When I Look at the Stars, I Feel Like Myself

Colorful vomit twists around the toilet bowl before disappearing completely from view. This is what has become of the candy Jack gave me before our set. I ate it, performed, and threw it up right after. It was a good food marker. Better than I expected.

Jack doesn't know what's become of his candy gift. He doesn't know that I ate them so quickly with the intent to force myself to vomit. And he will never know that. No one will know that. Not the band, not my parents, not my friends outside of the band.

Except my sister.

I'm not sure what to do about her. She wants me to talk to her. I could hear that in the desperation of the tone from her last call. But I want it to last. I don't want to get close to her and have her call off our sisterly friendship with some comment about my weight.

And what if she rats me out?

Shaking my head, I turn from the toilet and step out of the stall. I wish I could talk to someone in the band about this, but I don't think I can. Dalton's too hyperactive to talk to about this. I could ask him for advice on Jack, makeup, and fashion, but nothing more than that. Calvin's always busy taking care of RJ and sometimes Riley when she needs it. He wouldn't have time for my problems. RJ wouldn't understand. He has a brother who loves him. Sibling rivalry isn't in his vocabulary. Ross isn't the type I would go to for sister advice. Riley and Elina, well, they've been acting strange. Since Elina's birthday, she's been really distant. She misses her sister, I know she does. I don't think anyone misses Erin as much as she does. I couldn't bring up my sister around her. That would be rude. She has enough to deal with. Riley, I don't even know what's wrong with her. She's not outwardly sad, but she seems really, I don't know.

Fake.

That's the only word that could explain her overly happy emotions. It's not normal for one person to be that happy all the freaking time. Even Dalton gets sad. Whatever is going on with Riley is far more important than what's going on with me.

I don't want to bring anyone into this mess. It wouldn't be fair to them.

Sighing, I clean my hands, rinse my mouth a few times with water, and shove a stick of gum into my mouth. I rest the palms of my hands against the counter top of the sink, eyes directed to the tiles. Looking in the mirror isn't going to happen. I didn't even do my own makeup this morning. Dalton did it for me.

The perks of having a gay friend.

I made him do it partially because I feel like absolute garbage today. I couldn't have done my own makeup if I was willing to look in a mirror. The aches in my body have been progressively getting worse. It's not because I'm losing so much weight I look like a skeleton. That's hardly the case. I'm barely underweight. Performing and vomiting more than once a day has left me so dehydrated my body is starting to give out.

It's not uncommon for bulimics to become dehydrated, especially if they have some form of activity that requires energy. Performing falls in that category. I lose most of the water I take in from my two prominent activities. Keeping that water in my system is difficult, almost impossible right now. That was easier at home, where I wasn't performing daily.

I suppose I should be concerned for my health.

If I was concerned, I wouldn't have even started this mess.

Anything to drop a few pounds, right?

With little enthusiasm, I push myself from the counter of the sink and leave from the bathroom. As I walk back to the side of the stage, I glance at the display of my cell phone. By now, Jack is finished performing and should be leaving the stage.

Or about to leave the stage. He has to throw a few guitar picks and harass Alex first.

I need to think of an excuse for the reason I didn't stay to watch him. He watches us. He has every night since tour started. Anytime I glance at the curtains, he's there, broad smile across his face, eyes glued to me.

His smile seemed especially broad when he saw the white puff hanging out of my pants with a pink ribbon.

So, I'm wearing the underwear he bought me. There's nothing wrong with that. They’re comfortable, and kind of cute when you stare at them long enough. I stared at them for quite awhile, noting they looked good stretched across my hip bones.

Maybe Jack won't care that I didn't watch him perform because I'm wearing the underwear he bought. Not that he'll get a peak or anything.

We're just friends.

If he pouts and stares at me with those gorgeous eyes of his, he might get what he wants.

That's how he got me to eat the candy.

I approach the curtains. The lack of booming music is an indicator that they've finished and are doing their normal routine before leaving. Elina is there, staring at the stage. I don't know if she's watching them. It doesn't seem like she is.

She hasn't really been all there lately anyway.

"Hey, Lina," I say, stopping next to her.

She jumps, turning her head to face me. Obviously, she wasn't expecting me to show up.

"Um, hey," she says, looking back at the stage.

