Fighting Weight Page 11

  Rox is pretty much the poster child for this kind of promotional shit: shiny blonde hair, bright green eyes, the clearest complexion I’ve ever seen, a petite stature, long legs, a tiny waist, and the perfect ass-to-boob ratio. I bet she even has a perfect Body Mass Index number to match her perfect white-toothed smile.

  “What?” She gives me a dirty look.

  “As if you have anything to worry about. You’re pretty much camera-ready all the time,” I say.

  “Ha. Don’t I wish?”

  “Whatever.” I dismiss her, picking up a magazine, not wanting to get into this with her right now. Not when, for the last forty-five minutes, I’ve been sitting here worrying about the exact same thing as what she was worrying about. But unlike Roxie, I’m not camera-ready, and it’s blatantly obvious. To be honest, I’m surprised they didn’t take me in first, since I’ll probably need to be sewn into my outfit to make sure my fat doesn’t bust it open at the seams.

  “Don’t dismiss me!” Roxy snaps. “Just because you think I look good, doesn’t mean I think I do, Ali. Just because I’m thin, doesn’t mean I don’t have hangups about my body. How dare you think you know what it’s like to be me? I have stretch marks and varicose veins that a short skirt will show; I have knock-knees that give me stupid pigeon-toes when I walk. I have the limpest hair that takes me forever to style, and if you look close enough, I have one eye which slants slightly more than the other. Not quite like Sloth from Goonies, but it’s there. So, don’t for one minute think that because I’m thin, I think I’m perfect. Or say I should go eat a bunch of burgers, or how I can eat an all-you-can-eat buffet or get all the takeout I want and never gain an ounce. I have a paunch, and I have to work out four days a week. Fuck, I’m so tired of people like you thinking people like me have nothing to be self-conscious about.” She glares at me and tries to stand, but I grab hold of her arm and pull her back onto the couch, feeling like the biggest bag of shit ever. My nose stings and tears threaten to fall as I realize what a terrible friend I’ve been. I, of all people, should know better.

  “Please. Don’t go.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m so sorry, Roxie, please. I didn’t mean it.” I start to hyperventilate a bit. “Believe me, I’m the last person to judge. I’m so fucked up. I’d never, ever mean to hurt you, or belittle your feelings. I was just caught off guard. I think you’re beautiful, so I shrugged off the idea that you might have your own insecurities. I’ve actually been sitting here freaking out inside about the same things. I’m so worried their clothes won’t fit me, that they’ll be pissed I’m not a size 2.” I meet her gaze, willing her to see my sincerity. “I didn’t mean to upset you. That wasn’t my intention.” I let go of her arm, moving my hands up to cover my face, distraught that I could have accidentally been so hurtful to one of my best friends. “I forget sometimes that I’m not the only one who’s hard on themselves,” I say, releasing a deep breath along with the admission.

  “Hey, hey,” Roxie says, taking my hands in hers and forcing them away from my face. “Alina. Look at me. I know you didn’t mean it. I know that’s not who you are. I’m sorry I went off on you. I’ve been so stressed about the tour, worrying about all this promo and media bullshit. I just wanna play.”

  “Me too. I’ve really been struggling,” I admit. I glance over to where she’s sitting beside me, wringing her hands, as I think about what to say next. I kind of want to share my struggle with someone who can understand it, but I also don’t want to say too much.

  Smiling cautiously, she tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear before continuing. “I know you of all people wouldn’t mean anything by it, Ali. I do, honestly. I see you. I know you understand how I feel.” She pauses, giving me the feeling she wants to say more, but is choosing not to.

  I’m not stupid. I realize my closest friends pay attention to me, see the things I like to try and pretend no one does. But in reality, I know they’re all probably more aware of my issues than I give them credit for. So, deciding Roxie deserves a piece of my truth, I extend an olive branch.

  “I do know,” I say, quietly. “Maybe a lot more than I should. But I’m working really hard to fix that, and I’m finally starting to see myself in a better light. So, please, please don’t think that I’d ever truly discount your feelings. I didn’t mean to be a bitch to you. I’m really no one to judge; my own list of hang ups is huge! I should know better, and I’ll never treat you like that again.”

