Fighting Weight Read online

  He pulls me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me. In return I do the same. I even squeeze a little harder, hoping he feels how much his words and patience mean, how him not walking away and telling me I’m too crazy for him to handle is a big deal. I squeeze a bit tighter, hoping he interprets it as how incredible I think he is. I’m taken aback by his honesty, but he’s right. Today was a big step for me, one I should be proud of.

  Letting go of me, but not before placing a chaste kiss on my lips, Slater pulls out his phone, taps away, and smiles before handing it over to me. Glancing down I see “Ride Requirements for the Mindbender”. My heart melts at the reassuring gesture, and I can’t stop a smile from playing across my lips.

  “See, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Well, maybe the height. You are sort of on the short side, eh?” he teases, and I elbow him in the ribs, causing him to bark out a deep and sexy laugh.

  “Hey, watch it. Good things come in small packages,” I laugh, and it feels good to be like this with him.

  “They sure do,” he says, pulling me in close, wrapping his arms around me before kissing the top of my head.

  “Thank you for getting me out of my head.” I pass him back his phone once we separate, and he slips it into the front pocket of his jeans.

  “Always, baby. You ready to ride?” he asks, lacing our hands together and placing a kiss on top.

  And just like that, the negativity and worry dissipates. I nod. “More than ready.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “My girl”, I think, savouring the words.

  Slater smiles triumphantly, and it feels good to have someone else fighting for me.

  “This means I get cotton candy when we’re done,” I say, “right?”

  “Hell, yeah, it does.”

  You. Are. Exquisite…

  I might always be my own worst enemy, but it’s clear that with the right people by my side, I can and will continue to beat this.

  And, not only did I fit in the seat, there was more than enough room. We rode the Mindbender three times back to back, each time more fun than the last, before Slater and I excused ourselves from the group in search of some cotton candy. Slater bought us each our own bag because I was unwilling to share—even with him. It was the most deliciously sweet and sticky cotton candy I’ve ever had, so much so that I finished every single morsel.

  The day might have started out with Her voice ringing in my head, and my own thoughts getting to me, but once we got on that ride, with Slater’s help I was able to let go and silence Her for the rest of the day. It was just Slater and me in our bubble.

  44

  Alina

  I should have known my happiness wasn’t going to last. Things were going too well for me lately. I’ve been happy, a feeling I’ve only ever gotten small doses of in my life. It was a feeling I was just starting to trust, starting to believe I deserved, even. I should have seen this coming, should have predicted my past would come back to haunt me. I didn’t though, and that’s because—like my aunt always tried to tell me—I’m stupid.

  I’ll never be enough.

  I will always be a burden.

  Sitting at the long table, I struggle to keep a smile on my face, going over everything Victoria has prompted us to say and do. I work to steel my nerves, but I feel jittery, like the rug is about to be pulled out from under me. It’s a feeling I can’t seem to shake.

  Today, all the bands on the Consequence of Sound Tour are fulfilling our contractual obligation of participating in a promotional press junket for the tour. Media outlets from all over Canada and the US are here to engage us in an hour-long Q&A session. These sessions can be gruelling, I’ve heard. The entertainment media tends to have little regard for the types of questions they ask and will try to get you going, Victoria warned us. Although the journalists are sent a press package full of possible questions, information on each band, and some limitations, nothing is offside to some of them. Each one of these reporters is looking for their next big story, along with their big break. So, yeah, to say I’m nervous is an understatement.

  After Kelly, the tour’s stylist and her team, worked their magic again with our hair and makeup, I felt pretty, confident, and almost ready to face the firing squad. My game plan was, as was my habit, to try to blend into the background and allow the others to be front and centre. Sitting here now in front of rows and rows of reporters, with the cameras clicking and flashing and the many unfamiliar faces, I’m freaking out on the inside, my plan fallen to the wayside. There is no hiding.

