26
Alina
We’ve been in the Yukon’s capital city, Whitehorse, for two days now, and it’s beautiful to say the least. After getting the Spanish Inquisition from my bandmates about Slater’s and my friendship, sorting out our rooming situation (Roxie and I both jumping to take the single rooms), and rehearsals yesterday, we girls agreed to head out early today and explore this city of just over 25,000 people.
According to Tommy, the band makes a point to include Canada’s northern territories on the tour, despite these being smaller shows. Sicken Union has a huge Canadian fanbase, and they try to visit as many places as possible during the Consequence of Sound summer tour, places they normally wouldn’t get to visit when on their larger international tours. This is a kernel of information that has me respecting the guys even more. The fact that this tour’s about the fans and the music, and not necessarily just the money, says a lot about what matters to a hugely successful and popular band like Sicken Union.
We’re sitting at the Burnt Toast Café having lunch when a text from Tommy comes through to Paisley’s phone.
“Oh my god, ladies,” she squeals, wiggling her eyebrows up and down with excitement. “Tommy just texted. Apparently the Sicken Union team has posted a new batch of promo pics to all their social media sites, and we’re in a bunch.” She leans over the table so we can all see the text.
“Let me pull up their Instagram page,” Paisley says, tapping furiously away on her phone.
“I’ll pull up Facebook,” Roxie says, reaching down into her purse.
“God, I hope it’s the one where Zack has his arm around me. Bitches beware…” Siobhán giggles, leaning in to get a better view on the tiny screen.
I laugh, feeling the effects of their excitement. I just hope the pictures aren’t too ridiculous. Despite having allowed Kelly, Sicken Union’s stylist, and her team to dress me for our photo shoot, it’s a risk I’m now not so sure I should have taken, knowing these pictures will be seen over the entire interwebs.
“There,” Siobhán says and points, practically knocking Paisley’s phone out of her hands. “Oh my god. We look fucking hot, especially surrounded by the Sicken Union boys. Jesus, Al, you look amazing with Slater draped all over you,” she snickers, as I stare in stunned silence at the image in front of me.
We do look good. And I look happy. You’d never know that deep within, Her voice is waiting to attack at any moment. My pulse ratchets up a notch, taking in the shot. Slater Jenkins is gorgeous, and so far he’s been nothing like I expected. He’s been sweet, kind, and attentive. I was mortified at my reaction yesterday on the plane when he grabbed my knee, worried he felt the pudge camouflaged by my jeans. Thankfully, he didn’t notice or he let it go, and didn’t allow me to recede into myself like I had tried to do. He, like Lucky, was able to keep me with him, despite my wanting to be swallowed up by a hole.
“Paisley, your eyes look stunning. You need to ask Kelly what brand of eyeliner she used. I see a trip to Sephora in our future,” Roxie says, pulling me from my thoughts.
I smile and agree, adding how these women all look breathtaking, as well. My eyes, however, keep zeroing in on the fact that Slater is touching me, and how out of all the pictures the marketing team had to choose from, they chose this one. The one where the lead singer of Sicken Union has his body nuzzled tightly next to mine, with his muscular arm wrapped around my shoulders. I remember being so nervous when Slater came and stood beside me, worried I’d stand out, or that his arm might not fit around my shoulders due to my size. His piercing cinnamon eyes are playful as he poses for the camera, joking around with us all and instantly putting us at ease. He had complimented us on how gorgeous we all looked, his eyes not wavering from me when he said it. I remember how his mouth curled into that signature grin and a now-familiar warmth begins to take shape in my stomach as I take in the photo. It’s a feeling mimicking the same one I had at the bar, and next to him on the plane. It’s insane how his presence has such a visceral effect on me. This boy is dangerous.
“I’m sorry, Ali,” Roxie says, “I have to say again, you and Slater look fucking fantastic side by side. Are you sure this isn’t the start of something? I mean, we saw you both in your own bubble on the plane. It looked like the two of you were the only ones on the flight.”
I fluff her off. “Settle down, Rox, we’re just friends. We’re getting to know one another, is all. He makes me smile,” I say (even though she’s right). Slater and I were totally in our own bubble. Well, at least I was. For the duration of the six-hour flight, I was completely consumed by Slater and his commandingly magnetic presence, so wrapped up in his musings that I didn’t hear or notice my surroundings until the captain was announcing our descent. Listening to Slater laughing at Stepbrothers was something I’ll never forget. The sound was so deep and melodic, almost hypnotizing as it floated throughout the cabin eliciting a bunch of looks and jokes our way when the others teased him that he was ten years too late in watching one of the best comedies.
“Well, I wouldn’t bank on Slater only wanting to be your friend, Ali. You’re a total catch,” Roxie says, before pulling up a few shots on Sicken’s Facebook account.
