Fan Girl Page 2

  I lift one eyebrow. “She hooked up with an actor.” Take that.

  He nods and purses his lips in thought, but they’re so full and puffy that my mouth waters. I swallow back the saliva. “But you’re still gonna come, right? To the shows.”

  What? What does that mean? Does he want me to? Does he think it’s annoying? I stare as my anxiety escalates with every passing second. He finally explains, “I noticed you record us sometimes. It would be cool to get some of those to send to record labels since we don’t have the money to make a demo yet.”

  I swallow hard again and nod. “Sure, I can give them to Bobby, and he can get them to you.”

  “Thanks. Hey what’s your name?” he asks.

  “Ali,” I say weakly, suddenly brought back down to earth by the realization that he has no idea who I am. I’ve been going to his shows for four months now. I have actually been to every one, and my best friend has been flirting with him most of the time. I’m one of five people in this bar that came to see them, and I’m pretty sure some of those people are their parents.

  “Thanks Ali. I’ll see you at the next show, yeah?” He says this distractedly as he eyes a girl at the bar who is old enough to legally be there. I don’t say anything back, and he doesn’t notice.

  I give Bobby the tapes at the next show, and Deklan comes over and puts an arm around my shoulder. “Thanks Ali. Hey, when we hit it big we’ll always have a ticket for you okay? I think you’re our biggest fan.”

  I blush red as a tomato, but point out in a snarky voice, “I think I’m your only fan Deklan, don’t count your chickens yet.”

  He laughs and squeezes my shoulder, then runs to take the stage. As I watch him adjust the microphone stand, there’s a high-pitched voice in my head, squealing at the top of her lungs – Did he just touch me?! Ohmigawd! Shit. Who’s the teeny bopper now?

  Chapter 2

  Later that year

  Two months later they send out their performance DVDs. Six months after that they get signed to a record label. By this time, the band knows me, and I know the band. We aren’t friends because they live so far away from where I do, but they recognize me and always wave, which in turn makes the groupies shriek. Yes, Rolling Bridges has a following now. Mostly girls my age; all of them ready to put out, and the band takes full advantage.

  I’m still the poor rich girl stuck in hell with my shrew of a mother in my ear all hours of the day, shrilling how fat I am, how dumb I am (I got my first B). Shoulders back, suck in, do you need that much food on your plate, what music are you listening to, why are you out so late? But on the weekend I get to blast music in the new Honda Accord I got from my dad. Now my twenty dollars of bribe money for Bobby goes in my own gas tank, and I get to the gigs myself.

  I don’t sit in the corner anymore. There are no more seats to be had. It’s standing room only so I jump up and down, lost in the crowd of valley girls, and sing along with the band. It’s a release from the stress and anxiety that is my life. I bob and yell the words to the songs, coming away sweaty and without angst. I feel completely calm and a little what I think being buzzed must feel like, not that I’ve ever tried to get a drink. The thought of cops escorting me home is enough to make me break me out in a sweat.

  Taking a break from my homework the next day I decide to check the mail. Report cards were mailed out, and I wanted to head that off at the pass. Sifting through the bills and multiple magazines for my mother —who needs all this crap?— I see a small plain white envelope with my name beautifully written on the front. It looks like calligraphy, it’s so pretty. I look at the corner of the envelope but it’s empty. When I flip it over there are two names of people I know only in context. I normally never get letters. Who writes them these days? Today was different. ‘Estelle and Bernie Dawson’, it says. My dad’s parents. I quickly run to the house, dumping all the other mail on the foyer table, and rush to my room. Reading the single piece of paper as fast I can, then slower a second and third time, I take in their request.

  They’re coming here and want to meet me early in the year. I think back on what I know of them. I know from my mom that they’re free thinkers; hippies she would say. Dad tells me they lacked structure, rules and that they hated that word ‘discipline’. I know my parents met on the Stanford campus in California but my dad graduated from high school in New York. To my knowledge, I’ve never met them. I don’t think my mom has ever considered it. So she’s been spouting her hate just based on what my dad has told her. Deciding that’s completely unfair, I resolve to meet them. I write back that I’ll be at a Barnes and Noble the next town over on January third, and not to tell my parents.