  “Well, thanks. And, good, I’m happy to hear you’re working on that. And you know I’m always here for you, right?” She extends her hand across the couch.

  I take a moment to think about it, then slowly take her hand in mine. “I do. I really do know you are, and maybe one day I’ll take you up on it. Maybe we could even eat at the buffet together?” I lean in, bumping her shoulder with mine.

  “You bet your tiny, tight tushy we will. We both could use it you know.” She eyes me, daring me to disagree.

  “Baby steps,” I tell her, and she laughs.

  “You’re incredible, Ali. I hope you’ll realize it one day. And, please, pretty please, for me, for Happenstance, and for the love of rock and roll, do not keep insisting on wearing that baggy-assed shit you hide in onstage. It’s the perfect time for a ‘baby step’,” she air quotes.

  “I’m going to roll my eyes now, and I mean it, just so ya know…” I say, shaking my head.

  “I would expect nothing less.”

  “We good?” I ask.

  “Better than,” Roxie beams, as Victoria comes in, telling us it’s finally our turn.

  After everything that just went down, the last thing I’m feeling now is nervous. I’m suddenly excited to see how we look all dolled up and glamorous at the hands of the makeup artist, the hair- and fashion stylists, and the photographer. I might even take Rox’s advice and shed my baggy clothes for something new. Maybe.

  And maybe I do have all the support I’m going to need right here? I’m just going to have to learn to trust it.

  20

  Slater

  “Thanks for making me breakfast, man. I was feeling pretty shitty this morning,” Fife says, pushing back from my dining room table, where he’s just eaten me out of house and home…well, at least eaten me out of bacon and eggs. Fucker can sure pack it in.

  Last night, the guys and I helped our buddy Ryder celebrate the opening of his nightclub, Fever. Fife decided to ride my couch after taking advantage of the VIP room after our set.

  “No problem,” I say. “Next time, though, we’ll go downtown to Fran’s Restaurant. You fat bastard, I can’t believe how much you eat, man.”

  “I’m a growing boy. Besides, everyone knows greasy food is the best cure for a hangover. I feel better already,” he says, patting his non-existent belly. My brother is lucky we come from a good gene pool. Our mother, Grace, a teacher, is a tiny little thing at 5’2”. None of us take after her in the height department, thankfully, but we did inherit her fast-working metabolism, no matter what she or we shoved in our mouths. The height of the Jenkins brothers, all three of us coming in at over 6’, comes from our father, Paul, a 6’2”, steelworker. Needless to say, the Jenkins boys ruled the neighbourhood when we were kids because we were all built like brick shithouses. Growing up on the outskirts of Toronto in Mississauga was great. We’d spent all our free time playing road hockey and jamming in the garage whenever possible. Even in elementary school, the three of us were convinced that we’d either all be NHL superstars or rock gods. Thankfully, our parents supported us no matter which dream we chose to chase.

  Today, Grace and Paul Jenkins are still Sicken Union’s biggest fans. I blame my dad, Paul for my never-ending drive to make singing my full-time job. Our family are huge fans of the band Rush, and all it took was seeing them live for the first time to know that I wanted to be standing up on that stage just like Geddy Lee. I wanted to feel that same rush of adrenaline I felt standing there in a rock and roll trance over and over again and again. Lucky fo
r me, I could actually sing. I remember telling my parents on the way home from the show that night that I was going to be the front man in a band my brothers and I would form. And I remember my parents smiling fondly and giving me their encouragement, even though they knew my dream wasn’t going to be the easiest to make real. Especially because I’d never sung a note in my life before then. It wasn’t until my mom walked in on me rocking out in front of my mirror, singing my heart out to “Tom Sawyer” the next morning that she had an “I’ll be dammed” moment, and enrolled me in vocal classes when I was twelve years old. And as they say, the rest is history—my brothers and I became Sicken Union.

  “Good thing you work out,” I say. I study his stomach, and make a face.

  “Fuck off, pretty boy. You’re no slouch yourself,” he says, leaning over and swiping the last piece of bacon from my plate.

