When I Look at the Stars, I Feel Like Myself

Bright lights burn my skin worse than the gaze of the partially filled venue. My less than hydrated body can't take it. The lights seem to be taking liquids from my system, leaving it dryer than I can handle. Each of my pick movements and fingering changes feel sluggish. My body is heavy. Black dots cloud my vision with every significant movement I make.

I need water.

Now.

The song ends, the crowd cheers. Calvin addresses the crowd and begins introducing us, giving me the perfect opportunity to grab my water bottle for a quick sip. Before I can even turn from my microphone to walk to my water bottle on the platform where Dalton's drum set sits, the black dots multiply and cloud my vision. I stumble foreword, body going limp for a moment, and grasp onto my microphone stand to keep standing. I screw my eyes shut, waiting for the blackness to dissipate.

Playing flag football was a bad decision on my part, I'm sure. Fucking Calvin had to get hurt. All of the energy I needed to perform was used there. Next time we have a You First day, I'm not doing anything physical.

"Holland, are you okay?" Riley asks, voice amplified by her microphone.

My eyes fly open. The blackness is gone, replaced by a stage of concerned faces. I don't turn my head to look at Jack, who is behind the curtain. He likely has the same expression as my band mates.

"I'm fine," I answer, "I just need some water."

Elina appears at my side seconds later, my water bottle in hand. I mumble a "thank you" and chug as much water as I can.

It's all going to come back up after the set is done. I don't know why I bother trying to hydrate.

"And fish lungs over there is Holland," Calvin continues the introductions.

Pulling the near empty bottle away from my lips, I roll my eyes at his comment. Elina takes the bottle away from me and brings it back to its spot on Dalton's platform. She makes a move to return to my side, hesitates, and goes to her keyboard instead. I think she's worried I'm going to die, which wouldn't be completely farfetched. I mean, she wouldn't want to lose anyone else, whether it's me or a band member she's closer to like Dalton. She may very well be afraid I'm about to drop dead, though she doesn't understand what's going on with my body.

I know I'm worried this is going to kill me.

Too bad that fear isn’t enough for me to let everyone in.

"What you all don't know," Calvin says, "is Holland is secretly a mermaid, so she needs a lot of water to survive on land. That's why her hair is blue. It’s a natural mermaid hair color."

"You all will have to excuse Calvin's hallucinations. He's under the influence. Of what, we're not too sure," I say into my own microphone.

"This is a lesson to all of you," Riley says, "Don't do drugs and don't eat oatmeal. You'll end up like those two, drinking water like a fish and hallucinating." She motions to Calvin and me.

"Yes! I'm not the only being made fun of," Calvin exclaims. "High five," he holds his palm out for me to hit. Noticing my glare, he lets it drop and turns back to the crowd. "Alright, let's continue this show."

Dalton takes the hint and plays the beginning drum beat to the next song in our set. I let myself get lost in the song, fingers flying over the strings of my Schecter. The gulps of water keep my body from coming close to passing out again.

A few songs later, we are walking off stage, waving to the crowd. Jack is at my side immediately, hand resting on my lower back.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine," I say, handing my guitar to RJ, "I haven't been feeling well today."

Not a complete lie. I have been feeling miserable, but not because I'm sick. Sure, I'm probably sick in the head and what I do to my body is a little sick, but I'm not feeling miserable because of that. It’s the dehydration that's causing this mess.

"You sure?"

"Yeah," I smile up at him, "I have to go to restroom. I'll be right back, okay?"

"Wait, I was going to ask you something."

"Ask me when I get back."

I don't give him time to reply. If I gave him a chance to, I wouldn't get a chance to run to the restroom. And I need to throw up, probably more than I needed the water on stage.

Despite the threat on my health, I'm not giving this up yet.

In the bathroom, I check the stalls. They're empty, as per normal. Most of the workers who would be backstage are busy making the show go on without complications. It’s the reason the bathroom is always empty when I get to it.

There are only two stalls in this bathroom, neither is a handicap stall. I take the stall farthest from the door, though I don't think it will do much to keep the noise of vomit hitting the toilet from reaching the ears of those outside the door.

