You're Beautiful to Me

For so many of the nights I’d spent at Gerard’s back in California, Lyn-Z and I would always have a blast. I was with them my first three days there; every night, Lyn-Z would put Bandit to bed in the early evening, then she and I would chill in the living room.
The first night Gerard had been out late at their studio warehouse.
When he came in at about one, he found a giant fort in his living room.
He peeked under the blanket and grinned, calling us crazy, his eyes filled with love and amusement for both of us. But Lyn-Z and I were acting like total girls and stated, “No boys allowed, especially those who reek of turpentine.”
It may have partially been revenge when he came down in the middle of those nights to tell us to keep it down.
Lyn-Z and I talked about touring, and all the crazy antics we’d gotten into. She tried to teach me to do her back bend, but clumsy me I tipped over and smacked my head on the dining room chair support. I tried to teach her the back flip I sometimes did off of Drew’s bass drum, using the couch. Lyn-Z fell and got the wind knocked out of her for a couple minutes. (I had a panic attack until she hit me with a pillow, launching into a war, morphing into Gerard coming downstairs to shut us up, and then getting him in on it. Our family is wonderful.) Athletically we weren’t going to compare.
As far as stunts, on the other hand, we were a perfect match.
Lyn-Z told me about the time she’d first auditioned for Mindless Self Indulgence; she’d been playing bass for two weeks and fucking sucked when she tried out. The guys seemed bored, but when she played Tornado—during the ten second bit where the bass drops out—she pulled a film canister of Bacardi from her bra. She took the shot, tugged a match from her hair, and struck it on a flint pad glued to the back of the bass head. She spewed the Bacardi and held the match in front of her mouth, nearly lighting the whole damn place on fire.
Pretty much the coolest thing ever.
London had to be fun.
Now that we were in England, Levi, Monster, and Mark (who turned eighteen during our time off) could all legally drink. When I told Mark, my insane best friend since childhood, Lyn-Z’s story he was on the exact same wavelength I was.
“Can we,” he said slowly, “Pretty pretty please. Do that.”
“I totally want to,” I said, “But Yoda would have our heads.”
“Pff we won’t fucking tell Yoda, genius.”
I nodded slowly, considering this. “OKAY,” I beamed.

We told the rest of the band and they were crazy for it. We never shared our stunts, but I wanted to tell all the rest of the guys. Wanted to tell my brothers. I wanted to tell Molly. I wanted to tell Bristol and Sean and Harvey and even quiet little Devin.
But I had to share this epicness with fucking Desiree.
This, of course, made me want to kill myself. Then again the stunt might do that anyway, since we added our own little twist.
That night we dove into Woes, which was rapidly rising in the UK. At the start of the bridge, when everything slows down before it gets REALLY wild, I nodded subtly to Mark on the other side of the stage. I think some of the kids saw it, though, because a huge wave of anticipation came from the crowd. You could just feel it.
I was completely terrified.
Desiree had one responsibility in the scheme this time, mostly because it was her first day: pin black flame-retardant fabric [that we’d brought with us] to the legs of my black jeans. Not sew, just pin, so I could fix it later. It was a task than could’ve taken her ten minutes.
Problem?
She may just want to see my legs light on fire after I bitched out her bitch mom.
Nobody else was as nervous as me. Molly would’ve been, had I told her, because she loves me like that. Regrettably I would’ve had to wait till after the show to see if she’d think the same. If I didn’t burn alive, that is.
Mark stepped into the shadows quick, where Desiree hid to give him the shot. A thought flashed trough my mind as I sang that she hadn’t just slipped him poison. He held it in his mouth (eyes watering from the sting) and walked to the center of the stage. He turned abruptly and slid down on his back, were I jumped up on Drew’s bass drum and turned toward the back. Drew gave me a grin and mouthed ‘good luck.’
I saw Mark stop playing at the part where the guitars drop out. He nodded to me again. I turned around and Mark struck a match. I said a prayer, and screamed:
“EVERYONE LISTEN TO MY SHALLOW TEENAGE WOES!”
Mark struck his match, held it to his mouth, and spewed.
Drew slammed her drums and the crowd “ooo”’d and “ahh”’d and screamed. When there was the few seconds of dead silence before the last chorus, I held my breath…
And jumped over the flames.
‘I’m gonna die I’m gonna die I’m gonna die.’
I bent my knees and landed solidly a couple feet in front of Mark
‘I’M ALIVE I’M ALIVE I’M ALIVE.’
Clearly the crowd was as happy as me, and I finished the song with a relived, scream-shout-sing gusto.

I thought the fire thing was dope.
My brothers did not.