I shrug and face the stage. Getting the cold shoulder isn't a big deal. She just needs time to get stuff together. The contents of her mind aren't straight just yet. I've been there. I mean, my sister didn't commit suicide, but I know what its like to be so askew mentally that things don't make sense anymore, that you feel alone in dealing with your problems. It's difficult. I would offer help, but I overheard her blow up at Riley. Elina can't see past her problems enough right now to know that everyone does hurt, and as band mates, we're here to help her.

Even I have trouble sometimes.

I haven't told the band about my eating problems.

I do understand that she needs space, though, and that it doesn't help to push her to tell me anything. If someone wants to confide in me, they will without me having to push them.

Jack bounds offstage towards me, guitar still in hand. I brace myself for some form of impact. Instead of engulfing me in a bone crushing hug, he stops inches from my body and spreads his arms, waiting for me to step into his opened arms with a cocky smirk. I want to do as he expects, but I cross my arms instead, feet firmly against the floor.

"Did you want something?" I ask, keeping my tone as irritated as possible.

It's fun to mess with him.

His smile drops, as do his arms. He shakes his head mumbling an "I guess not" under his breath and turns to walk away, confused by my reaction.

It's absolutely amazing how cute I find him when he's upset.

I'm not as surprised by his lack of persistence. My tone was bitchier than normal.

Before he can get far, I move from my spot and wrap my arms around his middle from behind, cheek pressed to the back of his sweaty shoulder. He stops immediately, glancing at me. A smile graces his face, replacing the beaten puppy expression. He wiggles in my hold trying to turn around. I remain behind him, trying not to giggle at his desperate attempts to face me.

"Holl," he whines, "you're supposed to let me hug you back."

"Don't like it from behind?" I tease.

We've gotten a bit closer since I gave him my number. He only texted me once to tell me goodnight, but we're almost constantly around each other when I'm not on the bus, performing, or vomiting.

He's a very time consuming person.

"Holl," he whines again.

Giggling, I let go of his waist. He whips around, arms wrapping around my waist and pulling me flush against his body, his guitar tucked behind him. I wrap my arms around his neck, head resting against his chest.

The hug isn't painful. He doesn't let his excitement get the best of him, though I can hear his body humming with excited energy. This isn't our first hug either. He gave me a hug before I performed today. That one had been quick. This one is much better.

"Do you want to help me load my equipment?" he asks against my hair.

"Don't you have people for that?"

"My tech slash pack mule is sick today. I offered to help the rest of the equipment loaders with my stuff so they can get finished in good time. If I don't, they'll be out there long past The Maine's performance."

That would be a problem. We have to leave after The Maine performs. Their loaders have about thirty minutes to pack everything.

"I don't mind helping," I say.

I like spending time with him. Jack is a good guy.

I'm sure I'll get an "I told you so" from Dalton if he hears that.

"Awesome," Jack says, pulling away, "We should get out there now. They already wheeled my stuff to the U-haul."

I resist a pout at the loss of warmth. "Let's get this stuff loaded," I say.

Jack nods. Together, we walk through the backstage area and out of the backstage door, Jack playing with the fluff ball hanging from my pants. The first thing I see is the massive amount of equipment around the U-hauls.

This is going to take awhile.

One of the loaders walks to us. "Hey, Jack," he nods to the lanky male next to me. "Jack's lady friend," he says to me, smiling.

I smile, not offended by the title.

"Hey, Mike. What do we need to do?" Jack asks.

"Nothing too complicated. Everything is laid out in the order it needs to go onto the U-haul. Just help us get it packed," Mike replies.

"Sounds good, right Holl?" Jack looks at me.

"Strenuous labor without thought. Sounds perfect," I say.

Maybe I'll lose a few pounds.

Jack smiles, "C'mon."

He leads the way to the mass of equipment. With the workers, we begin loading equipment into the storage truck. My depleting muscles strain to keep up with the built men. Even Jack doesn't seem to be having as much trouble while we work. I push through, not wanting anyone to question my lacking strength. Dehydration isn't helping.

An hour later, Jack and I are carefully placing the last guitar stack on the U-haul floor. Sweat glistens on our bodies. I don't doubt he's as tired as I am.

It was a difficult hour of work. We have every right to be tired.

When the stack is settled, we straighten. Jack leans against the stack for a moment, sighing. I glance at the backdoor, knowing there will be another flood of equipment coming through. By now The Maine is finished with their set. Their crew will be bringing their equipment out soon.