I hate small public bathrooms for that reason.

I lean over, shove my finger down my throat, and let the M&M and Cheetos vomit splatter into the toilet bowl. An ache runs through my throat, protesting my improper treatment of it. I think my knuckles have started bleeding again. But I don't feel the pain over the relief of vomiting.

Sighing, I straighten, wipe vomit from the corner of my mouth with a section of toilet paper, toss the toilet paper into the toilet, and flush. Deciding not to stay and watch the vomit twist around the bowl, I leave the stall. At the sink, I do my usual clean up routine, making sure there is no evidence that I've just forced myself to throw up. Without looking in the mirror, I walk out of the restroom.

I'm really not in the mood for the mirror.

The lanky, skunk-haired male standing by the bathroom door makes me stop in my tracks. He looks at me, concern in his eyes.

Jack followed me.

Why did that oaf follow me?

Didn't I tell him to stay put?

Oh, I may have forgotten to do that.

"Holl, was that you vomiting?" he asks.

"No," I say, "One of the effects workers is pregnant, and she's vomiting like most pregnant women do."

That was an easy lie to come up with. Easier than the rest I've used on Jack. That curry one was the hardest, and it wasn't even good. I have to pat myself on the back for being able to come up with these so quickly.

I seem to be lying to Jack a lot. He's always around, though. He catches the things my band mates don't catch.

I did lie to Riley about my oatmeal eating habit, but that's beyond the point.

My mom wouldn't really feed me oatmeal. That would be far too much food to give me. She's been slipping Slim-Fast bars and shakes into my lunchbox since elementary school. Try opening your Scooby-Doo lunchbox on the first day of third grade and finding only one Slim-Fast bar instead of food.

I may have been a bit chubby as a kid, but I didn't deserve that.

"Is she okay?"

"She's okay now. Just cleaning herself up before going back to work," I say, "You were going to ask me something."

Time to direct the conversation away from the nonexistent vomiting pregnant woman in the bathroom.

The concern drops from Jack's face, "Right. I owe you pizza for helping me. I wanted to know if you would like to get some with me before The Maine finishes their set."

"Jack, we don't have enough time to run to a pizza place."

All Time Low has already performed. The Maine may be on stage right now. I'm not really sure, but I know we don't have more than an hour before they finish and we have to be on our buses.

Jack sighs, "You are supposed to say 'yes' so I can show you my surprise."

"There's a surprise involved? What is it?"

"I can't tell you. It wouldn't be a surprise."

"I won't tell myself, I promise."

"Holl," he whines.

"Jack," I mock his whine.

"Say 'yes.'"

"Fine, Jack, let's jump on our magical unicorns and fly to the nearest pizzeria."

"Silly, Holland. Unicorns don't fly."

"I'm pretty sure they do fly."

"Not important. What's important is the surprise."

"Do I get it now?"

I would like to know what this surprise is. It could be anything with Jack, which excites me a little. I'm not one for surprises normally. I don't like not knowing what's going to happen. But, with Jack, it's okay.

I've never felt that way before.

"Stop being impatient." He grabs my hand, lacing our fingers together. "Come on."

I let him lead me through the hallways of the backstage area. We don't head towards the dressing rooms or the exit. We're going in the complete opposite direction. He stops us at a door marked "lounge" in bold letters.

"Close your eyes," he demands.

I do as he instructs, shutting my eyes tightly. I hear him open the door. He grabs my hand again, leading me forward a few steps. The door clicks shut behind us.

"Okay," he takes a breath, "Open your eyes."

Again, I do as he instructs and am slightly shocked by what I see. There's a table in the room, a pizza box in the center, two lit candles on either side of the pizza box, paper plates in front of the two chairs. My mouth drops, and my stomach does flips.

Low budget production aside, it's kind of romantic.

This is the most any guy has actually gotten the chance to do for me, that's for sure.

"Well?" Jack asks.

"Did you do this on your own?"

"Of course."

I look him in the eyes, "Someone let you handle fire?"

He pouts, expression drawing a giggle from my throat. A smile works its way back onto his face.