  “Asshole.”

  “Snooze you lose,” Fife retorts, his mouth full.

  “Last time I cook for you, you shit.” I punch his arm as he passes, carrying our plates to the sink, where he rinses then loads them into the stainless steel dishwasher. We may be rock stars, but Grace Jenkins has always made sure her boys remained grounded, and taught us early on how not to be slobs.

  “Victoria said you had some photos I need to approve. Did you bring them?” I ask, taking a sip of my coffee.

  “Shit, I almost forgot. Hang on.”

  He moves over to his bag, rooting through it before producing a manila folder.

  “Take a look. See which ones you want Tommy to submit for the media packets,” Fife says, sliding the folder my way across the table. “We each flagged the ones we like.”

  “Thanks, will do.”

  “So ya know, I won’t judge you for skipping right to the shots of Happenstance,” he says.

  “Not sure what the hell you’re implying?” I take another swig of coffee, preparing to spoon-feed my brother some bullshit, despite knowing Fife always sees through it regardless.

  “Those girls are fucking hot,” he says, looking pointedly at me.

  “I didn’t notice them.” I only noticed her. The one who tries to hide, the one whose playing makes her shine so fucking bright she can’t not be seen. But I keep that little kernel to myself.

  “Which group are they again?” I try to play dumb.

  “Whatever, big guy. Like we didn’t see you all starry-eyed and shit, staring at the chubbier, dark-haired one who was slaying it on the guitar.”

  “The fuck you call her?” I snap.

  “Whoa, easy there, tiger. I’m not saying she’s big, I just mean, she’s short…compared to the other ones…” He raises his hands in surrender, trailing off.

  “I better not hear that shit come out of your mouth again,” I warn, opening the file folder. “The last thing she is, is chubby.” I shake my head.

  “Funny,” Fife counters, “for someone who didn’t notice her, it sure seems like you know exactly who I’m talking about though, eh?” Fife rubs my buzzed head condescendingly. “Okay, I’m out. Got a lot of shit to do to get ready for the tour. I haven’t packed a thing yet, and we leave in less than a week.”

  “Take it easy,” I say, not bothering to show him out. Once I hear the click of the door, I do exactly what he said I would. I flip past the other band photos until I reach the ones of Sicken Union with Happenstance, and the ones of just their band.

  “Fuck me,” I mutter, looking down at a shot of the shy girl and the lead singer, posing with their backs against each another. My eyes almost pop out of my head taking her in.

  I remember when she first walked out of wardrobe that day. Her long, dark purplish-black hair was curled at the ends, flowing like a silk veil and framing her gorgeous face. Her big blue eyes were all bright and sultry, done up with a bit of shadow and shit that imprinted their intensity into my brain. I can feel myself getting hard just looking at these pictures, which, although they’re very nice, don’t even do her justice. Look…those long legs in a tight black leather skirt, and her perky rack, the same one I saw hiding under that Beatles shirt at the bar the other night, on display here in a black-and-white, deep-cut V-neck Green Day tank top.

  Flipping through the stack, I grab a pack of Post-it notes and flag the one of all of us—Sicken Union and Happenstance—the one showing my left arm wrapped around her shoulders. I smile, thinking of the sharp intake of breath she took when I’d first touched her, and my cock stirs again thinking of how sweet she smelled, like vanilla, with subtle hints of jasmine. Fuck me. This girl…

  Infatuation is one of life’s wild occurrences, and it’s been a long time since I’ve been hit in the solar plexus like this. I’m simply looking at photos of a girl I’ve known for less than fifteen minutes, and she has my adrenaline kicking in overtime. A feeling of excitement and happiness surfaces. I’ve got eight weeks with this girl, eight weeks to bring her into the light, and out from the shadows she tries to hide in. I don’t know this Shadow Girl’s deal, but my end goal is clear: don’t fuck this up. I not only want this girl pinned to a bed beneath me, but also—for the first time in a really long time—I want to actually know her.

  Flagging a few more pictures of Happenstance with Post-its, I manage to work my way through the other bands’ photos, flagging a few here and there with a lot less diligence and care.

