Every Little Star

“Nora.”

“No.”

“Nora!”

Nora kept her back turned to the wall, hunched over her cigarette like that one scene from the Blair Witch Project. She fumbled with the lighter a few times, struggling against the February wind. Flick. Flick. Flick. It wouldn’t light “Fuckin’ hell…” she mumbled to herself.

“Hey!” the other girl , Van, raised her arms in exasperation. “Don’t fucking ignore me! I’m talking to you! Answer me!” She grabbed Nora’s shoulder, a move of utter desperation, as the two were never usually ones for physical contact. “That’s it, huh?” She could feel Nora’s going stiff under her grasp. Too much?

Nora wormed her way out from under the other girl’s thick, calloused hands. They were face to face; Nora could tell Van was standing on her tiptoes to match her height. “Yes. That’s it.”

“So you’ve already found a replacement then?” When Van was mad, a hint of an accent from her London childhood came out. It had mostly disappeared after she had moved to the States in middle school, but right now, the New Jersey had left her body and she was possessed by an angry British child. Nora stifled a giggle “Is he better than me?”

Nora sighed, backing away from Van’s redbull-and-god-knows-what-else breath. “Ricky Lee. From Beloathed. He’s joining us on the next few gigs. I don’t know if he’ll be permanent, but he’s a good drummer. He shows up to practice on time, at least.

“Well, good for fucking him. Good for fucking Ricky Lee!” She was pacing now, stomping around the pavement like a toddler who had her iPad taken away; fists balled up, a few angry tears heating up her cold cheeks. “After all I’ve done for you, too, huh? You pick some fucking random ass dude over me.” She kept her eyes to the ground, slush seeping through her shoes and socks. She kicked pebbles around as she paced, a dejected child.

Nora sighed and slumped against the wall, letting her half-finished cigarette fall to the ground. She squished it to death with her beaten up Converse, looking first at her shoes and then up at the sky as she spoke. “It’s not personal, Van, we needed a replacement. It’s not about you, or me, or Jules, or anyone. It's about the band. We can’t stop the world for you, we have to keep moving.” She put her hands in her pockets. “It’s never personal.”

“That’s a lie.”

“I know.” Of course it was personal. It was always personal. But she couldn’t admit that, especially now, with the state Van was in. “I’m going to go back inside. You should too. It’s cold.”

Van spat on the ground, right near Nora’s shoes, before turning away. “Don’t pretend you care about me, you bitch.” Bitch stung like lemon on a papercut, and for a second, Nora felt her blood rush. She felt her first tense up before relaxing again, a cold breath escaping her lips. She stood for about 30 seconds, letting all of her feelings leave her body. Now wasn’t the time.

“Okay,” She bit her cheek and headed inside. For a second, she meandered in the doorway, as if hesitating. She wanted to turn around, to look her friend in the eyes, but instead she let the door close behind her, eyes glued to her shoes.

Now Van was alone. It was cold, and she was only in a ratty sweatshirt and cheap, thin jeans. Still, she wouldn’t go inside, she couldn’t. At least not through the back entrance, anyway, that was for the bands. “It’s never personal my ass…” she mumbled to herself. Against her better judgement, she found herself sitting on the ground. Wet, gray snow leached into her jeans. It was gross, but not as gross as she felt inside. Her fingers were turning blue with frost. A venue security guard walked past her, stopped as if to say something, then walked away, his brows furrowed with concern. She couldn’t even look at him, much less anyone else. Who cared? “I’ll bet Ricky sucks,” she said to nobody in particular. That made her think, would it be worse if he sucked or if he actually was better than her? Now she had to know. Van jolted up and grimaced at her soaked-through pants. She headed toward the front entrance of the club, going through general admission like every other loser who had nothing better to do on a Friday night than see a shitty local band perform. Didn’t they know who she was? Didn’t they know it was supposed to be her on that stage?

After 4 beers, two shots, and one You’ve Had Enough from the bartender, the lights began to dim. The standing floor crowd erupted in cheers as the band came onto the stage. Mari the moody bassist gave a shy smile to her admirers as Jules the rhythm guitarist waved and beamed her million dollar grin. A figure popped up behind them, thumbs-upping and waving like a smug politician. Fucking Ricky, Van snarled. Then, finally, the frontwoman. Nora made her grand entrance onto the little stage like she was Queen Elizabeth, even doing a stupid little curtsy in front of the mic stand. Even worse- she gave Ricky a fist bump!

“Good evening, beautiful Jersey City. Thank you all for coming out to see us on this cold Friday night. Nora crooned into the microphone, her silver-smooth voice making everyone scream like it’s the first time they’ve ever seen a woman like her before. “We are Every Little Star, and we are very excited to play for you. We have a new face on stage tonight, soooo everyone give a warm New Jersey welcome to my dear friend Ricky assisting me on the drums.” She gestured to him as if he was the goddamned President, and people reacted as so. God, she’s fucking rubbing it in!” Van thought, as she craned her neck to see past the tall couple in front of her. Everyone was already pushing their way to the front, so Van had to battle elbows and plastic cups being flung in her face with reckless abandon.

The show was, to Van’s dismay, incredible. Probably one of Every Little Star’s best shows yet, with a packed venue. Apparently, a Brevolver journalist was there to interview the band after the set. Van stayed in her stool as the sheep rushed the merch line, nursing her fifth beer.

“You saw the show?” It was Nora. Van didn’t answer. “What did you think?”

Van shrugged. “He was rushing.”

Before Nora could answer that, the bartender, who had been minding her business for most of the time, chimed in from behind the counter. “Hey, you were really good tonight!”

Nora gave a sheepish smile and a thanks before turning back to Van. “Sure he was. Are you good to get home okay?”

“Why do you care?” Van slammed her drink down onto the bar counter to little impact, because it was a plastic cup. “You kicked me out of your stupid band, now you’re amazing, now you’re asking if I'm good to get home okay? What the fuck is your deal?”

“I didn’t k-whatever. Let me know. I can get you a ride, ok?” Nora sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Just-” She gestured her hands wildly, like whatever words were on her tongue were not enough to convey how she felt. “Don’t drink too much again.” She said, before walking away from Van for the last time.