For the next hour, Danny and I dance like crazy. We do the Shopping Cart, the Roger Rabbit, the Moonwalk, the Lawnmower, and then a bunch of dances we make up—the Time Keeper, the Tooth Brusher, the Hair Comber, the Sandwich Eater. As we dance I can feel myself sweating out the hangover sadness. Whenever I start to think about Sean, about last night, or about the weirdness today, I just dance harder, dance sillier. And by the time Monster Hands plays the final chord of their encore, “Cupcake Battle Dome,” I am feeling kind of okay.
“Thanks for the dancing,” I say to Danny. And then I excuse myself. It’s time to do what I came here for.
“I’ll never forget you, beer-shoe girl!” Danny calls out behind me. “I’m going to get these dirty napkins framed!” I turn back and he smiles, and I wave. And that’s it. There’s a shiny black door next to the stage blocked by a giant guy with waist-length curly hair and a giant brown leather jacket. I watch as two girls in tiny matching gray dresses approach the door. They’re saying something to the guy. He’s shaking his head. They’re pouting. He crosses his arms. One of the girls pulls down the front of her dress and shakes her boobs at him. He’s barely even looking. Finally the girls give up, give the guy the finger, and walk away.
I take a deep breath. And as I walk forward, I try and channel my inner Nina. I close my eyes and I suddenly remember something Nina had told me the night before my first day of middle school: If you’re going somewhere where you feel like you might not belong, the only person you need to work to convince is yourself. Everyone else is easy.
I stand up a little straighter and walk toward the door. I’m not a groupie. I’m friends with the band. They’ ll be thrilled to see me. When I get to the door, the big guy is holding it open while a little guy walks through with a giant amp. I look the big guy straight in the eye and smile my biggest Nina-est smile.
“I’m here to see Monster Hands,” I say.
The guy just stares at me.
“I’m friends with them,” I smile again, bigger this time.
“Sure you are, honey.” He shakes his head and lets go of the door.
“I’m serious!” I say.
“Well, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Tits McGee over there.” He motions to where the girls in the gray dresses are standing by the bar doing shots. “The boys in the band didn’t tell me about any special guests tonight, and until I hear it from them, you’re not getting backstage.”
“Well, then go ask them!” I say. “Tell them…tell them Nina Wrigley is here to see them. They’ll be happy to see me. I’m positive.”
The guy looks at me again and tips his head to the side.
“Seriously, they’ll be really upset if they find out I was here and they didn’t get to see me. I’m the girl who tattooed Ian’s stomach!”
“Alright, alright, I’ll go and ask them.”
The guy disappears behind the heavy metal door and reappears a few minutes later, smiling and looking a little embarrassed.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Nina. We’ve just had a string of crazy fans trying to get back lately so I’ve just had to be kind of a jerk about it. They’re really excited you’re here, they said to send you in. Go all the way back.”
And then he winks and steps aside. I’m inside looking down a crowded hallway lined with guitars and amps and a dozen or so people are hanging out drinking beers. A guy in a charcoal gray suit is standing in front of a doorway at the end of the hall yelling “this is not a negotiable issue” over and over into his phone, emphasizing different words each time. “This is not a negotiable issue, this is not a negotiable issue.” I walk past him into the room.
It’s strangely quiet, as though all the noise of the hallway died at the entrance. The two red-haired guys are sitting cross-legged on the couch eating bowls of cereal. The black-haired guy is standing by an open window, shirtless in a pair of pajama pants with kittens printed on them, smoking a cigarette. They all look up when I walk in.
“Who the feck are you?” the kitten-pajama guy says in a thick Irish accent. He’s smiling.
“You’re not Nina,” says one of the guys on the couch. He sounds very disappointed. I recognize him from the picture, he’s the one who had his arm around her. “Where’s Nina?”
“You here for some cereal?” asks the guy on the other side of the couch. He has a short red beard, and a tiny milk mustache. He’s smiling. “We’ve got Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Lucky Charms, which I realize as I say it is a somewhat ironic cereal choice for us. You’d think a real Irishman wouldn’t want them.”
“Don’t offer her cereal,” says Kitten Pajamas. “She lied to big Jimmy. She’s a Nina impersonator! She could be a crazed fan here to kill us!”
“We’re not famous enough yet for that, Ian,” says Milk Mustache.