  A wave of excitement crashes through my body as I rifle back through the pile and take one last peek at my favourite picture of Happenstance. Grabbing my pen, I make a note for Victoria, our PA, on the yellow paper square and attach it along the photo’s edge before closing the folder and sliding it away from me.

  “Jesus, man…who are you, right now?” I wonder, rapidly clicking my pen open and closed as if it were a newly-developed tic, laughing at myself for basically insisting to Victoria that we use said picture of Happenstance for our promos, or else I wouldn’t be too happy.

  When the fuck did I become a diva making demands? And why is it, for a guy who doesn’t chase or woo chicks, I suddenly feel like I just took the first steps toward being that guy?

  21

  Alina

  Sitting in the treehouse, I feel like a poser.

  After the photoshoot—and having the girls react so positively to seeing me in a skirt and formfitting shirt for the first time—I actually felt pretty. I felt like a girlie girl for once, and even allowed myself to get a bit excited, knowing that dressing myself like that was a huge step for me.

  But now I’m sitting here freaking the hell out about what to wear tonight to the tour’s kickoff party down at the Onyx. Roxie and I were texting earlier, and I admitted how nervous I was, and how I wasn’t sure what to wear. She offered to come over and get ready with me, saying she had a ton of clothes in my size that I could choose from. After mulling it over, I politely declined her offer. I’m not sure I’m ready for female bonding over clothes and doing each other’s makeup just yet. It had been hard enough convincing Martin, the tour’s wardrobe consultant, to allow me to change in the privacy of the washroom instead of in the open dressing room. In the end, I told the girls I’d just meet them at the kickoff party later on because I had a few last minute errands to run before we leave on Tuesday. Which wasn’t a total lie. Thankfully, none of them protested.

  I can’t believe that in three days we’ll be getting on a plane for our first stop on the tour, Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory. We’re playing the smallest venue on the tour there, but, from what Tommy explained, Whitehorse is one of the best places to perform because of its diverse music scene. Sicken Union have a huge following there, one they only get to tap into during this particular North American tour.

  “Room for one more tonight, Squirt?” I hear Lucky’s voice, and a sense of relief washes over me. I could use a break from stressing over whether or not I can pull off the outfit I finally chose to wear tonight (fitted black jeans paired with one of my more clingy Sublime Torched Heart T-shirts that I bought years ago, but never had the guts to wear as it’s a lit
tle snugger than I prefer). But, it showcases my curves, curves I’ve spent so long trying to accept. I know Lucky’ll tell me honestly if I look like a fat girl trying to look skinny. It’s a stupid thought, but I can’t help it. It’s something I always worry others will think of me.

  Leaning over the railing, I smile down at my big brother. “Always.”

  Making his way up the stairs, Lucky stops when he reaches me at the top. “Wow, sis. You look great.”

  “Yeah? This okay for the party tonight?” I ask.

  “Definitely. You’ve got the girl-next-door-meets-rocker-chick vibe going on. I think you’ll fit right in with the crowd,” he says.

  “Good, I’ve kind of been stressing. This is actually outfit number seven,” I laugh, moving back inside the treehouse while Lucky follows.

  “Aww, look at my sister being all girlie and shit.”

  “Whatever.” I elbow him in the ribs before we both sit.

  “What time is the party?” Lucky asks.

  “I’ve gotta be there for nine to meet my band.”

  “I’m so proud of you, Squirt,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “You excited?”

  “Yes and no. I’m nervous as hell, but also so excited that my stomach won’t stop doing somersaults. I can’t believe we’re going to be playing sold-out stadiums and packed bars,” I tell him.

  Despite our near-constant rehearsals—and writing a few new songs the band insisted we play for the tour—I can’t seem to shake the feeling in the pit of my stomach or quiet the voice in my head telling me this is going to be an awful mistake, that I’m not ready for the spotlight, or the notoriety a tour with Sicken Union will likely bring. I can’t seem to stop hearing Her voice either, and She’s getting louder and louder, shouting at me that I’m not good enough to even think that I belong onstage. Luckily, I booked in one last session with Kristie for Monday morning before we depart for eight whole weeks of touring.