When I Look at the Stars, I Feel Like Myself

Fingers fly over strings, pick attacking with precession. Behind my closed eyes, I can see the sheet music. Even though it's not plugged in, the song formulating from the strings is audible to me, loud and vibrant. The rest of my band mates should be seated around the lobby of the hotel, doing the same as me. Sound check is soon. Our bus is coming around to pick us in minutes, so we're waiting as patiently as possible for it to get here.

I'm too tired to be impatient.

Thirty minutes. That's how long I've been up. I packed my shit back on the bus before it left to fill up, grabbed my guitar from the van, and collapsed on a lounge chair with said guitar. I don't think I'm awake yet.

Yesterday, I went into hibernation mode. Two nights of not sleeping took its toll on my nutrient-deprived body. I slept from the moment I collapsed on the hotel room bed till I was woken up to pack things on the bus.

I haven't eaten.

I haven't thrown up.

I don't allow myself to throw up after sound check. I wait until after we perform. It's too risky to go on stage with the aftermath of a vomit affecting my body. The shaking makes it hard to play. Singing backup vocals is nearly impossible with a throbbing throat. And my heartbeat, that's so irregular I could have a heart attack from the shock a camera flash.

I know I don't like eating unless I have time to vomit at least thirty minutes after, but I'll have to make an exception or I'll pass out during sound check.

Those Cheetos on the bus are calling me.

Something is placed in my lap, causing me to snap my eyes open. Light and dark pink stripes allow me to identify the Victoria's Secret bag without reading the letters. Hands rest on my shoulders.

"I hope you like it," his breath hits my ear.

Jack.

I haven't seen him since Victoria's Secret.

"I wonder what it is," I tease, letting my guitar rest comfortably in my lap and opening the bag enough to peer inside.

The thong I picked out, or Calvin picked out, is the first thing I spot amongst the various lingerie items. He apparently felt the need to get more than just a matching pick bra. Lacy underwear and expertly matched bras of all colors take up space in the bag.

How much money did he spend on this?

"Why did you buy so many?" I ask.

"I wasn't going to buy that many, but there were so many that I wanted to see you in. I couldn't stop myself," Jack answers.

Riley coughs a few times from her seat on the couch next to Elina. Elina hits her face with the palm of her hand. I think they’re expecting me to attack him this time.

I want to.

But I won't, mainly because I'm too tired to do so.

"First of all, you won't get to see me in these for a very long time. Second," I turn my head to face him. His face is close to mine. Closer than is comfortable for me. I move back slightly and continue, "Didn't you buy these to make up for a comment similar to that?"

"I figure I can keep buying you underwear if I keep making the comment," Jack says, smile stretching across his face.

I roll my eyes, "Keep making that comment and I'll have to castrate you."

It slipped.

His eyebrows shoot up, eyes holding surprise. Guess he wasn't expecting me to threaten him either.

"You really don't like when I say those kinds of things?" Jack asks.

I thought it was obvious.

"No," I reply.

"Well," he leans closer, pressing his forehead against mine, "what do you like?"

I can feel the flush traveling up my neck. He is awfully close. In kindergarten, he must have been the kid who was always in time out because he couldn't keep his hands to himself.

I should pull away. I know I should. But those damn eyes have me trapped. They’re a gorgeous brown. Amusement sparkles behind them, coating his eyes in the most fascinating way I think I've ever seen.

"I like Pop-Tarts," I mumble, "You should get me some of those."

I'm almost positive my tone was sexier than intended.

"Lucky me, I have those in my bunk. Want to come get some?"

"I wasn't joking about castrating you."

"And that wasn't a comment about you in underwear."

Chuckling, I pull away from Jack and shake my head. Before I can come up with a retort, Alex yells "Jack, Zack, lets go."

Zack?

I look towards the couch. Zack is removing himself from the armrest next to Elina, mumbling a farewell of some sort. John is in the vicinity as well, taking up the space on the armrest next to Riley. I have no idea when they got there.

Damn Jack and his fascinating eyes.

"But, Alex," Jack whines, "I don't want to go."

"Jack, we don't need you to have a restraining order filed against you," Alex returns.

Jack sighs, "Fine." He looks at me, "Bye, Holl."

"Bye, Jack," I return.

He hops to his band mates, and they leave. Smirks and raised eyebrows meet me when I face my band mates again.

"What?" I ask.

"Did something happen between you two that I don't know about?" Riley asks.

"Jack met us at Victoria's Secret yesterday," Dalton answers, "Holland told him what panties she wanted him to buy for her."

"Are you sure it was Holland?" Elina asks, "Sounds more like an alien in Holland's body."