"Do you like it?"

"Yes. This is great."

"Good." He breathes in relief.

He leads me to the table and pulls out my chair. I take the seat, smiling up at him. This really is cuter than I would have imagined. Romantic gestures aren't exactly my thing.

Jack takes the seat across from mine. "I didn't have time to get drinks," he says, "I know you're not feeling too great, so I can run to the vending machine if you need anything."

"I'm fine."

I can get through this without a drink. Most meals, I probably would have one because I would be planning to vomit it up after. I don't think I want to vomit tonight. Not after this. I might not be able to help myself, but I can at least wait till the food digests before stuffing my face with more food and vomiting.

It seems rude to vomit up a meal Jack worked hard to get for me.

Opening the pizza box, he says, "And we don't really have that long to eat. Matt will not hesitate to leave me if I'm late."

He places a few slices into my plate and his plate. I'm sure I could eat the whole pizza on my own. It is tempting to do so, to feel how uncomfortably full I'd be, and vomit it all up after.

I'll restrain myself.

"I take it that has happened before," I say, taking a bite from my pepperoni pizza.

"A few times. But they always come back for me."

His first slice of pizza is folded like a taco, and he takes a large bite of it. Only half the pizza is still intact after.

That's a nifty trick.

"There's a shocker. I'm sure they could find another guitarist."

"Not one as cute as me."

I point to myself, "I think I just found one."

I'm not sure if I consider myself cute. When it comes to physical appearance, I don't think of anything beyond my weight. However, Jack is interested in me, so he must think I'm at least somewhat attractive.

Right?

"But you already have a band," he points out.

"This is true. I don't think I would want to be in a band where I'm outnumbered by guys anyway."

"Too much testosterone?"

"Too much ass to kick."

"You are violent."

"I come off that way."

"Well, you did threaten to castrate me."

"I'm not that violent. I've only physically hurt two guys in my life. In elementary school, I punched this kid in jaw, and, a couple years ago, I punched Ross's friend in the eye. It was out of self-defense, I swear."

He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows drawing together. "Didn't you say you got the scabs on your knuckles for punching a guy recently?"

Shit. He was supposed to forget I mentioned that. I need to keep track of my lies better, write them down or something.

Or I could stop lying.

"Oh, right. I forgot about that. I'm still a little off from being sick all day. Playing flag football definitely made me feel worse."

Too bad giving up the lies is not a plausible option.

"You played flag football?"

"It was our You First day activity. We were going to play Twister, but Dalton got stuck in the mat."

"You and I could play Twister."

"You would like that too much."

"Can you blame me?"

I don't answer, just continue to eat my pizza. I don't have answer for that. What's going through his head, how he feels about me, is a complete mystery to me. Without that knowledge, I don't have a way to answer that question.

But it does raise a question in my mind, one that has subconsciously pushed its way through on a few occasions.

"Why do you like me so much?" I ask.

What's so great about me that he doesn't go for someone else? Someone who's thin, who's not as difficult as I am. There are plenty of groupies out there that would be willing to sleep with him and enough girls my age willing to be with him. Why not go for them?

They're not fucked up like me.

"Why wouldn't I like you? Holl, you're gorgeous, a great guitar player. I enjoy being around you, and you feel so right when I hug you and hold your hand," he pauses, "It's hard to explain."

The slew of compliments has my stomach flipping violently and my cheeks heated. I open my mouth to reply but am cut off by my phone vibrating violently in my pants.

It always has to ruin a moment.

I pull the phone from my skinny jeans and open the message waiting for me. It's from Ross, which is never good.

'The buses leave in ten minutes. Get here or I'll keep your junk food on lockdown.'

Would he really do that?

He couldn't.

Could he?

That's worse than being grounded.

"Jack," I look up from my phone.

He has his cell phone out, too. It's likely he also got a warning text from his manager.

"I know," Jack says, "Buses in ten minutes."

We stand from our chairs. Jack walks around the table and holds out a hand, which I take and lace our fingers together like we've grown accustomed to. Together, we leave the room and walk towards the buses.

When we get outside, I ask, "Were you supposed to clean up the pizza?"