"I need sleep," Jack says.

Story of my life.

"Me, too," I say.

"I'm sorry for making you help."

"You didn't make me. I agreed, remember?"

"Well, I owe you."

"Take me out for pizza and we'll call it even."

His bright smile stretches across his exhausted face, "It's a date,"

My heart leaps. Date. It’s a date. What am I supposed to say to that? Do I want it to be a date? When was the last I went on a date?

Never. Right.

"Yeah," I say, voice even, "It’s a date."

The word rolls off my tongue as if I've said it many times before. The concept is foreign to me. I don't know what to do on a date. My sister was the one who had all the boyfriends. Not me.

Maybe I should call her and tell her. She would like to hear about it. She'll probably gush about me going on my first date.

Jack and I haven't even set a time or day, and I'm already getting excited.

As predicted, a flood of workers and equipment come out of the backstage door. A few All Time Low loaders follow the group to the next U-haul with the intent to help pack things in time for departure. That's a sign we need to leave.

"Come on," I say, "The buses are heading out soon."

I turn to walk down the ramp. I can't hear Jack make any moves to get off the stack. I do feel a hand slip into mine, causing me to whip my head around to face the culprit. Jack smiles at me, hand securely attached to mine.

In my distraction, I don't realize I've tilted my path slightly, putting me in direct course for the raised edge of the ramp. I definitely don't see my foot step off the edge.

But I do feel my body falling to the ground, bringing Jack down with me.

I screw my eyes shut, hoping the impact doesn't hurt too bad. Jack lets out a yelp of surprise. The fall lasts seconds, my body hitting the concrete painfully. Jack lands on top of me, his lips cushioned against mine. My eyes fly open at the mouth-to-mouth contact. Jack's eyes are as wide as mine. Electricity runs through my body. My stomach does flips, and my heart goes through a series of palpitations.

Jack seems to come to his senses before I do. He detaches our lips quickly, a series of apologies flowing from his mouth. I can't concentrate on his words. My eyes are focused on his lips, the ones that caused the reaction in my body.

Did we just kiss?

I want to do it again.

Over and over until I have a goddamn heart attack from the abnormal pumping of my heart.

I shake my head, forcing myself to pay attention to something other than Jack's lips.

"... so sorry. I didn't mean to do it. I swear. Are you okay? Do you have a headache? I'm such an idiot. I shouldn't—"

I cut him off, "Its okay. Now get off me. We have to head to the buses."

He scurries from my body and helps heft me to a standing position.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. My back hurts a little, but I'll be fine," I answer, brushing dirt from my backside.

"Do you need help walking?"

"No, I'm okay," I slip my hand into his, lacing our fingers together and tugging him in the direction of the buses, "Come on. We're going to be late."

Jack nods. Together, we walk to the bus in silence. I'm still a little off from the fall. Or is it the kiss that has my mind in a tizzy?

We stop at the You First bus. Jack stands in front of me, letting go of my hand and digging the toe of his sneaker into the parking lot.

"I really didn't mean for that to happen," Jack says.

"It's okay. Really," I reply.

Kiss me again.

When have I ever wanted that?

"You're not mad?"

"No, Jack."

He nods. The apologetic expression remains on his face. We don't say anything for a moment. Do either of us know how to handle this? Our lips accidentally connected when we fell. We should be adult enough to get over it. Jack should be, at least. He's had enough girlfriends, I'm sure.

I can't stand watching him fidget. He looks so nervous. Like he thinks I'm going to bite his head off.

The old Holland might have, but this Holland won't.

"Hug me so I can get into the bus, Jack."

He seems shocked that I've asked him to do so but he wraps his arms around my waist, my body pressing against his. I cuddle against him, taking in his scent, memorizing the feel of him against me.

"Goodnight, Holland," his whispers, pressing his lips to the top of my hair.

I think he understands I'm not angry. He wouldn't have done that if he didn't.

"Goodnight, Jack," I sigh.

He breaks the hug. "I have to get to my bus before they leave me."

"I'll see you at the next stop."

He nods, "Bye, Holl."

With that, he turns and walks to the bus not far from ours. I watch him while he leaves, silently begging him to come back and give me one real kiss before leaving.

He doesn't.

Jack disappears onto his bus. Out of my sight, still taking over my mind. I turn, open the bus sliding door, and walk up the steps. My band mates, who are scattered around the living room area, look up as I enter.