“Holy shit, there are over twenty-five thousand likes,” Paisley adds, her voice going up an octave. And almost nine thousand comments on that picture of all of us.”
“What are they saying?” The thought escapes my lips before I can stop it. I bristle immediately, regretting the slip. I know better. People can be really mean on social media, it’s one the of the major reasons why I limit my time on Facebook and have very few friends on my privately set account. Despite asking, I honestly don’t want to know.
“I’m checking now,” Paisley says.
“Well, Sicken Union have a huge following, so it doesn’t surprise me that there’ll be a lot of hits,” Rox adds, her thumbs swiping across her own device.
“I bet they’ve been loving on us,” Siobhán says confidently, because that’s her nature. She doesn’t mean to be cocky, she’s just comfortable in her own skin.
“Let’s see, shall we?” Pais says, and my first instinct is to excuse myself to use the washroom, a sinking feeling taking form in the pit of my stomach. This right here has been one of the things that has kept me up at night. Potentially negative press, the possibility of bad reviews, and the awful comments people might make about pictures of us. About pictures of me.
“Oh, some are really good,” Paisley drones on, a bright smile on her face. “‘Congrats, ladies, I love your sound. Saw you play at Sonic last month’.”
“Yay,” Siobhán cheers. “Told ya,” she adds triumphantly, and we all laugh.
“Yeah, you’re a regular psychic. That was one comment,” I tease.
“Tell us more,” Rox says, taking a sip of her iced tea.
Paisley reads another, “‘Who are those hotties?’” She quirks a brow. “‘Damn good choice, boys’, ‘Oh, I absolutely adore Happenstance! Can’t wait to see you guys in Montreal!’”
“How cool is that,” I say, my shoulders beginning to relax. It’s not nearly as bad as I had thought. So far, anyway. We laugh as Rox and Paisley take turns reading from both Instagram and Facebook, while we finish our lunch.
“Oh shit.” Paisley stops short, looking between us all.
“What is it?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Here comes the bad.
“‘What a bunch of whores. Happenstance doesn’t deserve to be on that tour.’ ‘Siobhán O’Shea’s drumming is like watching a toddler with their first drum kit.’ Oh boy. I’m sorry, Shiv. I shouldn’t have read that,” Paisley says, swallowing hard.
“Fuck them, anyway.” Siobhán smacks the table, almost knocking over our drinks. “Can’t they think of something better?”
“Here’s one about me,” Rox chimes in, “‘Roxie is not only a failed guitar player on bass, she looks like she’s been into the Big Macs.’” She huffs out a breath. “I fucking hate people.”
“Rox.” I gain her attention, knowing that weight comment will hit her hard. “Ignore them, it’s bullshit. You’re perfect, and you own the stage when you rock that bass,” I say, offering a smile of encouragement.
“You’re right. Thanks, Al.”
“Guys, there are a bunch more. I think we should stop. We know there are a lot of good ones,” says Paisley.
“I agree,” Roxie says, looking a little sheepish when her eyes land on mine.
“What is it, Rox?” I can’t help ask, needing to know.
“It’s nothing. Leave it, Ali.” She moves to exit the app, but I grab her phone before it closes.
My heart sinks, and my nose burns with the onset of tears that push their way forward. Despite knowing it was coming, nothing can prepare you for seeing such hurtful comments aimed directly at you as if you weren’t a human being with feelings.
“What’s with the fat girl latching onto Slater?”
“Who’s the bitch touching my man?”
“You wish, honey, you’re like 7 sizes too big to be his type.”
“Jesus, is this girl channelling her inner diva and eating her backup singers?”
My eyes scan comment after comment, each more negative than the last. My breathing is becoming more and more shallow. My hands tremble, my eyes watering as I look to Roxie, needing her support now more than ever. Our eyes catch and I will her to help me. How, I don’t know. I just know I need her.
See, I told you. You aren’t ever going to be enough, the familiar voice taunts me from within, and I feel sick.
“Enough, Ali. Stop, right now,” Rox grits, forcibly taking her phone out of my hand. “Do not listen to them, do you hear me?” she says, leaning in and wrapping her arm around me, pulling me into her tight. And for the first time, I take comfort and let her soothe me.
“It’s all bullshit. You know it,” Paisley says, and I can see the hurt reflected on her face when I look up and nod. “There’s stuff about all of us in there.”
“I know, you’re right. It’s just hard to hear. I—I…” I can’t get it out.
“We know, Ali. We know,” Siobhán whispers quietly, placing her hand on mine, not needing to say anything more. Of course they know. They’re my people.
“I’m sorry, guys. I’ve been trying so hard…this was just a bit much to take in,” I say.
