Dissent (4 page)

That
was me.

I
don't know who the woman I was playing at being as I shot out a
massive group text to everyone I had ever met, and ran to the store
to grab liquor, and called a catering company to prepare finger
foods... having to pay double because of the short notice.

I
was supposed to be relaxing. I was supposed to be swimming laps,
reading books, sleeping. Oh, how I missed sleeping. In a bed that
didn't make you bounce up and down in it as someone drove through the
night.

But,
no. Instead I was running around and stashing away valuables and
creating music playlists.

“Yo,”
I heard behind me, making me jump and screech. Behind me was Jay. Six
feet of muscles and tattoos, long dark hair, and deep brown eyes. He
was my bass player. And his fingers had been making girls swoon all
around the world. In every possible way. “If you didn't want
someone to sneak up on you, you should have locked the door.”

“It's
a personal elevator,” I said, rolling my eyes. You couldn't get
in without a key. Jay was the only person other than me to have one.

“So
what's with the last minute party? Don't get enough of this shit on
the road?”

“I
don't know,” I said, shrugging. “I wanted to have a party
in my own place. Where I wouldn't have to worry about walking in on
you fucking some random groupie on my bed.”

“Hey
no promises tonight either,” he said, helping me take the
bottles of liquor out of the box and put them on the counter.

“Gross,”
I said, crinkling my nose up. “The only person allowed to have
sex in my bed is me.”

“When's
the last time you got laid, Darce?” he asked, looking down at
me pointedly.

“It
hasn't been that...”

“At
least four months,” he cut me off.

“Well
I've been busy with...”

“I've
been the same kind of busy,” he said, leaning down, “but
I still make time to... get busy.”

“More
working,” I said, throwing a bag of lemons at him, “less
worrying about my sex life.”

“Well
someone's got to worry about it,” he grumbled, pulling out his
pocket knife and slicing the lemons in a quick, efficient way that
that only someone who had once done it in their line of work could
do. Jay used to serve tables. He used to slip into slacks and a dress
shirt, tie on a waist apron, wrap his hair carefully up, and serve
pretentious overpriced meals to
upper
class
snobs willing to pay a hundred bucks per plate for food only worth
five.

That
was how I met Jay. In a demure white sundress with my long
honey-blonde hair and my naked face. Seventeen years old and never
having even heard of metal music. I smiled at him as my father and
mother had a whisper argument and ignored his existence. When he
handed me my main course, there was a note tucked under the rim that
I quickly slipped into my lap, waiting for my parent's argument to
pick up again, as I knew it would, before unfolding it.

Pretty
girl. Meet me at The Pit tonight at nine.

I
remembered blushing crimson and slipping the note into my purse,
unable to meet his eyes for the rest of the meal. I went home, laying
in my bed in my sunny yellow room, trying to talk myself into getting
dressed to go to cheerleading practice.

But
then I was flying off the bed, throwing myself into my computer chair
and looking up The Pit. I found an address, packed a purse, a lump in
my throat, and walked down to the car that was my birthday present.

I
was never the rebellious type. I had done everything that was
expected of me. I worried myself into panic attacks to get, and stay,
at the top of my class in the most competitive private school on the
east coast. I joined debate. I fenced. I cheerleaded. I forced my
clumsy hands to learn to play the piano. I kept thin and blonde and
perky. I refused to eat dinner if I had more than a salad for lunch.
I ran around the block at four AM every morning for six weeks before
junior prom so I could slip into one size smaller, one size more
acceptable by my mother. I declared to my father that I was going to
go to school, get my MBA and have myself a plush corner office one
day. Just like him.

I
played by the rules.

So
I didn't know what it was that made me drive into that sketchy side
of town in a car that would probably be missing it's stereo and rims
within the hour. Into a place that had goosebumps rising up on my
arms and dread settling like lead in my belly.

The
Pit was a low brick building with blacked out windows and three
security guards standing post outside the front doors. There was a
small group of people out front smoking and horsing around. I parked
my car in an open spot out front, hoping that maybe if it was in full
view of the bouncers that maybe no one would mess with it.

I
took a long deep breath, grabbing my purse, and got out of the car
before I could change my mind and run back home. I locked the car as
I walked away, drawing attention from the people out front.

“You
lost, babygirl?” one of the guys asked, head to toe in black
with huge combat boots and long blonde hair.

“Hey,
Princess,” another called, older. Way too old to be sweet
talking me.

“Look
at that pretty face...”

My
hands were in fists, my head ducked. I was seconds from turning
around.

“Fuck
off, guys,” a voice said. “She's with me.”

My
head snapped up to find the waiter from the restaurant. But he was
different. His hair was down, falling straight past his shoulders. He
wore black jeans and a black band t-shirt, his bare arms covered in
tattoos. His face looked more sinister and he had a piercing through
the side of his bottom lip.

“Jason?”
I asked, hesitantly, stopping and standing in the middle of the
parking lot.

“Jay,”
he corrected, smiling slowly. “You showed up.”

I
felt myself nodding, a feeling of bravery filling my bloodstream. “I
showed up,” I agreed.

He
chuckled, holding an arm out for me to come next to him. As soon as I
was, his arm went around my shoulders. But it wasn't possessive, it
was comforting. “Alright, let's go change your life, Barbie
Doll.”

And
he did.