“THE FUCK WAS THAT?!” Mikey screamed at me backstage.
“Pyromania,” I said straightly.
“You could have caught on FIRE!”
“But I didn’t.” I pointed to my pants. “Flame retardant, pinned to my pants.” As much as I didn’t want to I turned to Desiree behind me and told her ‘thank you.’ She forced a smile back.
Gerard shrugged. “I thought it was cool. Lynds did something like that once.”
I pointed and nodded in agreement. “That’s where I got the idea. We just edited it a bit.”
“Well I thought it was rad.”
Mikey narrowed his eyes at our brother. “It was fucking dangerous. She shouldn’t have done it. And WHAT was that in Mark’s mouth? Fucking GASOLINE?”
I rolled my eyes. “Alcohol, Mikes, we’re not that dumb.”
“BUT MARK’S TOO YOUNG TO DRINK!”
“Not in Britain he’s not.”
Mikey threw up his arms in defeat and plopped on the couch.
“You’ll find it cool later,” Mark said. Mikey gave him a look.

I went back to Rush And Ruin’s dressing room while My Chem went onstage. I figured everyone else would be chilling out, and I wanted to give Mikey a chance to chill out after their set. Plus, I was tired, and needed to rest up before the diabolical plan to initiate the new kids later tonight.
I pulled out my iPod and phone and lay on the couch. I popped in my earbuds and blasted some indie music, setting my phone on my stomach incase someone texted or called for me.
I was inches from sleep when someone touched my shoulder.
I sat up and yelped, an earbud falling from my ear and my phone slipping to the floor. Sean took a step back, surprised.
“Sorry,” he said, “Did I give you a fright?”
I caught my breath and internally smiled at his European was of saying “scare.” His Irishness amused me. “A bit,” I gasped.
“Sorry.”
“It’s cool. What’s up?”
“Pete was looking for you and told me to come find you.”
I groaned. “Fuck, I’m gonna get yelled at again.”
“I thought that. I actually came to find you and warn you to run.”
I smiled. “Thanks. But I can’t exactly leave the venue, and he’d find me here.”
“Why not?”
“For one, I’d get mobbed, which has happened before. And/or two I’d get lost in London because I’m an ignorant American like that.”
Sean snorted. “Ridiculous. You’ve never been here?” I shook my head and Sean raised his eyebrows. “Well then, guess I’ll just have to show you around.” He scanned the room and strolled across, tossing me my jacket and walking to the door. When I didn’t move he swung his arm to summon me. “Come on, then, we haven’t got ALL night.”

I had to snatch Gerard’s scarf and hat when he wasn’t looking because it was still wet outside. Sean didn’t seem to care and just let the mist of rain drench his hair and face. It’s not that it was cold rain, it was just the sort of humid and thin kind. Regardless I was a bit surprised he didn’t shiver as the raindrops dripped from his hair down his nose.
“Aren’t your jeans going to get completely drenched?” I asked.
He looked down. “Ah, maybe. I’ll just throw them in a dryer.” I started to laugh. “What?” he said.
“Good luck finding one, dude,” I giggled. “Road reality? You can rarely wash your clothes.”
I guess his pondering face was him twisting his lips to the right. “Ace,” he deadpanned.
“Huh?”
“’Ace.’ You know, ‘brilliant.’” I still stared at him. “Oh…right. You’re American. It means like… ‘cool.’ ”
“Oh.”
Amusement passed his eyes. “You’ll get the hang of it, Clayah.”
You have no idea how cool my name sounded in an Irish accent.
“So,” I said as we strolled down the street, “What made you want to be a tech?”
“I’ve always had a passion for music, but I was also interested in sciences as well. How things worked.”
“Ha, I’m the opposite there.”
“Most are. The other techs with me love sciences, but I can tell Desiree is like that.”
I shuddered at the sound of her name and Sean tilted his head at me. “What?”
“Desiree… bothers me.”
Sean threw his arm up. “Thank you! It’s not just me. I wish she would just belt up sometimes. I guess the same goes for Bristol but she’s so blarmy she can at least pass it off. But blimey, I could just kill Desiree sometimes.”
“…I have very little idea what you just said.”
“ ‘Belt up’ is to stop talking, ‘blarmy’ means crazy, and ‘blimey’ is like… ‘my God,’ I guess.”
“Oh. Sorry, the defining is getting annoying, I’m sure.”
He smiled. “Not really. I’m sure I’ll have to do the same to you sometimes.”
“Probably, because the only British slang I really know I got from Harry Potter.” I was completely serious when I said this but Sean laughed. I let that fly.
“So where are you taking me?” I asked. “Big Ben?”