“We know you have, sweetie. We’re so fucking proud of your ass,” Paisley says, causing me to snort with laughter. She’s always the tactful one.
“I love you guys.”
“Right back at you, lovely,” Roxie says, giving me one last squeeze before letting me go.
“New rule. No more social media at the table, before bed, or ever.” Siobhán raises her glass, and we cheer in agreement.
Although I know it will be impossible to avoid, I appreciate the gesture.
*
Later that night, alone in my hotel room, I break the rule.
Opening up my newly-installed Instagram app, I find Sicken Union’s account again and start to read each and every comment.
After lunch, the girls and I had visited the Lumel Studios, a glassblowing workshop and gallery on Keish Street. The owner, Lu, happened to be there, and he let us all have a try at his craft. Lu was fabulous, and I have a new appreciation for how truly beautiful blown glass designs really are. But, although we had a great day out, I couldn’t shake those negative comments. And, unfortunately, they aren’t just the voices of strangers, they’re coming in an all-too-familiar tone: Hers.
Wanting some control of the situation, I scroll to our band’s picture and tap on the speech bubble, needing so badly to see for myself that, like Paisley had mentioned, the comments aren’t all directed only at me. I scroll down, looking for the positives, pausing to allow the compliments to wash over me before I try and stomach the bad ones. I will myself to rule out the bad ones, working to hold on to the good, because in reality there really are more supportive comments than abusive ones. It’s just too bad that for a person like me, the damage has already been done.
Needing to do something more to prove to myself that I’m in control, I grab the room service menu and open it, scanning the list, noting all the dishes I could order.
“No,” I shout, tossing the menu across the empty room. “No way. They’re wrong. They’re just jealous.”
I grab my cellphone and self-soothe box from inside the nightstand drawer and situate myself in the middle of the bed.
Me: I miss you already.
Pulling out a selfie of Lucky and me sitting in our treehouse, I feel myself starting to calm down. I see three grey circles flickering in the chat window.
Lucky: You too, Squirt. How was the sightseeing?
Me: Good. The social media? Not so much.
My phone rings immediately.
After talking and laughing with Lucky on the phone for the next thirty minutes, I feel much better. I finish the call, and decide to have a relaxing bath before bed. Opening the washroom door, I pause mid-step, my gaze landing on one of the things that scares me most: a scale.
Without thinking, I step on it. Unhappy with the number staring back at me, I decide my clothes must be adding to the number. I discard my pants, shirt, underwear, and bra, avoiding looking in the mirror. I stop in front of the scale. I know I shouldn’t step on it again. I know I’m slipping. I used to weigh myself at least fifteen times a day, but since being in recovery, I’ve only weighed myself a handful of times. But the yearning for control is too strong, and I’m weak after today and with the stress of our upcoming first show.
Moving a step forward, my toes tap the cool white plastic before I pull my foot away, dropping it back down beside the other. Taking a deep breath, I inch my feet closer to the scale, so close that I can feel the metal base scraping the tops of my toes. With a tear now streaming down my face, I cave. I step both feet up on the scale, and give myself a few moments before looking down to read my weight.
“Shit.” I wipe the tear away as I read the three-digit number staring back at me. It’s within my BMI, but it’s more than I’ve weighed in a long time.
You’re gaining weight, Alina. You’d better do something about it…
Stepping off again, I start to panic, then realize I forgot to remove my jewelry. “That’ll help,” I lie to myself, making quick work of removing my bracelets and earrings, knowing it won’t make a lick of difference, but still wishing it would.
Reluctantly, I step on it again. The numbers stay exactly the same. 130 lbs.
“Dammit, Ali. It doesn’t matter what it says,” I say out loud, working to convince myself, fighting off Her voice, the voice that’s amping up its attack, and fighting me for control of what’s mine.
You’re a fat girl, whom everyone pities…
As if a famous man like Slater would want anything to do with a nobody like you.
Look in the mirror. Look at yourself! You’re so fucking ugly.
You’re fat, and only getting fatter…
“No!” I shout. “You aren’t welcome here. You cannot do this to me anymore!”
I reach down for the scale, pick it up, and whip it hard against the tiled wall of the bathtub stall, not caring if the loud crashing sound draws attention. With a final “Fuck you!”, I turn on my heel, slamming the door behind me. And, suddenly, I feel like myself again.
Cocooning myself into the comfy bed at the Edgewater hotel, I grab my cell and pull up Google to double-check my BMI range, despite knowing better. Pissed at myself, I toss the phone onto the bed beside me, and roll over to try to fall asleep.
Drifting off, I vow to myself that starting tomorrow, I’ll make it through whatever’s thrown my way while on this tour and to fight for the light, even when negativity pushes me towards that familiar darkness. I vow to enjoy this journey with my head held high.