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CHAPTER 11 The auditions went much as Kim expected for the first while. There were
a bunch of non-talented sluts who seemed to think their near lack of clothing
would get them elected in; there were a few really ugly ones who would have been
able to play in a school band and not much else; there were those few actually
talented ones who had personalities that made Kim physically ill; and, of
course, there were the inevitable rush of boys who didn’t understand what
“grrls only” or “nothing with a prick allowed” meant. They took up more
than half the auditions.
Chatha came rushing into the room near the end of the third painful hour.
Her usually rosy cheeks were even brighter, and she had a hard time catching her
breath.
“What is it, Darlin’? I sent that last prick out with a warnin’
that if he touched any o’ my grrls, there’d be hell to pay.”
“Nah, s’not tha’! Ther’sa nuther girly ‘ere! Sent m’rushin’
in ‘cause she thinks y’might’ve gi’en upor got someone else alrea’y.
Doesn’t want y’t’ close up on th’ audition jus’ yet. Ah told ‘er
ah’d run, so I did.”
“Is this one worth my time?” Kim sank back into the chair she’d
been suffering in since the auditions opened.
“I d’no. Sh’looks diff’rent. No makeup. An’ sh’sounds all
weirdan’ stuff.”
“How do you mean?”
“I think she’s American.” Chatha had dropped her voice almost to a
whisper when she said the last word.
Kim groaned. “And I thought the bloody blokes were bad enough. Fine,
send her in. It’s been three hours. Another few minutes won’t add too
much to my future psychiatric bill.”
Chatha scurried back to the door. “C’mon in, Miss America!” She
disappeared down the hall.
Kim rolled her eyes, then she held her breath until the American girl
walked in. She wasn’t sure how to react to what she saw. The girl had clear
and wide brown eyes, set in a beautiful oval face. She had shoulder length hair
that was naturally brown, cut off very precisely so the bottom was even. She was
wearing a short blue sweater and knee-length brown skirt. Her body was very well
proportioned, and she was just big enough to be healthy; which was new to Kim
and her hyperactive or anorexic friends.
“I’m not actually American,” were the first words out of her mouth,
in an overly American accent.
“You talk like you are.”
The girl leaned her electric bass against the wall. “My father’s
American. I was born there, but I’ve lived here since I was 10.”
“And haven’t lost the accent.”
“Don’t intend to. It’s not much of a heritage, but everyone has to
hold onto something.”
“Well, my British-American friend, I’ve got a few questions to ask
before I even listen to you play.”
“Very well.”
“Your standpoint on males in general?”
“Not into them. I’ve made a few friends of them, but only the ones
with no looks; the second they have anything going for them, they’re so in
love with themselves.”
Kim narrowed her eyes. It wasn’t the answer she’d expected. “Care
to elaborate?”
“Romantically, anything of the male persuasion isn’t for me. If
you’re not cool with that, I could go try out for some other band.” She
reached her hand out to pick up her bass.
“My girlfriend’s name is Gwen.”
The girl stopped.
“What’s yours?”
“Jessica.”
“Well, Jessica, what kind of music do you like playin’ most?
What’re your influences? Why?”
“Ever heard Overground?”
“As in The Banshee’s work of genius?”
“Yes.”
“I worship it.”
“And Siouxsie too, I’d hope.”
“That would figure, wouldn’t it? So what’s this about Overground?”
“It’s what I see as musical perfection. If I can ever get that much
soul while playing my bass, my life will be complete.”
“So you only play soft, or--”
“--anything. I listen to everything. I play everything.”
“Can I hear?”
Jess picked up her bass and headed for the amp. She got everything set
up, playing a few test notes every once in a while. Once satisfied, she laid her
fingers lightly against the strings, rubbing them slowly to make what was almost
a humming sound. “I have to warm my girl up. She’s been outside too long.”
“Go ahead.” Kim watched Jessica’s hands, moving over the bass. Her
fingers were so careful, as though one wrong movement or touch would make the
bass cringe away. Her touch was so light that her hand may not have even been
touching the cold red surface. “Do you have a last name?”
“Flint.” Jessica didn’t even glance at Kim, just set her fingers
onto the strings to make a chord, and started playing in a pulsing rhythm that
flowed between keys and octaves, proving that she knew more about her instrument
than any of the auditions before her.
“Jessica Flint.” Kim tore her eyes away from her. “We may not have
to change it.”
“It’s the name of my American father. He’s in the States, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I moved here with Mom when I was 10, after the divorce went
through.” She stroked the strings on her bass again. “This was my father’s
final farewell.”
“How old are you now?”
“Just barely 18. That a problem?”
“I’ve been 18 for a half year, the pink girl who let you in is 16,
and my guitarists are both 17. I think the goth is 17 too.”
“What does the pink girl do?”
“So far as I can tell, look cute.” Kim grinned. “She’s got a bari-sax
and she can play, but she’d much rather make strange sound effects and prove that
she can bounce with a piece of metal almost as tall as she is strapped over her
shoulder.”
“Every band needs eyecandy.”
“You sayin’ I’m not eye candy enough?”
Jessica smiled softly. “You are. But all your girls have a darker look,
so the innate pinkness of your cute little saxophone player draws the eye.”
“I’d bloody well hope something about me
would draw the eye too!” Kim shoved her hair back away from her face.
