Mom took the passport and had a look. “This is pretty neat.”
“Yes.” I unzipped a pocket on my shoulder bag and pulled out a laminated card on a lanyard. “Here’s the tour laminate,” I said, showing them the list of the dates and cities of the tour. “I wore this the whole time.”
“You visited so many cities,” Mom said, looking over at Dad. “That’s really something, isn’t it?”
They both studied me. I knew I was a mess, totally smelly and dishevelled. But I had been on tour overseas, with the laminate and passport stamps and a hideous bag of dirty clothes to prove it. And I wasn’t drunk or stoned or sick. It made me feel good to see them at a loss for words.
“So,” Dad said, “your band is doing really well? Making money?”
“Well, we opened for Goreceps,” I explained. “It wasn’t our tour, technically.” I started feeling resentful again. I had already explained this to them weeks before. They hadn’t listened. “Like I told you, they invited us. Edgar’s parents paid for the tickets, and we sold CDs and shirts that we had made ourselves.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to England,” Mom said, smiling. “Rachel, I almost can’t believe it. You toured and travelled, made your own CDs and shirts.”
“I did the shirt designs myself. And our CD cover.” I couldn’t help it. I started to feel proud, and wanted to share that with Mom and Dad. I’d spent so many hours in my room alone, working on designs, working on lyrics, so many hours at rehearsals, singing and working on my voice, and here my parents were, talking about it with me. It felt damn good to see their interest.
“And you write all the song lyrics,” Dad said.
“Yeah.” I smiled. It was a goofy smile, probably. Like, a genuine one.
“You really have achieved so much,” Mom said.
“Mom and I were worried the whole time you were gone.”
“Why did you let me go then?” I said. “If you honestly thought I was just going to go party or something? For a week and a half? You were fine just letting me go?”
“This was going to be it,” Dad admitted. “Once you got back, no more band. It was going to be college or a full-time job.”
“And now?” I asked. “Now that you can see this band moving forward? That I can make money at it? That I’m not a drug addict?”
They were quiet. They didn’t know what to say. I shrugged and took my bags to my room. My sister wasn’t even home. As I unpacked wads of still-damp clothes from my backpack, I realized how much it must suck to be a parent. You devote everything to your kids, who just end up growing up and disliking you. I felt bad for them briefly, but at least they had each other. In that moment I decided I wouldn’t have kids. I don’t think I could handle the level of betrayal I’d feel once I realized that they weren’t interested in me anymore.
THIRTY-NINE
Socks’s voice was urgent and excited on the other end of the phone. “The owner is coming out. The owner of Recordead is flying here!”
“I hate that name,” I said.
“I know. It’s terrible. But who gives a shit? It’s Recordead Records. Do you know how many wicked bands they have?”
“Yes.” Pretty much all the bands we listened to were on Recordead Records: Surgical Carnage, Gurgol, DED. I’d always hated the name. Such a shitty pun. Why would you go to so much trouble and be so passionate about the music and have just the worst possible fucking name?
“Well, I just wanted to make sure you know that the guy who runs the label is coming here, on an airplane, in two weeks. To see us.”
“So are we going to put on a show?”