When I Look at the Stars, I Feel Like Myself

"We're here," Dalton sings.

He's somewhere in the bunk area, hopping around like a damn rabbit. From behind the curtain of my bunk, I can't see him, but I can hear the thump of his body against the flooring of the bus.

Today, we hang out as a band before performing. It's been awhile. Since the beginning of tour. I think it'll be nice to finally get time together. In order to stay a band, we need it. Things have been weird lately. Elina's in her own world half the time. Riley fakes at least half her smiles around us. It feels like we're all keeping secrets, or the girls are. Maybe they were like this before, and I never noticed. Maybe they've been holding secrets in for far longer than I've given them credit for. I can admit I haven't paid attention to much beyond my eating problems.

I'm sure they haven't noticed my eating problems either.

Is it bad that part of me wishes they would? That someone, anyone, would. Sometimes, I just want to come clean and tell them what I'm doing to myself.

But I can't do that.

The curtain of my bunk flies open, revealing a more than excited Dalton. He smiles down at me, a toothy smile that everyone adores. Careful not to hit the more than full bag on my bunk, I sit up and smile back.

"Come on," Dalton demands.

Riley didn't get the chance to stop by a Wal-Mart at the last stop. She was having trouble recovering from her panic attack. We decided it would be fun to go as a group. There's nothing better than Wal-Mart to fix the bond of a band.

I think we're picking up Riley's medication from a local pharmacy, too.

"Know what, I'll meet you guys at the van. Calvin was hogging the bathroom, so I didn't get a chance to finish getting ready," I say.

"You already look perfect, Holli-bear."

A stabbing sensation runs through my heart, anxiety flooding me. I'm not perfect. I'm far from perfect. If I were perfect, my mom would love me. But I'm not the perfect daughter.

Italy is.

Forcing the thought from my mind, I reply, "As much as I value your opinion, I would like to be the judge of that."

"Fine," Dalton sighs, "Meet us at the van."

"I'll be there in a second."

Letting the curtain flow back to its original position, he hops to the living room. I can hear him yelling orders, forcing our band members to get up and head to the van. The bus door slides open. Feet shuffle down the steps of the bus, and the door shuts when they're gone. I grab my backpack, unzipping it and pulling seven filled Ziploc bags from its recesses.

I went on a bit of a vomiting spree last night. After everyone went to sleep, I snuck to the bathroom and shoved my finger down my raw throat till it throbbed so intensely I couldn't sleep. It was lovely.

But now, I have to get rid of these bags.

Grabbing the top of the Ziplocs, I slip out of my bunk and sneak into the living room area of the bunk, prepared to dash back to my bunk if anyone is still on the bus. No one, not even the bus driver, is in the front area of the bus when I get there. Relieved, I walk calmly through the space, stepping over discarded controllers and pizza boxes, and leave the bus.

Glancing around the parking lot, I search for the closest trashcan. There isn't one outside of our bus this time. That makes transporting vomit bags outside of a backpack difficult. It's dangerous enough to have them out in the open. If I had time, they would be in a backpack, shielded from prying eyes. But I won't have time to return the backpack to the bus when finished.

I was really hoping for a trashcan to be close to our bus today. Guess that's not happening.

A garbage can sits in between the All Time Low bus and The Maine bus. It’s a good distance away, but it’s the closest one I can see in the area. Tucking the bags behind me, I dart to the future holder of my vomit bags. There are a few people in the area, but I make it to the trashcan without complication. It seems they're too busy to notice me. I hold the bags above the trashcan. Just hold them there, looking at the contents. Vomit of all colors twist together, chunks of who knows what hidden in the mess.

This is what my life has come to? Secretly vomiting in Ziploc bags, in public bathroom stalls. Sneaking food from the compartments of the bus, stuffing my face like a wild animal, only to vomit it up later. Some days, vomiting nothing but blood and bile. Swollen throats, broken blood vessels in my eyes, and scabbed knuckles a frequent part of my health problems.

What have I become?

Bulimic.

When did it get this bad?

"Hey, Holl. Aren't you supposed to be with your band mates?"

His voice makes me jump and drop the bags into the can. They hit the rougher contents of the trash community with a splat, bags opening, contents spreading. I stare at the trashcan, anxiety washing over me once again.

That could have gone a lot better.

"Holl?" Jack appears next to me. He glances in the trashcan and grimaces at the contents. "What is that?"

Explanations race through my mind. I desperately search for a lie to get me off the hook, anything to explain the disgusting goop.