Jessica rested her bass on the floor and walked over to Kim. She touched
Kim’s hair, then separated a chunk and let it fall over her forehead. “The
blood red’s nice. Very nice. Draws attention to the face, which is even nicer.
If you want more notice, though, contrast. Maybe a midnight blue streak.”
Kim caught Jessica’s hand before she drew it back. She brought it down
to eye level and studied the short nails and calloused finger tips. “You play
your bass a lot.”
“Yes.”
Kim ran her fingertips across Jessica’s. “You’ve got beautiful
hands.”
“You’re flirting with me.” Jessica sounded amused yet also
interested.
“Nah, I’ve got a girlfriend. And I don’t date inside the band. That
would bloody well tear the thing apart.”
“Does that mean I’m in?”
Kim let go of her hand. “What’s your fave band?”
“Siouxsie and the Banshees.”
The made Kim smile. “Second in line?”
“Ministry.”
“Third?”
“Cure.”
“You really don’t look the type. For any of those.”
“You don’t have to look like your music. You just have to feel it.”
“And do you have any problem with those who do
look like their music?”
“None.” Jessica retreated to her bass. “I never got into the peer
group who appreciated goth, punk, or even industrial. Watching from afar, I’ve
fallen in love with enough goth girls that I maybe should have picked the
fashion up to try to impress them, but it just doesn’t fit my personality.”
“And why wear skirts?”
“Why not? It was in my closet.”
Kim smiled again. “I think I like you.”
“Need to hear anymore from my bass?”
“Can you do fast and hard?”
Jessica’s hands moved across the strings, a carefull lover’s caress,
then a harsh, crunching repeated chord that was starting to become popular in
metal came out of the amp. Kim couldn’t make her mind accept that the careful
hands were creating that sound. She leaned forward in her chair, trying to catch
any tangible discrepancy between sound and movement, but Jessica was hitting the
right strings at the right time. Her grace in motion just didn’t fit the mood
of the sound.
“You’re amazing,” Kim breathed.
Jessica stopped. “Hmm?”
“Bloody good bass-works, luv. I’ve gotta’ hear sumthin’ soft
next, then we’re set.”
“I know you didn’t say that.” Jessica’s smiled was playful as she
went back to her bass, this time playing out a haunting melody line Kim had
never heard before.
“What’s that?”
“Just ... something I put together a while ago.”
“Oh.”
“Why?”
“It’s great.”
“Thank you kindly.”
“I’ve got one more question.”
“And that would be?”
“Why us? You rock, why try out for something so low-key? We haven’t
even got any gigs yet.”
“I have a good feeling about it. I really do.”
“What exactly does this good feeling say?”
“This band will be fun and challenging. Who knows, we may even get
famous.”
“Huh, sure, this bloody rag-tag group ain’t gettin’ much farther
than clubs, if we even get there.”
“Ever the optimist, are we?”
“Rarely.” Kim suddenly felt feisty; she was letting Jessica in too
quickly, too easily. “What can you contribute to our band? I mean in look and
style, not music. You seem really displaced from where the rest of us are.”
Jessica shook her head then pulled up a chair across from Kim. She sat
down then took hold of both of her hands and traced her fingers, not looking up
into her face. “I see what you’re trying to do, but you’re not scaring me
away. Every band needs a straightman.”
“In this case, a straightgrrl.” Kim pulled her hands back. “Give me
one reason, one really good reason, to let you in.”
“Because you don’t date band members, so you can’t feel threatened
by my presence.”
“I can if I damn well please,” Kim muttered.
“Because I’m skilled. I can play, I can write, hell I can even
sing.”
“But I
do all the writin’ and
singin’, so those are bloody useless talents.”
“Again, I can play.”
“Gimme’ one reason not to call back one of the posing sluts who think
feminism is directly in proportion to the size of your breasts.”
“Because it makes girls in general, especially you and yours, look bad.
Do you want to promote the American ideal of what girls should be?”
“I though Americans went for pure, good girls; that ‘All-American’
ideal.”
“You evidently haven’t been anywhere near Hollywood any time
recently.”
“Nah, I try my best to avoid American culture. No offense.”
“I’m only half-American, and I don’t miss the country.”
“Your mum’s a Brit?”
“Yeah. So I belong here by blood, not just citizenship.”
“Which country do you like better?”
“Don’t really remember the States. We were in the north, anyway.
Michigan. Practically in Canada.” She laughed.
“Ah, that makes it more acceptable. What are th’ Canadians like? I heard they
were extremely polite an’ have the best beer this side of Germany.”
“I never crossed the border.”
“Never crossed the border? By the time I was 10, I’d bloody well gone
to Italy, France, Spain, and Germany.”
“Taking in the culture of your continent is a European tradition.
There’s a more singular, isolated feeling in the States; as if we’re the
only country in North America. I don’t even know if I’ve ever seen a
Canadian.”
“I’m sure they’re nothing that foreign. It’s not like freaks of
nature appear the second you cross the border, I’d wager.”
Jessica shrugged. “My father thought the Canadians were peace-loving
gits with colorful play-money. I’m pretty sure he’s wrong, but I’ve never
had proof for either way.”
“Such a sheltered girl... I think I might like that contrast against
th’ rest of us. Sheltered, intelligent, talented, and real. Hell, you yourself
are one big walking contrast.”
“So are you still jumping around with your ideas, or am I in?”
“If you promise one thing.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t let us bitches disillusion you.” |
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Talk to LL,
the author. |