"Are you okay?" Dalton blurts.

What a lovely greeting.

"I don't know," I shake my head, walking across the area, towards the bunks.

"What happened?" Riley asks, that exaggerated smile on her face.

I hesitate at the bunk area entrance. Turning to my band mates, I see the curious looks on their faces.

"I... Jack... We fell," I hold my hands up, pressing them together to illustrate what happened, "And his lips... our lips..."

"You kissed?" Dalton asks, surprise and excitement in his tone.

"I don't know," I say, turning and walking into the bunk hallway.

I wish I did know if Jack considered that a kiss.

I don't stop at my bunk. I keep walking until I'm in the backroom of the bus with the door closed behind me. My cell phone slips out of the pocket of my skinny jeans easily. Phone in hand, I lay on the small couch in the middle of the room. Pressing multiple buttons leads me to my recent calls, the cursor highlighting the last person to get in contact with me via phone call. Taking a deep, nervous breath, I press the call button and press it to my ears.

"Timberline Knolls Eating Disorder Treatment Center," the cheery voice on the other end says.

Now or never.

"Hi, I know it's late, but I was wondering if I could get in contact with Italy Kingston," I say.

"Who, may I ask, is calling?"

"Holland Kingston, her sister."

"Oh, the musician. She was talking about you yesterday. If you give me a second, I can put you through. Italy should still be awake."

She's been talking about me?

"Thank you."

"No problem, sweetheart."

The line is silent. I have time to hang up and forget I ever tried calling. The red "end call" button is right there. One thumb twitch is all it would take to stop this.

No, I can't do that.

"Hello?" the groggy voice of my sister hits my ear.

"Hi," I say.

Or squeak.

"Holland? It's really you? I thought Stacy was joking."

"Stacy?"

"The night receptionist," Italy says, "It's good to hear from you, though. I didn't know if you would call."

"Honestly, I didn't know if I would either."

"I'm glad you did. So, what's up?"

"A lot."

"Are you doing okay?" concern coats her tone.

"Depends on your definition of okay."

"What's wrong, Holly?"

"I," I hesitate, debating on dismissing the matter and hanging up. I shake the thought from my mind. She and I have to talk. She's the only one who knows about what I'm doing to myself. She's the only one who will understand. "I'm dehydrating," I mumble. "Its like I can't keep any fluids in system long enough to stay hydrated between performing and vomiting."

"You should stop making yourself vomit."

Easier said than done.

"I can't. You know better than anyone here how difficult that is."

"I know it's hard. I also know nothing is worth destroying your body like that."

"I guess," I sigh.

"I'm here to help when you're ready to stop. I can't force you to do anything."

"Thanks."

"What else has been happening?"

"I kind of kissed a guy," I mumble.

"How do you kind of kiss a guy?"

"You both fall, and his lips land on yours."

Her laughs ring through the phone, "Only you. Who is it?"

"Jack Barakat."

"The guitarist?"

"Yeah."

She gasps, "No way."

"Yes way."

"Oh my gosh, that's so cute. Are you two dating?"

"No."

"Ask him out."

"I can't do that," I exclaim.

"Why not?"

"Because," I trail off.

"Because," she starts, "you don't think you can balance him with your eating disorder?"

She does understand.

"Yeah."

"Does he know about it?"

"No one does."

"Holly, this isn't something that’s easy to keep secret in a relationship. He's going to want to be around you and take you out to eat. If you don't tell him, he'll figure it out, and he won't be happy you lied. Why do you think I broke up with so many guys? I couldn't risk them finding out."

"What should I do?"

"You could tell him before he asks you out. You haven't known him long, but if you think the relationship is going to become serious, he has to know."

"What if I don't know if this will become serious?"

"Then you don't have to tell him. You're not the type to just have flings, though."

"I don't think I can tell him."

He'll get grossed out and hate me for the rest of my life. Or he'll tell my band mates, and they’ll hate me. I can't risk that.

"You don't have to do it now. Just consider doing it when you're sure the relationship will blossom into something more. Lies don't build a good relationship."

"I'll think about it."

"Good," she yawns.

"You're tired. I'll let you sleep."

"Okay. I'll talk to you soon."

"Yeah, talk to you soon."

"And, Holly," she says before I can hang up, "thanks for calling. It was really nice to talk to you."

"It was nice talking to you, too."

It really was.