"Curry," I blurt.

Jack looks at me, eyebrow raised. I have no idea if he believes me or not, but I'm running with this lie. It’s the only one I have.

"Yeah, my dad has a thing for Indian food, and I guess he packed curry in my backpack without telling me. It's gone bad."

His stare is unnerving, blank, almost like he doesn't believe a word I've said. His eyes search mine for any indication of a lie. I keep a smile on my face, hoping it meets my eyes, hoping I don't appear as jittery as I feel.

That jitteriness could either be the product of nerves or dehydration. At this point, both are a high possibility.

"You need to tell your parents to stop helping you pack," Jack states, smile working its way back on his lips.

Does that mean he believes me?

Well, he has no reason not to trust me. He doesn't know my parents. He isn't aware of my living situation. He has no idea that I force myself to vomit. I'm slightly relieved.

"They mean well," I say.

"As most parents do," Jack says, "Why aren't you with your band? You First day, remember?"

"I should be going now, actually. This mess needed to be thrown away first."

"I'll see you when you get back."

"Definitely."

Jack wraps his arms around my shoulders. My own slide around his waist. The hug is quick. Similar to the ones we've grown accustomed to sharing before performing. Despite the briefness of the hug, I can still feel the warmth of his arms when we separate, spreading through me, making me feel safe.

We don't kiss, though. What happened when unloading equipment still isn't a topic of conversation between us. I wish we could clear it up. It may not be important to him, but its important for me to when my first kiss was.

I smile at Jack, giving him a small wave before rushing to where the van is parked. Thankfully, it doesn't take long to travel the expanse of the parking lot.

Mild discomfort rushes through my arm when I slid the van door open, the muscles in the appendage showing me my eating habits are slowly depleting them. I climb into the van, taking a seat next to Elina in the back most set of seats.

"Finally," Dalton huffs in the passenger seat. "Drive, Ross."

My ears perk at the command.

"Ross, you're coming with us?" I ask.

I thought Ross was staying at the venue to complete his manager duties. I'm not sure what those consist of, but they must be of some importance to the show. He's a manager, everything he does is important to the show.

"Who else is going to drive you around?" Ross asks.

"Calvin," I reply.

He's driven us around before.

"I'm sorry," Riley cuts in, "Did you just confuse Calvin for someone who's competent?"

"Oh, right. My bad," I joke.

"Why can't you pick on Dalton?" Calvin asks.

"He's gay. That's like being one of us," I reply.

Elina slouches slightly next to me. Have I upset her? All I did was point out Dalton is gay and that makes him very similar to a girl.

With the amount of time he takes to get ready, he may as well be a girl.

I don't dwell on the matter. I could ask her what's wrong, but I don't think she'll actually tell me. No one in our band confides in me. I'm not around enough for them to do so. It's like I haven't really connected with everyone on that level, which is strange because I've been in the band for awhile.

I suppose my own secrets are getting in the way.

"Us girls have to stick together," Riley agrees.

Dalton twists in his seat to face us, smile tugging at his lips. It's good to know he finds entertainment in this. I'd feel bad otherwise.

"What about RJ?" Calvin asks.

"Sacrificing your own brother? Have you no shame?" Riley asks in mock horror.

"Ross?"

Riley's shoulders shrug in a dainty motion, one I can't help being jealous of. I'm far too large for any of my motions to be that elegant. Riley is tiny. I'll never be that tiny.

"We'll get him soon," she states.

"Speak for yourself," I say, "I'm not having sound check order changed to screw me over."

Laughter. Only we would understand that, I'm certain. We know what order we like to sound check in. I like to go first. Riley likes being last. Elina is typically between Calvin and Dalton. Dalton goes after me, and Calvin goes before Riley. They switch it up every once and awhile, but stay the same for the most part. The order we go in has no rhyme or reason. It's just what we're comfortable with, which says a lot about us as people.

Ross enjoys twisting the order as punishment.

The car pulls into the Wal-Mart parking lot, stopping in an empty spot not far from the front.

"Alright, hooligans, get out of the car," Ross commands.

We pile out of the van. Excited energy buzzes from Dalton's body. He wiggles and hops while he walks. The energy grows with each step. By the time we get into the store, it seems as though he might burst.

The Wal-Mart workers should be scared.

Calvin leaves the group to grab a basket. Dalton immediately rushes after him and hops into the basket he's chosen, standing instead of sitting. One foot on the front barrier of the basket, the other planted firmly in the basket, Dalton places his hands on his waist.