Sean waved the words off. “You want to see Big Ben, jump on a bloody triple-decker. But from what I know about you, you’re a piss poor musician and don’t want the same dull sightseeing any other tourist would, would you?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Right. And with that you should get a tour from someone who really know the best places in London.”
“But I thought you were Irish?”
“I would hope you would think that, what with the accent.” Sean had a good talent at making me smile. “But I’ve gotten around Europe quite a bit.” I wanted him to expand on that, out of curiosity, but I never got to ask. Sean stopped right where he stood and pointed across the street. “There. Come on.”
Sean grabbed my hand and snapped his head both ways for traffic before dashing across the street. Ever since my accident jaywalking always scared the living hell out of me, and because Sean did such a quick check that freaked me out even more. But honestly put, Sean made me feel safer about it. Maybe it was because of how much older he was than me (three years seemed like a lot I guess) or that he knew London better or that his hands were soft and warm—
I’m sorry, what?
I totally never said that.
We made it across the street in one piece and my heart returned to its normal rate. Sean didn’t seem to notice my fear over some sort of extreme excitement pumping through his system. He let go of my hand— why did the word ‘damn’ just go through my head?—and walked a couple doors down. I followed him until he stopped in front of a grungy looking place with no sign over the door. Most people would’ve thought ‘danger Will Robinson.’ But I was so insane blarmy that I thought ‘awesome.’
Sean grabbed the handle and held the door for me. “In you go.”
I took a moment to appreciate the gentlemanly manner of Sean holding the door before stepping up into the door, Sean right behind me. It place was dark and warm and smelled like cigarettes. Exactly like the venue we just left so instant comfort settled in me. The lighting that there was were purple lights, the tube kind, in black outlets.
“BLIND. ME.”
Sean and I turned to the voice. It came behind the counter on our right, from a guy with an electric blue mohawk.
“If it isn’t Sean Callaghan,” he grinned, standing and walking around the counter. He put his fists on his hips and gave Sean a once over. “When was the last time I saw you?”
“Too long,” Sean said. He strolled over and the guys did that man-hug-back-slap thing.
“All right?” Blue ‘Hawk said.
“Yeah, you?”
“Alive.” He looked around Sean at me. “Oh ho, bring your new girlfriend?”
Sean rubbed the back of his next and chuckled awkwardly. I hoped the lights in the place were dark enough that neither of them saw the blush I felt on my cheeks.
“No, no,” Sean said. “This is Clayah. Clayah Shier.”
Blue ‘Hawk’s eyes got wide. “You don’t mean THE Clayah Shier.”
“Yep.”
Blue ‘Hawk walked over and shook my hand. “Bloody hell I love you.”
I raised my eyebrow and gave a stupid smile. “Now now, I just met you,” I said, jokingly. “Flatter me all you want but I’m not that kind of girl.”
Blue ‘Hawk found this pretty fucking funny. This could be because 1) I’m friggin’ hilarious, 2) he was having one of those starstruck-and-awkward moments where everything said by someone they admire should be carved into gold and hung from the clouds for all to see and worship, or 3) this dude was off his nut.
Sean made a “you look like an idiot just step away” face to his friend. “Calm down, mate. Clayah’s cool.”
“Because I don’t know that.”
Sean gave up. “Clayah, this is Seamus. Seamus, Clayah.”
“Seamus,” I repeated. “Shouldn’t you be the—“
“If you say ‘the Irish one,’ I’ll rip your bloody tits of,” Seamus screamed. I jumped back; bipolar motherfucker, he’d gone from admiration to homicide. Then he took a deep breath. “Sorry, sorry. Automatic by now. Fucking Harry Potter in every fucking American’s head.”
(Sean and I shared a look in remembrance of my slang naiveté.) “Sorry,” I said. I was kind of uncomfortable now. Dark place, scary guy threatening to flatten my chest in a very abrupt and violent fashion—
“So where exactly are we?” I was curious, and I needed to think of something other then that mental picture.
“We,” Sean said with a joyful clapping of his hands, “Are in the best record store in all of London. And by record I mean record.”
“Vinyl?”
“Right.”
I flipped shit and ran across the store to blast my way through.
“She’s obviously happy,” Seamus giggled.
“Mmhm, yeah, whatever mate.” Sean blew off his buddy and came dashing toward me, just as excited.

I’m sure Seamus was happy when I spent my share of grocery money on vinyls. But they were British vinyls, which I bought with pounds. I had no idea whether or not I was paying an obscene amount of money (or as Sean taught me, “costs a bomb” means expensive) but Sean reassured me that the records were low priced. Individually. But buying a big lot of them was expensive, especially when you ended up buying thrift store clothes on top of it. And a bunch of other worthless shit.
