When I got home, I could barely look at my DED poster. Balthazar looked too much like the Guy, with his long hair and his high cheekbones, that slim, strong body, the tight black pants. I was confused. Part of my fantasy, part of my empowerment, was that Balthazar and his band and the others who were a part of that music world would accept me, and I would belong, standing like Marie-Lise next to someone like the Guy, allied, ready to beat the shit out of the assholes and prove our superiority, together. If the Guy thought I was an idiot, would Balthazar too?
But, in the end, metal was still mine. Just because the Guy liked it too and he was an asshole didn’t mean that I was going to allow him to ruin it for me. Fuck him. He could look at me like I was an idiot. It didn’t matter.
However, I couldn’t face DED right then, so Gurgol it was. I blasted my favourite song of theirs.
Your face is like a mask and I want to break it.
Your life is in my hands and I’m going to take it.
What did you say to me?
You turn your back on me?
I put my knife in you.
Your life is such a joke that it makes me laugh.
You just can’t seem to see that you’re made of crap.
Soon you’ll understand.
When your blood is on my hands.
I bet Marie-Lise encountered guys, even in the metal scene, who’d try to make her into a joke. She was better than letting some asshole ruin how she felt. If anything, I bet it made her stronger. It gave her more hate, which would make her more creative. Sure, it was a guy singing, but her bass was there. She felt this song. She felt every word that the singer was feeling.
If anything, the Guy was just an asshole in disguise. He’d missed the true meaning of metal music, which was so obvious to me: hating assholes and empowering yourself against them. I started to feel elated. He didn’t get it. I had won. I understood it and, despite his obvious disinterest in how little I knew, I was more metal than him. Maybe he knew something about a scene, but what I knew was more important. I decided to try to write something. Inspired by the Guy.
Did you pay, what, a dime for that disguise?
You suck and fail, that’s no surprise.
Others like me hear my call.
We orchestrate it when you fall.
First I tear out your blue, blind eyes.
Such a sexy voice, such tortured cries.
And blood will fill this hollow hall,
Cause I’m the wickedest witch of all.
It was one of the best things I had ever written.
In fact, I submitted it as a poem in my English class. The teacher, Ms. Voree, returned it with a good mark, but with some comments in red ink. Disturbing. Have you been watching horror movies? With a smiley-face beside it. She also mentioned that the word “suck” was a bit too much slang for the assignment. I didn’t care. I knew I was a good writer. And I was extremely proud of what I had written. It might not have been the perfect fit for my stupid school, but fuck it, neither was I.
xXx
Whenever I saw the Guy in the halls or in the cafeteria, I ignored him. Seeing him made me feel a bit stupid, but then I would just repeat to myself I’m the wickedest witch of all, and I’d feel better. Picturing myself pulling out the eyes of that faker made me feel great too.
Of course I told Josephine what had happened, and after wincing over my moronic use of the word “grapevine,” she tried to help me rally.