  When I arrive, the smell of coffee grounds and ink hits me like a wall. Scanning the room and breathing deeply, I take in the various college students wearing backpacks, and women holding self-help books in the checkout. Moving to the right where the Starbucks is located, I immediately see a wrinkly old couple sitting at an outside corner table with tea bags in their cups. I wave shyly as I pass on my way to the counter and order a Venti Chai Frappuccino before joining them. We all study each other, and I fight to fidget in my seat. I have to bite down on my lips to keep from nervously babbling about God only knows what. After a minute, my grandmother leans forward holding her cup in her hands.

  “Dear, you are so beautiful.” She says it quietly, and in a kind of soft maternal voice I’ve never heard before.

  My eyes immediately flood with tears and I look away, trying not to blink so they don’t flow over. No one has ever told me I was beautiful before. It suddenly dawns on me how my life would be so different if I had just heard some loving words every once in a while. Being put down all the time makes me not want to try anything new or be any better. I knew from the time I took dance lessons in the first grade, that anything I tried was just one more thing she could criticize.

  My mother is the worst, but my father has always supported her, never saying a word to counteract her venom. Phillip is unwilling to inconvenience himself with raising a child, his only concerns being money and power. I just shake my head in denial at her words.

  My grandma leans her arms across the table and grabs my forearm. I look down at her hand and notice the tattoos on her arms for the first time. They are a swirl of colors I can’t make sense of, and glance over at my granddad and see his arms are covered, too.

  I look back up at her face with the wrinkles and white hair. She’s patiently been waiting for me to make eye contact. “I know how your parents are. We thought we were doing the best we could with our Phillip, but sometimes instead of them becoming the people you want them to be, they turn into the complete opposite.” The irony of that was not lost on me. They raised him to be free loving and nonjudgmental, and he turned into a power-hungry man who married… well, her.

  Grandma goes on. “We can only ever do the best we can. And we see how they are with you. We are deeply sorry you have to live this way.”

  Granddad speaks up with his arms folded over his chest. “It’s important that you know this isn’t going to be your life forever. You are going to go to college and do whatever the hell you want. We have made sure you have the money. We know they’ve been pressuring you to attend a school on the West coast, probably Stanford if we had to guess, but rest assured you can attend whatever school you desire.”

  I look back and forth between them. “You know I’m not suicidal, right?” I ask them just to clear that up. This definitely sounds like an intervention. They both laugh, Grandma with a jingling little laugh like Tinker Bell and Grandpa with a rusty, husky wheeze.

  Grandma says, “We know, honey. We just wanted to make sure you knew you could go to any college you wanted to. I’m not sure your parents were planning on telling you that we set up a trust for your college. Do you know what you want to study?”

  I shake my head, not really understanding what a trust was. What did they trust me with? “Not really. I always thought business because it’s broad enough for me
to do anything.”

  Granddad nods in approval. “That is smart of you, Alaina. You have a long time to decide. Don’t you worry about anything. Apply to whatever schools you want and go where your gut tells you.”

  I take a moment to absorb this gift they’ve just given me. My mother has been relentless about my going to Stanford since before I’d known what college was. Honestly, I don’t have anything against the school, but to be that close to my parents, possibly having to live with them since they would be footing the bill… just thinking about it gives me shudders. I also know the tuition at Stanford is close to twenty-five grand a semester. If they say I can go anywhere, they’re giving me some serious dough.

  “Thank you for giving me this opportunity. I won’t waste it,” I tell them.

  They shake their heads in unison, but it’s Grandma that speaks. “Don’t feel any pressure. If you want to change your major ten times it won’t matter. You can stay in college until you’re thirty. Just be happy, honey.”