By expensive I mean I spent about £47, which is roughly $75.
(Knowing my brothers they would totally pull through on my grocery money if I gave them the next jumbo bag of coffee beans I came across. Because that’s family.)
The show would be over soon, but I didn’t want to do anything but sit in the ridiculously comfy blue chair in the hipster pasty-and-tea shop. Sean had taken me on the circle tour of London, to all the best places you could never find on a map: the best record store, the best secondhand vintage clothing store, the best underage club-esque place with decent music, the best place to buy all the stupid yet highly-entertaining-until-they-break-in-twenty-minutes toys (the English version of a dollar store, but according to Sean there were good and bad “one pound shops.” I got neon green silly string so I didn’t really give two shits.) We ran all the way down the dark London streets and sprayed silly string at each other, Sean trying to out-loud my “London Calling” with his “Born In The USA,” turning this and that corner at Sean’s direction. I could have spent a lifetime in London and never have found these awesome places, never have had so much fun in a two and a half hour time span. Bless the Lord for the Irish.
But now, my feet hurt like a bitch and silly string was amuck in my purple hair. My mouth tasted like shit; that nasty taste you get when you run and lose all your air and your spit gets all thick in the back of your throat. So Sean bought me a proper spot of English tea: it made my mouth taste even worse. He laughed at my grimace and drank the rest of it, buying me a pasty to get the taste out as best as possible.
It’s not that the pasty was bad. It was pretty fucking delicious, actually. But I was so beat I didn’t even have the energy to lift the damn thing to my mouth. I flexed the muscles in my arm and willed them to do my bidding before giving up with a grunt.
Sean shook my knee. “Clayah, don’t die on my first day, I’ll get fired.”
I gave a weak smile. “Hey, wait.” My head snapped itself up. “How can you take me on this grand tour of London if you’re supposed to be working?”
“Technically, I’m assigned to only work on the Rush And Ruin sets. Bristol and Harvey and Devin and Desiree cover the rest. I can’t stick around the venue for the whole night.”
“Why not?”
Sean didn’t hear me and looked at his watch. “Fucking hell, the show ends soon.”
“Mmpf.” I let my head fall back again. “Wonderful.”
“Clayah, come on, you don’t get back in on time and everyone will have my head.”
“Tell them that I am napping—“ I bounced my neck, “—here, and will not be moving from this spot. Right-oh, pip pip, bye.”
Sean let the moment hang to see whether or not I was serious. I was, so I kept my eyes shut. Sean woke me from an almost nap hours ago, but he wasn’t going to do it again.
Lie.
“Well if you won’t move on your own,” he sighed, “guess I’ll be moving you.”
“I’m sorry, wha—“
Before I even processed the motor skill of opening my eyes Sean had bent over and scooped me up in his arms. “I would throw you over my shoulder properly, but that looks uncomfortable, and my shoulders are so bony you’d slid right off. I’m not breaking you, you’re welcome.”
“Charmed. But you can put me down.”
“Promise you’ll come back to the show?”
“Sure fine whatever.”
Sean placed me gently back on my feet and held the door for me when we walked out. Halfway down the block, my ankles turned to Jell-O. Sean noticed me lag behind and got that mischievous look on his face that I’d already memorized in my six-ish hours of knowing him.
He didn’t ask. He just reached around to pat his back and look at me. I was too tired to use words, so I just nodded, and jumped up on Sean’s back. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about the hand’s of some random Irish boy being weirdly close to my ass, but I was too tired to care. Molestation? Hibernation. Try me.
Sean wasn’t kidding when he said his shoulder were bony. It hurt to wrap my arms around his neck but a good part of that could’ve been how weak and whiney I already felt. So I just wrapped my legs around his torso tighter and let my arms dangle limply over his shoulders. Sean gripped tighter to keep from dropping me.
This was what a European trip should be like. Play a show, shit ton of fun, have a nice little stroll-n’-nap on the way home. Granted it wouldn’t be recommended to get a piggy back ride from a boy you hardly know in the same down so infamous for Jack The Ripper. I wasn’t a ‘code’ kind of girl, anyway.
I was lulled into a light sleep in the smell of smog and pasties and tea shops, the sound of traffic far off a people calling out in their accents. The smell of post-concert sweat and Axe clinical Mark had used since he turned eleven and hair gel, the sound of foot-to-concrete reverberating through a skeleton and evenly breathing lungs and a soft hum of an indie track I was sure I knew but couldn’t remember the name of aw damn what was that track called…

She wasn’t here. Why wasn’t she here?! First she nearly sets herself on fire and then she just decides to vanish? Did she not think to tell us? We were her brothers, and after what happened last time she had to have realized we would be basket cases.