"The venue workers agreed to clean it up for me."

"A lot of planning went into this, didn't it?"

"You would be surprised. I had to order pizza, find candles, and get the venue manager on duty to allow me to open the lounge. Hardest part was figuring out what pizza you like."

"And how did you get that information?"

"I asked RJ."

"Smart."

Honestly, if I'm in the middle of a binge, I'll eat any pizza I can get my hands on.

Jack stops us at the You First bus. "I have my moments."

"Thanks for setting all of that up. I enjoyed it."

"It was no problem, Holl." His arms wrap around my shoulders, my own wrap around his middle. "Good night," he mumbles and kisses the top of my head.

"Good night, Jack."

He releases me from his hold, smiles, and turns to walk away. I watch him, body aching either for him or from the dehydration. Not even halfway to his bus door, he stops. I continue to watch him, curious. He tips head back and looks at the sky for a moment. Shaking his head, he turns around and walks in my direction.

Did he forget something?

"Yes?" I ask.

He doesn't say a word. Instead, his lips press against mine, his hands landing on my waist. On impact, my eyes flutter closed. Sparks run through my body, excitement sending my heart into a rapid pace.

I could have a heart attack and not care.

Tentative, Jack's lips move against mine. Hoping to encourage him, I try to match his movements. It seems to work. His movements become less cautious, but the kiss remains innocent.

He pulls away sooner than I would like him to. If I had it my way, we would be sitting out here all night kissing until I have a heart attack and get rushed to a hospital. Screw the buses. They can wait.

But Ross will lock up my junk food.

Damn Ross.

"Wow," I mumble, smile stretching across my face.

"Guess I don't need to apologize this time," Jack jokes.

"You didn't need to apologize the first time."

Deciding not to answer verbally, Jack presses his lips to mine once more for a short kiss, another spark surging through my body. I can't help wanting more when it ends.

"Night, Holl," Jack smirks and walks away.

"Night, Jack," I breath after him.

I don't know if he heard me.

When he's out of sight, I open the bus door and ascend the steps.

"Where have you been?" Ross asks the moment I step into the living room area.

"I was eating pizza with Jack. He owed me because I helped him load equipment the other day," I answer, carefully stepping over the controllers on the floor and heading to the bunks.

"I don't think I heard you tell us about making kissy face with Jack," Dalton says.

I halt and turn to face them. "Were you guys watching?"

"Duh."

Why am I not shocked by that?

"Do you really have to ask?" RJ adds.

"So, how was it?" Dalton asks, hopping with excitement.

Biting my bottom lip, I search for the appropriate words to describe the kiss Jack and I shared. No words in the English dictionary could possibly give it justice. But Dalton wants some form of description. I can at least find some way to get it out.

After all, it is Dalton who pushed me to give Jack a chance.

Calvin, too. But he doesn't look as interested as Dalton. I don't think he cares about girl talk.

"It was the most incredible thing I've ever felt in my life," I answer. Before they can berate me with teasing and jokes, I say, "I have to make a call."

A slew of farewells follow me as I walk into the bunk area. I slip my phone out of my pocket. Like the last time I made a call to my sister, I close myself in the backroom of the bus and flop onto the couch.

I feel obligated to tell her about this.

I press a few buttons on my touch screen and bring the phone to my ear. It rings twice before the receptionist on the other end picks up.

"Timberline Knolls Eating Disorder Treatment Center."

"Hi, this is Holland Kingston."

"Oh, hi, Holland. I'll put you through to Italy."

I'm guessing that's Stacy, the night receptionist.

"Thanks."

The line doesn't go silent. I hear a slur of voices. A muffled "just take the phone" and "I can run back to my room" meet my ear.

Okay, I've never been in an eating disorder clinic, but I'm pretty sure patients are expected to stay in their rooms after a certain time unless in need of some form of treatment.

"Hi," Italy's voice pumps through the speaker.

"Why aren't you in your room?"

"Stacy and I are having a girl's night at the front desk."

"Isn't that against the rules?"

"You have no idea. I could get bumped down at least one level for this."