  I ask the question that’s been driving me insane my whole life. “Why is my middle name Dawson?” If my parents hate these people so much, why did they give me my dad’s last name as a middle name? My parents are so weird. My dad took my mom’s last name when they got married.

  Granddad sighs. “They didn’t like the stigma of our last name. We invested in coffee from Hawaii that is doing quite well. But we choose to travel on the interest alone, never touching the bulk of our fortune. We don’t live in the luxury and high circles befitting our bank account. That has never been important. Your father, however, disagrees. He felt it a wise business decision to take your mother’s more prestigious name when she suggested it, on the condition that their children be Dawson-Pierce. Your father had to leave for a business meeting after your birth and Victoria changed Dawson to your middle name. Your father didn’t notice until years later. Be forewarned, he wants his share of our fortune, but won’t get it.”

  I look back at their tattooed arms. “Did those hurt?”

  Grandma looks down. “Oh Lord yes! Sometimes the pain feels good, sometimes it just hurts.” I’ve never been around someone who had so many before.

  “Why do you have them?”

  “It’s an expression of yourself. How you feel on the inside. I love flowers, how they grow and blossom, giving life by their pollen and nectar, nurturing until their time is passed and they fade away.” She holds out her arms and they’re covered with different flowers. I don’t know the name of all of them, but they were all different colors and sizes, covering both arms.

  “How good are you at drawing, Alaina?” Granddad asks, suddenly. I look at him and shrug. “As good as the next person, I guess. I can do better than stick figures, but I haven’t taken that many art classes.”

  He reaches in his back pocket and tells me to put the number on the card in my cell phone. “This here is Reed Evans. He’s in New York. Best tattoo artist around. If you ever want one, you go to this guy. And he also teaches, takes interns. NYU is in the city. If it’s something you’re interested in, you can’t find anyone better than him.”

  I put the number in my phone and think New York is just far enough away from my parents. After that, we talk for a long time about all of the places they visited before they decided it was time to have kids. Unfortunately, because they waited so long, menopause kicked in before they could add any more. Now they’re traveling off of the interest from investing in coffee fields in Hawaii, or something crazy like that.

  We hug and they tell me that they love me. For the first time, I actually feel like I could be worthy of love. After they get in their rental car, I sit in my car for a long time, digesting how these wonderful people have changed my life with the gift they have given me. In the coffee shop of a bookstore I have learned the meaning of unconditional love. I start my car then go home and research NYU. Turns out it has a thirty-five percent acceptance rate. Looks like I need to make sure I don’t get any more B’s. They have a business school there where I can get an MBA. I need to talk to a guidance counselor. It’s only my sophomore year, but if I’m going to get away from my parents, I need a plan.

  Chapter 3

  Three Years later

  I graduate at the top of my class, but not as the valedictorian, much to the disappointment of my parents. I have a 3.9 GPA, but I didn’t do all of the volunteer work January Feller had done. I had concerts to go to. She could have her humane societies and highway trash pickups.

  Rolling Bridges has actually started playing venues. They put out their first CD and have been touring the world for two years now with no end in sight. As promised, I always have tickets waiting at will call. There’s no bumping into the band anymore, they’re the real deal, up-and-coming famous. I see them on television and Stacie is, of course, back on the Rolling Bridges bandwagon. They just won the MTV Music Award for Best New Group. Their songs play on the radio, and their videos play on the music channels.

  I burst with pride when I think about how far they have come. That I was there for most of it is an awesome feeling, and that they still remember to put the tickets aside for me makes me feel special. Stacie goes with me to all of the concerts since they leave two tickets. Her brother Bobby is a roadie just like he wanted to be. He’s perfectly happy setting up and breaking down stages in record time while traveling all over the world.

  We travel for the concerts when we can. We went to Vegas on a cheap flight out of LAX for our version of a senior trip. We’ve also driven up to six hours one way. It’s mostly me instigating and organizing our trips, but Stacie loves bragging that her brother is in with the band. Stacie has also decided to get away from her parents and join me at NYU. She’s already gotten her first tattoo, which got her grounded for the rest of senior year. She’s adopted the rockabilly style as her own, and pulls it off well.