  Even with the girls sitting beside me, I can’t get rid of the pit that’s forming in my stomach. We had spent last night rehearsing potential questions and answers with Victoria, and I’d felt prepared when we were done, but now I feel anything but. The worst thing? Slater isn’t here to help calm me down. After hair and makeup this morning, I only got to see him for a few minutes, and right now I’m aware of how badly I need him.

  Unfortunately, it’s not possible. Slater and the rest of the guys from Sicken Union are currently set up in the main ballroom, fielding questions themselves from all of the major news outlets, while the opening bands like ours are all sandwiched together in a smaller room answering an array of questions from reporters. Reporters whom I’m not too sure actually care about what we have to say, but are obligated to interview us as part of getting into the press junket.

  I’ve been trying really hard to keep myself calm, praying I don’t look like a bobblehead who only smiles and nods, even though that’s exactly what I’ve been doing in allowing the others to answer each question so far.

  “It’s all thanks to Mr. Sopal’s music class that we’re here. Hi, sir,” Paisley says, waving to the cameras and laughing at the crowd, when asked about how our band came to be.

  “Roxie, is it true you knit?” a male reporter asks.

  “What’s your favourite song to sing from your catalogue, Paisley?”

  “Siobhán, is it true you once lived on the streets?” one shorter man asks, and my stomach drops as I feel the unease coming off Shiv in waves. Reaching under my hoodie’s sleeve, I rub at my tattoo, my nerves becoming even more frayed than before.

  “It’s true. I did,” Siobhán admits. “And that’s part of the reason why, as a band, we’ve decided to make a donation to Covenant House after the tour. We want to help those less fortunate, like I once was. If it weren’t for them, I’m not sure where I’d be. Certainly not here, talking to you people,” Shiv finishes, and I reach over and rub her shoulder.

  “You’re amazing,” I mouth, when she looks my way, and she smiles. I wish I could be more like her. I admire her attitude and how, rather than getting shy or being embarrassed about her past like I am, she embraces hers, and vows to help others like herself. I hope one day I can do that, too.

  “What’s life like on tour? Are the guys as fun to be around as they look?” a brunette with a CTV lanyard around her neck asks, drawing my attention back to the interview.

  “Roxie, can you confirm you’re dating Zack?” I hear someone else ask, and I turn to watch Rox’s face flush.

  “We’re friends. He’s great,” she says, shrugging like it’s no big deal.

  “Will you ladies cut a record when you’re back in Toronto?” a deep voice asks.

  “Has a label approached you talented ladies yet?” a cute reporter with a Clark Kent vibe asks, and I feel my shoulders starting to relax with a return to this easier line of questioning.

  Maybe I’ve been worried for nothing.

  After a few more bulb flashes, the spotlight seems to shift from us to Ullapool, and I feel elated. I survived.

  “Tristan, are you still sober?” I hear, but can’t see the source.

  “I am. It’s been twelve months, and I’m hanging on,” he beams, and I feel a sense of pride, knowing that he too is fighting a battle which I know firsthand from Lucky can be extremely hard.

  “Good for you, bud,” the reporter calls.

  �
��Molly, are you and Keith still a couple?” It goes on like this for a few minutes before I hear it.

  My name…

  “Alina.” I look over to a tall blonde journalist in a form-fitting grey pantsuit, who is standing near the front of the group. “Alina Cassidy from Mississauga, right?” she queries, looking down at the small notepad in her hand. “Penny Donaldson from The Sound Byte. I have a question for you.” She smiles, which makes my heart thump in my chest when I notice how it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

  Nervously, I respond, “Yes, that’s me. What’s your question?” I smile, praying it’s going to be an easy one, yet the way my hands are starting to sweat I know it’s the last thing it will be.

  “Is it true that your mother, Darlene Cassidy, shot and killed your father, Daniel, before turning the gun on herself?” she asks with a straight face, not a trace of sympathy or remorse to be found, only pure satisfaction.