"Onward, matey, or I'll make ye walk the plank," he commands.

"Aye, aye, Captain," Calvin says, pushing the cart back to the group and leading the way past the security sensors.

Dalton almost falls as the cart is pushed into motion but quickly regains balance. I have to give him props. I would have been flat on my ass by now.

While we walk, I can see workers giving us disapproving stares, children tilting their heads in curiosity, and parents pulling their kids along. It only gets worse from here. Dalton isn't exactly tame when it comes to shopping at Wal-Mart.

"Find me a wench," Dalton continues, "And some rum."

"What are you going to do with a woman?" Calvin asks.

"Someone has to wash my clothes."

"True, true," Calvin looks at me, "Get in the cart, Holland."

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"Captain Dalton needs a wench to do his clothes."

Me, do someone's clothes?

"You best find another wench to do your clothes unless you want to be drowned in a toilet," I say.

"Shiver me timbers, she's got a mouth on her," Dalton says, "No rum for you."

"Is it just me or does Dalton seem like a bad rendition of Jack Sparrow?" Riley asks.

"Oh my gosh," Dalton collapses in the cart, "Johnny Depp is so hot."

"So not," I say.

"Are you serious? Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow is the sexiest thing on the planet."

"The only Jacks Holland likes are ones with the last name Barakat," Elina says.

I stay quiet, no response for the accusation. Heat rushes to my cheeks. I'm positive they're bright red. In an attempt to hide the reaction, I duck my head and run a hand through my hair.

"Ooh, she's blushing," Riley teases, poking my cheeks.

"Does a certain guitarist have a crush on another guitarist?" Calvin asks.

"Can't be little Miss Man-hater Holland," Ross adds.

Ross has been under the impression that I'm a man-hater for awhile, ever since I socked his friend in the eye for trying to buy me a drink. In my defense, I wasn't even legal at the time. We were performing in a bar, and Ross' stupid friend asked to buy me a drink before Ross had the chance to introduce us. I thought he was a pedophile.

Punching someone in the face is a lot more effective than yelling "stranger danger."

Dalton gasped, exaggerated and filled with laughter, "Did Holland actually take our advice and give Jack a chance, only to find he really is a good guy? No way. Not our Holland."

They laugh, finding odd enjoyment in getting the chance to pick on me for finally having a crush on a male.

"Alright, I like Jack," I say over their laughter, "Happy?"

"About damn time. I was beginning to think you were a lesbian," Calvin remarks.

Dalton snorts, "Holland a lesbian? That's rich." His eyes catch on an article of clothing in the women's section. "That is the cutest sweater I've ever seen," he states.

He leans over in the basket, reaching for the sweater. Calvin doesn't stop the basket or move it closer to the clothing. He keeps walking. Basket tipping under his weight, Dalton manages to latch onto sweater, bright smile of victory on his face. He tugs the sweater to detach it from the rack. The motion causes the basket to jerk, the lousy grip of the wheels giving way.

Almost in slow motion, the basket goes down, bringing Dalton down with it. Dalton hits the rack, causing it to tip over and hit a shelf of shirts. It sparks a chain reaction. Shelves and racks hit each, clothing spilling to the floor. By the end of it, half the clothing is knocked down, Dalton sitting on the ground with the sweater that sparked the mess in hand.

"Oops," he mumbles. He looks at the tag of the sweater and pouts, "Ew, its polyester. I don't want it anymore." Tossing the sweater onto the tipped over rack, he stands. "Let's go get some food."

He skips away, leaving us staring at the chaos he created.

"Holy shit," Elina mumbles.

"Are we going to get kicked out?" Riley asks.

"We can fix this," Calvin states. He picks up the rack Dalton initially knocked down, placing a few hangers on it properly. "There, no one will notice."

Elina gives him a look, "Who won't notice this?"

"I have a better plan," I say, "We walk away and pretend this never happened."

It's quiet for a second.

"I'm in," Calvin says.

"Totally," Elina agrees.

"Shouldn't we at least apologize?" Riley asks.

"No," Ross responds.

Calvin, Elina, Ross, and I begin to walk away. Riley stays behind, looking from the mess to us, torn between what to do.

"But—" she starts.

Calvin cuts her off, walking to her and gripping her arm lightly to drag her along with us. Cart and mess abandoned, we search for Dalton.

I just want some goddamn Cheetos.