"Dalton and Calvin were lecturing me about giving Jack a chance," I defend, "So I'm giving him a chance."

"I would tell you to be careful, but Jack's harmless," John says.

"Jack's too skinny to hurt Holland," Riley states.

The comment hits me harder than it should. My mind reverses the statement, making it sound worse than I'm sure was intended.

I'm too fat for Jack to hurt me.

Anxiety washes over me. I want to stuff my face till I can't move and force everything up again.

I'm sure Riley didn't mean it like that, though. She's like Mother Theresa. She would never say anything to intentionally hurt me.

She even did the whole band's laundry yesterday.

"John, bus is here," Pat calls, breaking my thoughts.

"Okay," he yells back. To Riley, he says, "See you later, Ri-Ri."

Riley nods. Much calmer than Jack, John follows his band members outside. Ross walks through the door seconds after John leaves.

"Let's go, guys," he says.

As a group, we leave from the hotel and get on the bus. I grab the Cheetos from the cabinet of missing snack supplies, keeping my guitar from hitting any obstacle.

I have no hands to hold the Dr. Pepper. I'll have to do without.

This may be more painful than normal.

"Damn," Calvin says from behind me, "Dalton, did you stay up eating all the food again?"

"What are you talking about?" Dalton asks.

"The mass amount of food missing from the cabinet."

"That was me," I say.

Calvin draws his eyebrows together, eyes gazing over my body. I shift from one foot to the other, uncomfortable without my sweatpants and sweatshirt.

Why don't I wear sweats for a show? It's not like anyone would care.

Because I would overheat, pass out, and get caught.

"You ate that much food in one sitting?" Calvin asks.

I shrug, "I was hungry."

"Where do you put it all?" Elina asks.

In the toilet, vomit format.

"In my stomach," I say.

With that, I escape to my bunk. I don't have long. The venue is only half an hour away from the hotel, and I need to get to the bathroom before someone else does. It shouldn't be hard to keep everyone from hearing once I'm in there.

I've been doing this for so long I don't really produce gagging noises anymore.

Gently, I place my guitar in my bunk, lying down with its head on my pillow. I cram as many Cheetos into my mouth as I can in a two minute time frame. There's nothing left in the bag by the time I'm finished. I don't marvel at how fast I've eaten, instead grabbing my backpack and pulling out some Ziploc bags. As quickly as possible, I rush to the bathroom, lock the door, turn on the faucets, and fall to my knees in front of the toilet with the Ziploc bag open. My hand pushes its way into my mouth, index finger down my throat. The Cheetos have barely had time to reach my stomach, and they're already rushing back up my throat. They splatter into the bag, a grotesque mess of orange.

I fill two more bags, one with Cheeto-vomit, one with bile and blood.

More blood than bile.

Paired up with the surge of pain in my throat, that's probably bad.

Oh, well.

I go through my cleaning process. It never really changes, just alters depending on where I am. Not because I dislike change. It's just easier to keep the process as similar each time as possible.

It doesn't take long to finish cleaning up after myself, one of the perks of doing the same cleaning ritual repeatedly. I peak out the door of the bathroom, making sure I can make a clean get away. No one is in the bunk hallway as far as I can tell.

I can't see inside closed bunk curtains.

Deciding its safe enough to get to my bunk without getting stopped, I rush from the bathroom. I slide into my bunk, careful not to upset my guitar in the process. The bags of regurgitated material go into my backpack.

I'll throw them away when we get to the venue.

I grab my guitar again, slinging the strap over my shoulder and positioning it on my lap. My fingers glide over the strings, running over the set list. Halfway through the second song, my curtain flies back. Elina stands in front of me, smiling

"We're at the venue," she says, "Sound check for us is in five minutes. You're going first."

"Awesome, thanks."

The empty Cheetos bag next to me catches her attention, "Did you eat all of that just now?"

"It was half empty when I got to it."

"I wish I had your metabolism," she mumbles, a sort of envy in her tone. In a cheery voice, she continues, "See you at the stage."

And she leaves.

Why would she want my metabolism? She's so tiny. I'll never be as thin as her. I would kill to have her body. Riley's, too.

I'd love to have my sister's bony frame even more.

Shaking the thought from my head, I remove my guitar from my neck and grab my backpack. There should be a trashcan near our bus. There always is. I think the venue workers add trashcans to the parking lot to remind us to throw our trash away.

I walk through the empty bus. Outside, there is a trashcan a few steps away from our bus. I empty my backpack into the trashcan and walk back onto the bus. Tossing the backpack into my bunk and grabbing my guitar, I leave the bus for the second time, this time with the intent of going to sound check. By the time I reach the stage, I'm late. RJ connects my guitar to the amps with the instrument cable and shoves me on stage. I run through "Circles," my sound check song.