  I knew this could happen. Victoria had warned us they could be ruthless, but this? Now? I had figured that if a reporter were to dig deep enough, they’d someday uncover my past, and discover my biggest secret. I was perhaps too naïve to think that I’d ever be worth the time or effort it would take. I mean, why look me up? I’m a nobody. Or, I was, I guess.

  And I never expected the story to come out in front of so many people; I never wanted it to come out like this. I never wanted to hurt anyone with my secrets, especially the girls and Slater. Not like this here, or now…not when I haven’t been as forth coming with everyone around me as maybe I should have been. I’ve been stalling for the right time to bring up my parents’ deaths, waiting until I was certain they wouldn’t pity—or worse—judge me. I see I was wrong to wait, dead wrong. They say hindsight is 20/20, and I get it. It’s me who has to learn to have faith and trust in my girls, and those closest to me, because they have shown me time and time again that they will be there for me. My friends deserved to have been told years ago. I always dodged their questions about my family. I changed the subject or simply said we weren’t close, because I didn’t want to talk about it. I am a terrible friend…

  …and sister! Oh my god—Lucky. How is this going to affect Lucky when it comes out? Do his friends and colleagues know anything about our past?

  The room goes silent save for a few gasps and what I think are Roxie, Paisley, and Siobhan saying my name in unison—“Ali!”, followed by “No!” and “Oh my god!”

  Next, I hear Tommy’s voice. “That’s not appropriate, Penny. Pack up. You’re done here.”

  “I—I…” I stammer, the words lodged in my throat, my hands shaking like leaves. The next thing I feel is a shooting pain in my legs as I struggle to stand, the need to get the fuck out of here consuming.

  I hear the same teasing voice. Penny laughs before yelling from the back, where I assume she’s being led out, “I’m not done yet…two more! Alina, tell us, do you have a drinking problem? That runs in the family doesn’t it? Your brother, Lucky…isn’t he an outpatient at Help—” She doesn’t get to finish.

  “Alina, does Slater know about this?” I hear a male reporter asking now. “Are you a drunk?” the same voice shouts out, over a chorus of questions coming from all directions.

  “Ali, ignore them,” Rox hisses, coming to my side and taking my hand.

  “You need to end this, Tommy, right fucking now!” Siobhán calls, as she wraps her arms around me and walks me to the stairs. Charlie and the other security members move into the room, making sure we can leave freely.

  But all I see are what sounds like hundreds of cameras clicking like teeth chattering, and all I hear are questions being fired in my direction like a machine gun.

  “…isn’t Slater worried that you’ll taint his career? Are you worth that?”

  I cover my ears with my hands, head down, avoiding the commotion as best I can.

  “I—I…” is all I can get out.

  I can’t feel my body.

  I can’t catch my breath.

  I need to go.

  I’ve ruined everything.

  Lucky.

  Slater.

  Paisley, Roxie, and Siobhán.

  Oh god…

  I start to step down the stairs and familiar voices move in even closer.

  “We’ve got you, Ali. Fuck them, you ignore it all. It’s bullshit,” Roxie says.

  “I swear, if I ever see that Donaldson bitch again…”

  “Shiv! Not now, let’s focus on getting Ali out of here,” Paisley scolds a very pissed-off Siobhán over her shoulder while shielding me from view, from the cameras and the reporters who are now going to have a field day bashing me all over social media, online news, and magazines. Taking tentative steps on shaky legs, I allow the girls to guide me down the few steps and out the side door as sobs start their torturous journey through my body. I know that I’ve not only lost any happiness I may have had, I’ve also officially lost all control, and I’m spiralling.

  Once we’re back in the empty hall, I push out of Paisley and Roxie’s grasp and run, ignoring their voices calling my name.

  You’re pathetic. You can never do anything right, you fat, stupid bitch…

  You’ll never be enough…

  45

  Slater

  “What the fuck do you mean, ‘she left’? You better start making sense, Tommy,” I bark, towering over him outside the ballroom now that the junket is over and the last few members of the press have trickled out. As soon as the press conference was over, I went looking for Ali. We have dinner plans, just her and I tonight, so I expected her to be waiting for me. And she’s not. In fact, none of the girls from Happenstance are here.

