then remind myself of that thing I seem to keep having occasion to need to remember—I’m not here for Sean, I’m here for Nina. He’s not my boyfriend, he’s just a friend, and we were drunk, and it didn’t mean anything, so if Sean wants to go off and do whatever else with whoever else, well that is not my concern,
that’s his business
…now if only I could really believe this.
For the next hour, Danny and I dance like crazy. We do the Shopping Cart, the Roger Rabbit, the Moonwalk, the Lawnmower, and then a bunch of dances we make up—the Time Keeper, the Tooth Brusher, the Hair Comber, the Sandwich Eater. As we dance I can feel myself sweating out the hangover sadness. Whenever I start to think about Sean, about last night, or about the weirdness today, I just dance harder, dance sillier. And by the time Monster Hands plays the final chord of their encore, “Cupcake Battle Dome,” I am feeling kind of okay.
“Thanks for the dancing,” I say to Danny. And then I excuse myself. It’s time to do what I came here for.
“I’ll never forget you, beer-shoe girl!” Danny calls out behind me. “I’m going to get these dirty napkins framed!” I turn back and he smiles, and I wave. And that’s it. There’s a shiny black door next to the stage blocked by a giant guy with waist-length curly hair and a giant brown leather jacket.
I watch as two girls in tiny matching gray dresses approach the door. They’re saying something to the guy. He’s shaking his head. They’re pouting. He crosses his arms. One of the girls pulls down the front of her dress and shakes her boobs at him. He’s barely even looking. Finally the girls give up, give the guy the finger, and walk away.
I take a deep breath. And as I walk forward, I try and channel my inner Nina. I close my eyes and I suddenly remember something Nina had told me the night before my first day of middle school: If you’re going somewhere where you feel like you might not belong, the only person you need to work to convince is yourself. Everyone else is easy.
I stand up a little straighter and walk toward the door.
I’m not a groupie. I’m friends with the band. They’ ll be thrilled to see me.
When I get to the door, the big guy is holding it open while a little guy walks through with a giant amp. I look the big guy straight in the eye and smile my biggest Nina-est smile.
“I’m here to see Monster Hands,” I say.
The guy just stares at me.
“I’m friends with them,” I smile again, bigger this time.
“Sure you are, honey.” He shakes his head and lets go of the door.
“I’m serious!” I say.
“Well, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Tits McGee over there.” He motions to where the girls in the gray dresses are standing by the bar doing shots. “The boys in the band
didn’t tell me about any special guests tonight, and until I hear it from them, you’re not getting backstage.”
“Well, then go ask them!” I say. “Tell them…tell them Nina Wrigley is here to see them. They’ll be happy to see me. I’m positive.”
The guy looks at me again and tips his head to the side.
“Seriously, they’ll be really upset if they find out I was here and they didn’t get to see me. I’m the girl who tattooed Ian’s stomach!”
“Alright, alright, I’ll go and ask them.”
The guy disappears behind the heavy metal door and reappears a few minutes later, smiling and looking a little embarrassed.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Nina. We’ve just had a string of crazy fans trying to get back lately so I’ve just had to be kind of a jerk about it. They’re really excited you’re here, they said to send you in. Go all the way back.”
And then he winks and steps aside. I’m inside looking down a crowded hallway lined with guitars and amps and a dozen or so people are hanging out drinking beers. A guy in a charcoal gray suit is standing in front of a doorway at the end of the hall yelling “this is not a negotiable issue” over and over into his phone, emphasizing different words each time. “This is
not
a negotiable
issue, this
is not a
negotiable
issue.” I walk past him into the room.
It’s strangely quiet, as though all the noise of the hallway died at the entrance. The two red-haired guys are sitting
cross-legged on the couch eating bowls of cereal. The black-haired guy is standing by an open window, shirtless in a pair of pajama pants with kittens printed on them, smoking a cigarette. They all look up when I walk in.
“Who the feck are you?” the kitten-pajama guy says in a thick Irish accent. He’s smiling.
“You’re not Nina,” says one of the guys on the couch. He sounds very disappointed. I recognize him from the picture, he’s the one who had his arm around her. “Where’s Nina?”
“You here for some cereal?” asks the guy on the other side of the couch. He has a short red beard, and a tiny milk mustache. He’s smiling. “We’ve got Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Lucky Charms, which I realize as I say it is a somewhat ironic cereal choice for us. You’d think a real Irishman wouldn’t want them.”