I don't lose myself in this song the same way I do with our songs. Ours are more personal. We created those. A part of my being is in the guitar riffs. They mean the world to me. They're more than just creations to make money. Each note holds my thoughts and feelings.

It's one of those musician things that no one really understands until they’ve experienced it.

Jack is waiting for me when I get off stage, smile stretched across his face. I'd say I'm shocked, but I'm not.

"Hey, Jack," I say.

"Hey, Holl," he says, obviously excited that I addressed him first, "Want to get something to eat?"

Not particularly. I'd prefer sitting in the backroom alone, wallowing in hunger and self-pity. But I can't tell him that.

"Don’t you have a sound check to do?" I ask.

We sound check in order of performance. Opener goes first. One of the co-headliners goes last. I'm not sure whose playing last tonight. It's not something I've been keeping track of. Jack should be sound checking soon regardless.

"Someone else can do it for me," he replies.

"Jack, I'm not pulling you away from your guitar."

"But if I don’t catch you now, I won't get the chance to see you for the rest of the night," he says, "You always disappear."

"I'm not hungry."

"We can just hang out in the backroom then."

"I don't—"

"Please," he whines.

The hopeful glow of his face is possibly the most innocent thing I've seen from a member of All Time Low. I want to say "yes" regardless of how annoying his persistence is.

It's those eyes, I swear.

"Fine," I sigh.

The smile on his face grows. He grabs my hand, tugging me toward the backstage area of the stage. Heat spreads through my body from the hand-to-hand contact.

I'm not used to this.

"Alex, sound check my stuff," Jack calls over his shoulder.

"Don't get a law suit filled against you," Alex returns.

Jack rolls his eyes and continues pulling me after him. We disappear into the backstage area, traveling through winding hallways until we get to All Time Low's dressing room. The lanky male attached to my hand pushes the door open and leads me inside. To my surprise, it's not dirty. It's immaculate.

"We obviously haven't had the chance to settle in," Jack says, releasing my hand and collapsing on the couch. "Come sit," he pats the spot next to him.

I do as he suggests, sitting close to him but not so close I'm uncomfortable. He drapes his arm across the back of the couch. It's silent. I have no idea what to say.

"So," he starts, "Do you have any siblings?"

Worst conversation starter in my book.

But I suppose he's trying to get to know me. I should be nice and respond without biting his head off. It's not his fault my sister and I don't get along.

"I have an older sister. She's twenty-three," I reply.

"Really? Is she a musician, too?"

I almost laugh. Italy, a musician? That's rich.

"No, she's in law school."

More like taking a break from law school.

That's not by choice, though. She'd be there right now, studying in the library while drinking black coffee. Pulling all-nighters to ace a test excites her far more than me. I'm not sure when she'll be able to go back.

"Oh," he says, "I'm guessing no one else in your family is involved in music."

"My dad's a surgeon. My mom is a stay-at-home mom. Neither of them really do music."

"Were they okay with you being a musician?"

"My dad supports me no matter what I do. I'm a daddy's girl, remember? My mother, well, she may never come around on my profession choice."

"You never know. She might. She just needs to accept that you can be a successful musician."

He doesn't know my mother. She will never be okay with my choices as long as Italy is around. But I understand why he's insisting she will.

"She won't, but thanks for trying to make me feel better. I accepted my mom's lack of support a long time ago," I say.

"I just don't want you to get discouraged. You're a great guitarist. You should keep doing what you love."

His compliment causes my heart to flutter, a flush coming to my pale face. At least, I think it's his compliment that does so. It could be my unstable heart getting ready to collapse, but I'm pretty sure my system isn't that messed up yet.

"Thanks," I mumble.

"You know, you never gave me your number the other day."

I knew he would ask again soon.

"Do you still want it?"

"I might."

"I like men who know what they want," I reply.

"You'll castrate me if I tell you what I want."

"How about you ask for my number again and work your way to getting what you want?"

I don't know if he'll ever actually get there. I'm not the type to wear skimpy clothing in front of people. He can try, though. Part of giving him a chance is allowing him to try to reach his goal.

Jack reaches into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone, "Well, Holl, what's you're number?"

I open my mouth to rattle off my number but am cut off by my phone blaring the guitar solo of "Enter Sandman." Mumbling a profanity, I yank my phone from my skinny jeans and glance at the small box on the screen. The number it reflects is unknown to me.

"Do you plan this?" Jack asks.

"Of course not," I say, "But I'm going to take this."

I stand, prepared to leave. Jack's hand grabs my wrist before I can move away from the couch. I snap my head to face him

"You can take it in here," he says, "Last time you had to take a call, you didn't come back."

