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| CHAPTER 10 Many bruised emotions and deep claw wounds later, Kim and Elke withdrew
from each other. Kim stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her. The
effect was anything but prolonged, since Chatha scampered out after her babbling
about how she knew Elke hadn’t meant a thing and she knew Kim hadn’t meant a
thing and that the band couldn’t break up before it had been formed.
“’Cause ah reallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreally nee’ a band,
y’can’t take i’ away from m’fore i’s real!” She grabbed Kim’s
hand. “Please, go back there, say yer sorry, kiss’n’makeup, wha’ever.
Jus’ keep th’band alive. Please.”
“We do this,” Kim muttered, rubbing her lower arm. The flesh was
puffed out in dozens of little itchy, irritated wounds. “I think I’m
allergic to her.”
Chatha stretched Kim’s arm out and examined the puffy skin. “Huh. Tha’
‘appens t’me when a cat scratches me lightly. An’ i’ ‘appens t’Ebony
when sh’pretends t’cut ‘erlsef. Y’know, light scratch wi’th’ blade.
Ah s’ppose i’s jus’ a light scratch kinda’ thing.”
“I suppose.”
“Y’sound outta’ it.”
“Just tired.”
“Makes sense. Ah always ge’ tired when ah beat people up.”
“How often do you do that?”
“As oft’ as possible!” She grinned. “So y’gonna’ go b’good
an’ make up, or d’ah hafta beat y’both up?”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine.” Kim squeezed Chatha’s hand then let
go. “Go get the others, would you? Some band business needs discussing.”
“Like wha’?”
“Like getting a bassist and drummer.”
“Ah.” Chatha skipped back to what was evidently going to be the
band’s practice room, humming a structureless tune as she went. She paused in
front of the door to mosh to a particularly harsh noise that escaped her throat,
then slipped in.
Kim wandered into the living room and collapsed on the chesterfield.
Actually playing her songs with people had been weird, and the prompt fight with Elke that followed
wasn’t doing anything to help her mindset. She caught herself wondering,
though only for a very short time, whether or not it was worth it. Whether or
not she should go to the time and trouble of having a band.
Of course, it was something that had to be done. She had opinions that
needed to be voiced, talents that had to be tested. What was the point of being
able to do something if you didn’t do anything with it?
The girls filed into the room. Ebony was asking Geneveve how she got her
hair colors to show so strongly against what was obviously bleached hair.
Geneveve’s only answer was that she was lucky.
“So what do you want of us now, oh great one?”
Kim narrowed her eyes at Elke. “First off, a truce.”
“A truce? Between you and me? We’re best friends, Kim.” Elke walked
up to her and hugged her fiercely. When she let go, she smiled slyly. “You
know that means we’ll hate each other forever.”
With a slight smile of her own, Kim nodded. “True enough. Now everybody
take a seat.” She pushed herself away from the couch and waited for her group
to seat themselves. “We are currently Kim Kissably and the Red Lips Quartet.
Anyone have issues with that band name?”
“Yeh!” Chatha shot up from her spot on the floor. “Wh’can’t i’
be Chatha an’ the Luv Bunnies?” She grinned then ducked, as though trying to
escape the scathing looks she got from both Geneveve and Elke. “Ah like it
fine,” she muttered, dropping herself back down onto the floor.
“Does this mean we need to wear red lipstick?” Ebony, her black lips
pressed together, observed Kim.
“No. In fact, if I see any red lips in my band that are any shade other
than blood red, I will immediately disown whoever dared to be so literal.”
“Bu’ pink’sokay, raht?” Chatha looked about to push herself up to
her feet again, put Kim held her hand out.
“Yes, pink is fine. So long as everyone else here solemnly swears to
never wear a piece of pink.”
Elke, Geneveve, and Ebony had absolutely no problems with that addendum.
In fact, Ebony asked if they could cut Chatha’s use of pink down to the bare
minimum.
“I don’t think so.” Kim shook her head. “We’re grrls, dearies.
It’s all about individualism, mind-set, and image.
Image all the way. Each of us has to be wild in our own ways, or the feel of the
band just won’t work. I’m up there screaming ‘nice shoes, let’s fuck’
while everyone behind me is dressed in the exact same, borin’ old clothes? I
don’t think so.”
“So we all have to be totally different?” Elke glanced around the
group. “She’s hair girl--” pointing at Geneveve “--she’s goth--”
Ebony “--she’s ... pink--” Chatha “--and you’re a punky l’il bitch
goddess. What does that make me?”
“I have an idea you might like.” Kim came closer to the middle of the
room, almost trying to make it seem more personal and confidential.
“Fetish.”
Elke smiled. “Leather? Vinyl? Chain mail? Bar wench dresses? You
serious? You’re giving me the coolest bloody wardrobe anyone has ever worked
with!”
“Jus’ don’t let the power get to your head,” Kim muttered.
“A fetish guitarist. Mmm, I can see it now. Watch out, Kim-luv, I may
steal more hormone-crazed hearts than you do up on that stage.”
“That’s allowable. But there’s one more thing with this whole
band-image thing.”
The girls listened.
“Gen, I need you to find a pure-white wardrobe. Somehow. Somewhere. Any
gig we play, you wear white.”
“Why?”
“Geneveve means white-phantom. When I found that out, I got inspired.
It would be perfect.”
“My hair can stay all the colors of the unnatural rainbow, right?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’m all for the idea.”
“Wha’ abou’ tha’ole gettin’ a bassist an’ drummer, Kim? I
don’ think we’ll attract ‘em jus’ sittin’ ‘ere, talkin’ ‘bout
images an’all.”
“Stay calm, Chatha. I know what I’m doing.” Kim couldn’t help but
smile as she watched the little pink girl squirm. She wondered if Chatha had
ever had to keep her mind focused on one topic for so long before.
“I’d say a drummer is the most important thing we can get.” Elke
was sitting at the edge of the chesterfield, actually interested in this topic
of discussion.
“Well, my stance on this is that I won’t play a gig without a
bassist, but we can survive on a drum machine for a while.”
“Drum machine?” Elke almost gagged on the words.
“Yes. The Sisters of Mercy did it, and they worked miracles with it.
Depeche Mode is all machine noises, and yet they somehow pulled off a fulfilling and
controversial reign on the charts. It happens. The drum machine won’t damn
us.”
“Where are we getting the money for a drum machine?”
“Go to any pawn shop, they’ll have a cheapy. These things are no
longer the rage, in case you haven’t noticed that those machines died with the
‘80s.”
“And that sentence was somehow redundant.”
Kim sighed. “Elke, you are the most difficult bitch I have ever met.”
“Thank you.”
“So how are we gettin’ a bassist?” Ebony only spoke up because
Chatha, ashamed of all the questions she had asked previously, wouldn’t stop
poking her.
“Addy in the paper, of course.”
Chatha jumped up and ran out of the room, coming back with a pen and
paper, insisting that the band must write the ad together. After several
attempts, most of which were turned down by Chatha (not Kim), they had an ad
that was sure to attract what they wanted.
Kim shrugged. “Who knows. But at least we’re guaranteed to get what
we want. What sort of egotistical grrl bassist would say no to that ad?”
“You realize this band is going to tear itself to shreds one day,
Kim?” Elke shook her head. “We’re all of us bitches, and are inviting more
bitches in.” |
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Talk to LL,
the author. |