"Right," I drawl, "Anyway, I have something to tell you."

I'm not questioning why Italy is risking her rank in the program to have girl's night at the front desk, and I won't pretend I understand her enough to know why. She does strange things sometimes.

"I do too," she says, "You go first."

"Jack and I kissed. Like a real kiss."

There's a pause.

"Oh my gosh," Italy says, "You're telling me about your first kiss. This is amazing. Did you hear that Stacy? Holy shit, this is big." She takes a breath, presumably to calm herself, "How was it?"

I can understand that she's excited. Confiding in her like this is a bonding experience for us. At the beginning of tour, I would never have told her something as big as this. I wouldn't have told her anything.

"Amazing," I answer.

"I love you. You're the only person I know who would describe their first kiss in one word."

Though she can't see me, I roll my eyes.

"You and Jack will make such a cute couple," she continues, "From the little I know about Jack, I imagine you two are polar opposites, personality wise."

"Pretty much."

"He'll be good for you, help you loosen up a bit. You need it."

"Calvin said the same thing"

"Calvin, your lead singer, right?"

"Yeah."

Italy has never gotten a chance to meet my band mates. By the time I joined the band, she was away for college at Harvard. Anytime she came back for breaks, I stayed as far away from her and mom as possible, often working extra shifts at the ice cream shop.

I regret not bringing her to meet my band mates.

"He's a smart guy, then. Are you ready to hear my good news?"

"Lay it on me."

"I'm getting out in a couple of days."

"Seriously? Wow."

That's huge. It took her so long to get to this point, some amount of months. She's finally okay enough to get out.

And she's risking it all by having a girl's night at the front desk.

My sister is an idiot.

"Yeah. I'll call you from my cell when I get it back so you know I'm out," she hesitates, "and I'd like to go see one of your shows if that would be okay with you. It probably won't be soon because I have to get settled, but I'd like to see you perform."

"That would be nice. I can score you backstage tickets or something so you can meet the band."

I do mean it.

"Great. I can't wait."

"Me neither." I pause, debating on if I should ask the question on my mind. A few seconds pass. I'm too curious, concerned even, to pass up this question. "Are you afraid you'll relapse?"

"I'm terrified."

"Well, I'm here, you know, if you need to talk or something. I kind of understand what you're going through. Not completely because we have different problems and all, but I understand the food issues."

"Thanks."

I can imagine her smile, lips stretching across a thin face. I wonder how much she's changed since she joined the program, how much weight she's gained. I can't fathom being forced to eat properly and gain weight.

"How are things?" she asks.

It's clear to me what she's talking about.

"I almost passed out on stage today. Dehydration and what not."

"That's not good. What did people say?"

"Riley and Jack asked if I was okay, and Elina seemed pretty worried. I told them I was sick. I don't think anyone really suspects anything. If they do, they haven't said anything."

"You don't think you'll get caught?"

"I know I will. This is the first time we've been on tour for this long. It's only a matter of time before someone finds out."

I'm not stupid. I know this is too difficult to hide for the duration of the tour. It’s a matter of hiding it as long as possible. And when I get caught, well, I don't know what I'll do.

"No one's caught on to anything yet?"

"Well, Jack keeps catching all these stupid things, like my scabbed knuckles. I'm surprised he hasn't figured it out. But I have been lying about anything he questions me on."

"How much has he caught?"

"He saw my knuckles, and I told him I punched a guy in the mouth for making a pass at me. He saw me throwing away bags of vomit, which I claimed were bags of curry that dad snuck into my bag. He saw me almost pass out on stage. Like I said, I claimed I wasn't feeling well, which isn't a complete lie. And he heard me throwing up. I told him one of the venue workers was dealing with sickness due to being pregnant."

"You are awfully creative."

"Its part of my charm," I say, "Oh, Riley asked me how I can eat oatmeal, too. I said something about mom making us eat oatmeal for breakfast."

"You eat oatmeal? That's disgusting."

"But it comes up nicely."

She sighs. "You know its okay for them to find out, right? It would be for the best. You should tell them the truth."

I know she's right.

"I'll think about it."

"Thank you."