That is true. If whoever is on the phone upsets me, I'm not sure I would come back. I would break my "no vomiting after sound check" rule. I suppose staying with Jack will keep me from rushing to a bathroom.

Plus, I was going to give him my number.

I fall back on the couch, "I'll stay."

This can't be that important of a call.

Jack's smile of triumph makes me giggle as I press the answer button on my touch screen and put the phone to my ear. He is kind of adorable, and his eyes are gorgeous. I can give him that much.

"Holland Kingston," I chirp.

"Hi, this is the Timberline Knolls Eating Disorder Treatment Center. Our patient Italy Kingston has requested to call you using her phone time for the day. Would you like us to put her through?"

Italy's calling me? Why is she wasting her phone time to do so? We don't get along. There's no point in taking the time to call me. I sure as hell wouldn't call her if I was in an eating disorder treatment center. Then again, she and I are polar opposites. It’s the reason we don't get along in the first place. The list really is endless.

I have blue hair and no tan. She's blonde and gets too much sun.

I don’t get along with mom. She's mom's favorite child.

I'll never be perfect. She'll always be perfect.

I force myself to vomit. She starves herself.

I've never been caught and never will be caught. She got caught a few months ago because she had a heart attack and was sent to an eating disorder facility.

She's still our mother's favorite.

"Sure," I say.

I can't deny the request of my sister while she's in the facility no matter how badly I want to.

"One moment please."

Seconds later, I hear an uncertain "Holland?" being mumbled. I've never heard her sound uncertain. She's always been confident, strong to an extent. Never uncertain.

"Hi, Italy," I say.

"Hey," her voice is filled with confidence this time, "How are you?"

"I'm good."

"How's the band?"

"We're on tour."

"That's great."

Why is she being so nice?

"Why did you call me with your phone time instead of mom?" I ask.

She does normally call mom.

"I just," she hesitates, "I just want to tell you I love you and I want you to be safe."

"What?"

"Holland, I'm not stupid. I know what an eating disorder looks like. I'm fucking anorexic. These are things I pay attention to."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You can deny it all you want, but we both know the truth. I don't want you to end up here. It's not fun, Holly."

Holly. I haven't heard that nickname in awhile.

"I won't end up there," I reply.

"Whatever you say," she sighs, "If you need to talk, I'm here. I'm nearing the last level of treatment so I get a lot of phone time. Just call the front desk and they'll direct your call to me."

"Why would I call you?"

I wouldn't go to her for support. I have no reason to. She's never been this inviting towards me.

"I know we don't have the best track record, but I'm still your sister and I still love you," she says, "I have to go. It's time for group. Would it be okay if," she pauses, "if I tell them about your band. They'd love to hear about it."

Is that pride in her voice? She's proud of me. I don't even think our dad has sounded that proud. He's supportive, but that doesn't mean he has to be proud of what I do.

"Yeah, you can do that," I say, "I'll let you go."

"Okay. Talk to you later?"

"Sure. Yeah."

"Bye, Holly."

"Bye, Tally."

I haven't called her that since we were children. I was so young, I couldn't pronounce her name.

That was a long time ago.

The line goes dead. I pull the phone away and stare at it. I want to believe that she's trying to build the bridge that never existed between us. But it's hard to. She could well be doing this just to get through the next step in her program.

I don't want to be just another step in her program. I do want to be her sister. I don't want to fight or compete anymore. This competing ruined us both three years ago, sent us into our unhealthy eating cycles.

I don't know if she's serious.

"Who's Italy?" Jack asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"My sister."

"It's Holland like the Netherlands then?" Jack asks.

"Yeah."

"What's the traditional clothing in the Netherlands? I can buy you a skimpy version of that," he says, "Wait, they're the ones that wear clogs, aren't they? We can do a lot with this."

"Shut up, Jack," I laugh, pushing his shoulder.

His eyes catch on my hand. Before I can retract it and hide the marks, he grabs it. I watch him, apprehension high. He holds my hand up to eyelevel, eyebrows drawing together, mouth twisting in concentration.

"What happened to your knuckles?" he asks.

"This guy made a pass at me and I punched him in the mouth," I reply.

That's the best thing I can come up with.

He grimaces and places my hand back in my lap, "Remind me not to get on your bad side."

I guess that worked better for me than I thought it would.

"Wasn't there something you were getting before my phone rang?" I ask.

Let's move the conversation away from my knuckles.

His smile returns, "Right, your number." His fingers poise over the keys of his phone.

As I rattle off my phone number, I can't help noticing the child-like excitement in his eyes, those brown depths I could get lost in.

I guess he's not that bad.