  “Listen,” Tommy says. “It turned into a shit show. Penny Donaldson from The Sound Byte got hold of some information…”

  “What information?” I ask, gripping the back of my neck for support, knowing by the way Tommy’s broaching the subject, it ain’t anything good. Penny Donaldson is a Grade-A bitch, and if I’d’ve known she was on the list, I would have had Oliver blackball her. She’s caused a lot of issues for a whole bunch of bands, including ours when Scott was drinking and did a stint in rehab. The last thing Ali needs is that woman in her face.

  “Did you know that Ali’s mother murdered her father?” he asks, and I feel like I’ve just been slapped.

  “The fuck?”

  “It’s true,” he says. “I looked it up online after we cleared the place out. I fig—”

  “Stop.” I cut him off. “It doesn’t matter right now. Where the hell did she go?” I ask, pulling up Roxie’s number, after already texting.

  “I couldn’t tell you. Last thing I heard, she ran off as soon as the girls got her out of there.”

  “Motherfucker,” I yell, when no one answers their phones.

  Not Roxie.

  Not Paisley.

  Not Shiv.

  And, worst of all, not Ali.

  Beep.

  “Fuck it,” I hang up and text again, hoping she’ll see it and finally reply.

  Me: Ali, where the hell are you? I’m coming to find you. Please, Ali. Call me, text me, baby. I’m going out of my mind.

  I send the message as I walk out the door, calling and texting each of their phones again and again with no response.

  I have to find her.

  46

  Alina

  I can’t do this anymore.

  “Have @SlaterJenkins standards fallen so low?”

  “Who is @AlinaCassidy?”

  “Is @AlinaCassidy worthy of @SickenUnion’s frontman?”

  “Why @AlinaCassidy? Why her?”

  My eyes read tweet after tweet.

  I hone in on the comments that bash me, confirming once again all the things I’ve always known, things my mother and aunt tried to convince me were true. They were right all along. After almost two years in recovery, I still feel the same…

  You’ll never be enough…

  I can’t stop thinking about that reporter, my mother, my father,
and Lucky. I can’t stop thinking that if I hadn’t been selfish and convinced myself I belonged here on this tour, in the spotlight, then my past wouldn’t matter. I can’t stop thinking of the implications, and how my actions have fucked things up for Slater, the tour, the girls, and—worst of all—for Lucky. The last thing he needs for his own recovery is another one of my fuckups that he has to pick me up from. I can’t stop the sobs from escaping my throat or the tears from falling once again. I really did it this time.

  How I ended up looking at Twitter posts tonight, I couldn’t say. All I know is that I stared at Slater’s name popping up in my text message alerts over and over until I couldn’t take it anymore. And, instead of talking to him, I took to Twitter instead, to let the nasty words wash over me, giving the bully’s voice inside my head more gumption to fuel Her fire.

  Once back in my room, I dumped the three bags of groceries I’d bought on my way back to the hotel on the desk. I shut and locked the adjourning door—keeping the girls out, and ignoring the many knocks and callings of my name that soon followed. Curling myself into a ball in the middle of my bed, I ignored everyone and everything except for the familiar voice I’ve been struggling with for so long. My bully is here, and I’m so close to giving in. Her voice is too strong right now to be ignored. It’s getting easier to think about just giving in, to admit defeat rather than continue to fight a battle I’ll never win.

  You’re too weak, too pathetic to fight.

  There will always be something, so maybe it’s just easier to give up now, and let my bully have Her way.

  Sitting up in the middle of the bed, my vision is still blurry from my tears. I squint, and my fingers tremble closing out Twitter. I decide to try to text Lucky again. He hasn’t picked up after what has to be my hundredth attempt to contact him. Where is he?