We drove right to the airport, we said goodbye to Roger and Timmy, and the bus sped off, leaving us outside the terminal at 2 a.m. with a pile of guitar cases and stinking knapsacks, stiff with the sweat of unwashed clothes. It was hideous. Our show clothes actually had salt stains on them from the amount of perspiration soaked into them, which was totally gross. I didn’t know that could happen.
We checked in for our flight, Toad leading the way. I was somewhat irritated that he was coming with us, but it was better having him lead the way and taking care of things than to just literally fly blindly into some unknown situation. Having a tour manager was pretty awesome. Once our bags were checked, we went to our gate to rest. The flight was the next morning, so we hunkered down to get some sleep despite the fluorescent lighting. Socks pulled his hat down over his eyes and slumped in a plastic chair. Edgar full-on lay down on the floor, using his backpack as a pillow. Toad busied himself with his laptop, and I slouched my own ass down, ready to try to sleep.
Fern was buzzing with energy. Her knee bounced up and down, her eyes darting around. I could tell there was no way she would be sleeping. I don’t know why I was so tired. I was afraid of what was going to happen in England. I closed my eyes and tried to rest, eventually falling into a terrible sleep — the kind where you wake up with a throbbing headache and your back is killing you.
xXx
We were like zombies at the gate the next morning. I felt like pure shit. It didn’t look like anyone else felt much better. Socks and Edgar went miserably to find any semblance of reasonably priced coffee and food. Toad sat with his arms folded, his hood pulled up. Only Fern appeared unfazed, the same look of jittery anticipation still on her face.
Socks and Edgar returned with a greasy bag of breakfast sandwiches, the kind on a soggy croissant with bacon and cheese and egg and butter. The coffee tasted horrible. The five of us silently ate, not even bothering with chit chat.
We still had an hour or so till the flight once we’d finished eating, and I wandered to the ladies’ room to brush my teeth and splash some water on my face. I looked in the mirror, acknowledging that I looked like shit. My hair didn’t even look real. It looked like someone had pasted dirty dull black string in clumps on my head. I still had the streaks of makeup from last night’s show on my face. The harsh light in the bathroom only made it worse.
But that’s the good thing about airports, any time of day. Most people look like bags of shit. People are sleeping on the floor no matter what time of day it is. People barf on planes. They have long flights. They’re hungry and tired. The most put-together, rich, professional people just go into survival mode. You’re dragging around heavy bags on your aching back. You’re sweating. Plus — you’re confused. Who the hell knows where they’re going in an airport? So at least no one stared at me too much.
Once done in the bathroom, I wandered a little and came upon a row of payphones. I dialled a collect call to my family’s house. My father accepted the charges, and I felt a tightness in my chest crawl up my throat.
“Rachel! How are you!” he cried, and I heard him call to my mother. “Marilyn, grab the other phone. It’s Rachel!”
There was a click as she picked up the other extension. Melissa was obviously beside her, and then I was lost in their voices, exclaiming happily they’d seen the band on the music channel on TV a few weeks ago, we were doing so well, they were so proud.
“How was the tour?” Mom asked.
“Fine,” I whispered in a thick voice, the lump in my throat swelling even larger, filling it up. It was difficult to breathe.
“We are so proud of you,” Dad agreed. “So! You must be on your way home now!”