He
led me inside to a dark open room, crowded with people in dark hair,
with tattoos, with piercings, with studs, and combat boots, and dark
makeup. The room had the distinct smell of cheap beer, sweat, and the
sharp copper odor of blood. Toward the back of the room was a stage
where a band was setting up. People milled around aimlessly, talking
to everyone else like they were one big community.

Jay
led me over to security where I paid my five bucks and had a paper
bracelet put around my wrist with the word “underage”
printed in bold font. The bouncer flicked on a flashlight and told me
to open my purse.

“What?
Why?” I asked, holding it tighter.

“He's
checking for drugs or booze or weapons,” Jay supplied at my
look of horror.

“Seriously?”
I laughed, opening my purse and holding it out to be inspected while
Jay got patted down by another guard.

“Don't
worry,” he smirked, “they don't grope the ladies.”

“Unfortunately,”
the guard said, winking at me.

“So,”
I said as Jay led me through the crowd, “how, exactly, is this
supposed to change my life?”

His
arm landed hard across my shoulders again as people's eyes started to
fall on me, sticking out, I knew, like a sore thumb. A complete
outsider. “You'll see,” he said, smiling down at me as he
pulled me to the front of the stage. Then the singer on stage nodded
his head at Jay and his arm fell from me, jumping up on the stage.
“I'll see you after my set.”

I
looked around myself ominously, inching closer toward the corner of
the stage where, I thought, I would be less in the way. Then the
music started, making me jump backward a full foot because it didn't
start slow and gradually. It started loud, deafening. I could feel
the bass vibrate up through my body, at once both unsettling and
erotic. My eyes flew to Jay on the stage and he winked down at my
look of wonder before turning his attention out toward the crowd.

It
wasn't long before all hell broke loose. The crowd started screaming
out the lyrics in low, growling, demonic voices. Their hands went up
in the air. And then, toward the front of the stage where I had just
been standing, people started throwing their bodies into each other.
The rest of the crowd fell back, making a semicircle around them as
they ran around, throwing fists, kicking out. A violent and, at the
time... horrific, display I didn't understand. I didn't even have a
word for.

Moshing.

I
almost left. Very few women or girls are comfortable with the sight
of overt male violence. It makes a fist settle in your belly. It
makes your hairs stand on end. It makes you wonder how long until
that rage turns on the women around them.

But
then I saw a woman break through the crowd: somewhere around my age
with short cropped bleach blonde hair, dark black eye makeup, tight
jeans with a studded belt, combat boots with thick high heels, and a
sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, exposing tattoos on her upper
arms. Her eyebrow was pierced twice, her bottom lip pieced down the
center. Everything about her seemed strong, badass. Her eyes rose as
she stepped into the center of the wild guys, finding mine. A slow
smile spread across her face and then she plowed into the nearest
guy, her elbow catching his chin as he headbanged, making his head
snap to the side and blood fly out of his mouth.

It
was then that I understood what that smile meant. It meant she could
run with the big boys.

And
in that moment, I knew. I knew that that was exactly what I wanted to
do too.

I
dyed my hair black when I got home. I skipped school for the first
time in my life and went to buy black clothes at a store in the mall
that was lined to the ceiling with band t-shirts and had metal music
blasting from the speakers. I played every metal band that Jay
suggested on repeat. I snuck into the soundproofed basement where the
piano was located (because the sound gave my father a migraine) and I
imitated the way they sang: the screaming, the growling, the low,
evil-sounding talking. I slammed on the keys to the beat of the
songs.

I
formed a dream.

The
day I turned eighteen, under the threat of being cut off financially
if I didn't snap out of my “rebellious phase”, strip my
hair, wear my old clothes, and go off to college like a good girl, I
threw all my stuff into suitcases and moved in with Jay.

I
worked at The Pit as a shot girl, having endless old bikers take body
shots off of me. And in exchange, the owner let me have two sets a
week. Jay's former band fell apart and I stole him and the drummer.
We put my book smarts to work, making up business plans. I sold my
old designer shoes and purses. We got an old beat-up van, ripping out
the shelves in the back and throwing down an old mattress. Then we
took to the road. I shared that mattress with three other people,
waking up smelling like cigarettes and sweat and musty mattress.

It
was the happiest time of my life.

We
cut CDs in dingy little studios that we paid for with the money we
wouldn't be using to buy food. We gained a following. And then one
day, we got a record contract.

I
watched Jay slicing lemons and had a rush of gratitude like I hadn't
felt in a long while. If it wasn't for him, I would have went to some
Ivy league. I'd have gotten a degree my parents would have approved
of. I would have dated boring businessmen. I would have had a safe
little life. And I would have been so fucking miserable.

And,
in turn, if it wasn't for me, Jay would have still been working in
restaurants, slicing lemons for a living.

I
walked out of the kitchen, moving behind him, wrapping my arms around
his waist, and resting my head on his back. The slicing motion
stilled and I heard him put the knife down. He straightened, turning
and wrapping his arms around my shoulders, trapping my hair
underneath, and I didn't even care.

“I
love you, you big oaf,” I said into his shirt.

“I
love you too, Barbie Doll,” he said, leaning down and kissing
the top of my head. “So who is coming tonight?” he asked,
untangling himself from me. We weren't big on the sappy moments. I
was probably the only woman he willingly embraced when sex wasn't an
imminent probability. I honestly couldn't remember the last time I
hugged anyone.