  Now, two weeks after graduation, we are going to a RB concert, then the next day our flight takes off to New York. I’m wearing a t-shirt from one of the bars they played in a few years ago. The spotlights skim over the crowd. Bodies are undulating, hands in the air, mouths screaming in unison. Every breath I take resonates with the tempo. I close my eyes and feel the vibration of the bass in my heart. My soul is bring shaken clean of negativity. Sweat falls in rivers to the ground, making me feel like a snake shedding its skin. Endorphins course through my blood, forcing me to smile for the first time in forever. Concerts are my drug of choice.

  At intermission a security guard comes up and tells me the band wants me to stand at the side of the stage. I turn to Stacie in confusion. She shrugs, and I pull her with me until the security guard notices and puts his hand out. “Just you. They said Ali Pierce. That’s you, right?” I nod. Stacie takes her phone out of her pocket looking shocked and waves to me.

  I stand at the side of the stage right next to the stairs as the band comes back out. They start playing their instruments, just jamming out. Then Deklan comes to the microphone and says, “We know we have the best fans in the world. You guys are awesome!” The crowd cheers. “There was one girl, though. She has been watching us play since we were still practicing in our garage and playing dingy bars. We just wanted to tell you how much we appreciate you, Ali. Come out here.”

  I’m trying not to hyperventilate as I take the stairs. How in the hell could they think it would be okay to bring me up in front of all these damn people?! I make my way to the stage, the guys stop playing for a minute to clap for me, and Fandy gives me a sweaty hug. “Thanks for sticking with us, Ali. Please don’t ever stop,” he says in my ear. I smile at him and move to the other guys.

  When I get to Deklan he’s already dripping sweat, but he hugs me tight and talks into my ear so I can hear him. “I’m counting my chickens, babe.” My heart makes a slow slide to the speed of his sweat on its way to the floor.

  I pull back in surprise. He remembers that conversation from three years ago? And more to the point, did he just call me babe? He smiles a beautiful, megawatt smile that make
s me want to drool. The dimple gets me, especially when paired with the sparkling white teeth and five o’clock shadow. I look away quickly and get a hug from Alan, who doesn’t say anything. Or then again maybe he did and I’m just deaf to anything but the blood rushing in my head. I wave to the crowd when Deklan yells for them to cheer for me then leave the stage as quickly as I can.

  When I get back down to Stacie in the second row, she’s squealing and waving her phone. “I got it, I got it all! Oh he’s talking,” and she points her phone to the stage again.

  “This song is for Ali; we wouldn’t be here without fans like you sticking with us all of these years.” Then they start playing their first single. They have four out now, and two have made it to the top ten on the Billboard charts. The videos are insane, with car chases and half-naked girls. They really are rock stars.

  We sing, dance, and laugh. Girls are asking who I am but we ignore them. As we leave the arena I realize I just had the coolest experience of my life. When we get to Stacie’s house I ask to see the video. She pulls out her phone, and we mash our heads together to see the little, tiny screen.

  My heart stops and I feel instantly nauseated as I watch this overweight blob in a black t-shirt waddling across the stage. What the fuck is that? I watch the guys hug me, and Deklan can’t get his arms all the way around me. I give a sob and Stacie still thinks I’m excited. “I know, I bet he was all sweaty and yummy, huh?” She looks over at me and sees the expression of absolute horror on my face.

  She sits up quickly. “Ali, what’s wrong?” She’s scared. I’m going to kill myself, that’s all there is to it. I sit up, with what I observe now to be noticeably more effort than skinny Stacie.

  “What’s wrong?!” I shrill at her. “Look at how fucking fat I am! Why haven’t you told me I look like the Pillsbury dough boy?! Are they going to let me on the plane tomorrow? Forget it, I’m not going.”