Well, I was a basket case. Gerard seemed totally fine. While I went around pestering anyone I saw backstage about if they’d seen Clayah, Gerard stood against the wall with a cigarette between his fingers, watching me dash up and down the hall.
By the time I’d asked everyone if they’d seen her my body was spastic with worry. I strolled back over to Gerard, drumming my hand on my thigh nervously.
“Where the hell could she have gone?” I asked for the thousandth time. “She’s never even been to London.”
Gerard shrugged and tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette into the trash can beside him. “Chances are she just needed a cup of coffee after what happened.”
“What ‘happened’?”
“When you snapped at her.”
That stung. “I did not snap at her.”
Gerard tipped his head toward me and stared into my soul. “Mikey, you flipped shit. Clayah wouldn’t jump over fire unless she knew she was going to be safe. She covered her jeans with scraps of fire blanket, for Christ’s sake, do you think she’s stupid?”
“I never said she was,” I retorted. “But she could’ve gotten hurt.”
“But she didn’t, and you still freaked out.”
I frowned. “At least I reacted somehow.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you didn’t back me up at all!”
“Obviously. I thought the stunt was great.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”
“Oh come on, Mikey.”
“Seriously! You’re telling me I’m talking to the same Gerard who attacked three different kids because they hurt or could’ve hurt our little sister? And now she jumps over fucking FIRE and you’re just fine with that?”
I saw Gerard’s face stiffen. He took a final drag from his cigarette and tossed it, pushing himself up off the wall and shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“I’ll be in the dressing room,” he grumbled. “Let me know when she comes back.” He turned the corner and vanished.
I walked to where Gerard had stood and leaned against the wall, slumping to the floor. Okay, so maybe Gerard was right and I had overreacted a little bit. That still didn’t explain why he was completely apathetic to the danger Clayah had put herself in. Then I point that out and he gets all huffy and walks off? It made no sense.
I sat there on the floor and took deep breaths, attempting to lose myself in Jeph’s bassline that reverberated through the whole place as he played, wiping my brain clear of worst-case-scenarios explaining Clayah’s disappearance.
I was jolted out of this trance when a blast of cold air hit my right side. My eyes snapped open and I turned to see the Irish tech kid, Sean, walking in. His hair was drenched in rain and covered with some sort of neon-colored crap. A pair of slim, pale forearms fell over his shoulders and a deep purple mass lay against his neck.
I jumped up so fast I nearly fell over again. I dashed over to them, terrified Clayah was dead or forgot to take her meds and had an attack, negotiating as I went if my first words would be those of relief or fury.
But before I even opened my mouth Sean poised his mouth in a “shh.” He used his foot to close the door behind him and hoisted Clayah up further on his back.
“She’s asleep,” he whispered as he came up to me.
“What happened?” I whispered back.
“Proper London tour. Since we’re only in London for two days and you’re all so busy I knew she’d never have time to see anything. We were out longer than intended, so sorry if I worried you. But as you can see—“ Sean tipped his head in reference to Clayah “—she had fun.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. Worried as I’d been I knew that Sean’s gesture was a thoughtful one. And if it really was an accident that they’d lost track of time I guess I could respect that.
I just gave a stiff nod. “It’s fine. Here, let me get her off you.”
Sean gave me a thankful look as I came around and peeled Clayah off his back. Half asleep I’m sure she didn’t know it was my neck she was wrapping her arms around, but seemed content regardless.
Sean and I walked back to the Rush And Ruin dressing room to drop Clayah on their couch for a nap. When I laid her down gently, the movement of my arms coming out from under her made Clayah stir. Her eyes opened halfway and she grinned up at me.
“Are you still pissed at me?” she slurred.
“No. But shut up and get some sleep, okay champ?”
“Mmff. Where’s Sean?”
Sean walked up behind me and gave a little wave to Clayah. She chuckled. “You still have silly string in your hair.”
Sean reached up and brushed the foamy strand from his scruffy cut. “Bugger. I must’ve looked ridiculous going down the street.”
“Can you give Mikey his present for me?” Clayah said.
“‘Course. But rest up.” Clayah nodded obediently and closed her eyes again.
I flicked off the light and shut the door behind me. Sean rooted through a paper shopping bag and pulled out a flat square, handing it to me.
“What’s this?” I said, reaching out for it.
“Clayah bought gifts for you and Gerard. Said you’d love ‘em.”
I examined my present; a vinyl edition of The Smiths’ The Queen Is Dead. I grinned and forgave her instantly.