Sequel: If Only Until Morning

Pictures on Silence

Chapter 35


The four of us sang along with the music blaring out of my speakers as we pulled into our appointment. Some magazine out of Detroit wanted us on the cover, hailing us as "the hottest band out of the SF Bay indie scene since The Matches". Personally, I didn't know who The Matches were, but by the way Angie was completely stoked, I'd say it was a pretty good compliment.

Immediately after hearing of our arrival, assistants pulled the four of us in different directions. I sat down in a chair confused as make-up artists, hair stylists, and wardrobe people ran to and fro; Sean looked even more harried, leaning away from the woman with a clipboard speaking quickly and waving a pen at him.

I sipped at a cup of mud-like coffee and idly chatted with the hairstylist as I watched no less than five people working on Angie's hair. While one woman styled my hair into a pompadour, another tossed out ensembles to try; Matt leaned against the nearby table, hair already spiky and eyes already blacked out. Sean was arguing that he didn't want any bloody make-up; his mother would have kittens.

"More like porcupines," Matt joked. Long story. Don't ask.

"That stills seems... uncomfortable," I observed, laughing.

Angie was the last onto the shoot area; it took more than an hour and seven people to get her dressed and picture-perfect. She muttered as she joined us against the white backdrop that they were just going to digitally make her another person anyway. I winced as I looked her up and down.

Decked out in light skinny jeans, chunky jewellery, low-cut yellow baby doll dress, and wedge heels, Angie looked ill at ease and nothing like herself. She actually looked her age and, trust me, that's definitely not the Rhiannon Angela Callaghan we know and adore.

"Could I possibly make some adjustments to wardrobe?" she requested hesitantly of the head photographer, who asked us how we all felt. "This isn't exactly the image I want us to portray." The man waved her off and ordered that someone get him another espresso. Angie grinned mischievously at the three of us. "Time to play dress-up, boys."

Within ten minutes, our entire guise had changed from a couple of scenester teens to rocker-chic, poster-worthy heartthrobs. I admired the green plaid blazer I wore and smiled impressed, while Matt wore a smug expression. "She totally digs the bod," he declared, patting the flat stomach beneath his tight charcoal shirt. Angie walked by with a jacket and swung out her arm, causing to him double over, coughing.

"Inspiring," complimented a photographer as we wandered back onto the shoot. "Maybe I should fire my head of wardrobe and hire your lovely singer. Speaking of, where has that girl gotten to now?"

"Right behind you," Angie announced, striding up behind him and scaring the bejeezus out of half the people standing around. I gaped openly: hair curled so tightly it almost defied gravity, she had swapped her indie-bopper attire for dark-wash jeans paired with black leather heeled boots and a tasteful black-and-green lace corset top. Sexy and sophisticated. She flashed us a white smile behind glossed lips.

Matt wrapped an arm around her waist. "How old are you again?" he asked, grinning.

Angie rolled her eyes as pictures began to snap. "Old enough to know that looks aren't everything," she replied dryly. "Though apparently you are not."

I enjoyed the photo shoot; each of us took a few individual shots and then a few with the whole band. My favourite was the one with Butch Cassidy, Sundance, and I all hanging on Penelope and Pen looking like she'd gotten lost in some crazy alternate dimension. What's more, we had to take the same shot over again a few times because she was so stiff.

"You're a natural, doll," the photographer praised her, shooting us from a bunch of different angles. "Ever consider modelling?"

"You're joking, right?" Angie half-laughed. I smacked her with a kiss on the cheek; I knew an Angie Callaghan self-loathing statement when I heard one.

After the shoot, we sat down for our interview. They asked the usual questions: how we got started, who our inspirations are, where we think were headed. Pen, as usual, shocked the adults around us with her eloquent explanation of philosophy of music over everything: no huge money scheme, no desire for fame, just making good music. Seriously, people needed to learn that she was a fucking genius. It wasn't that hard a concept.

By the end of the day, the four of us were all exhausted. "Press blows," Matt muttered, gingerly touching his spiky hair. Even Sean agreed with his crass phrasing. All I wanted to do was call Anthony and get some damn sleep. I was pleased, though, that the good people of Indie Beat Magazine let us keep the clothes we wore.

"Have I mentioned that I love your fashion sense?" I asked Angie as we walked to the van.

She smirked. "Careful. I saw the way Sean was eying your jacket."

I glared him suspiciously and hugged the blazer to my chest. "Mine!" Sean opened his mouth. "No, you can't borrow it and forget to give it back. I know your ways; I saw James Bond." He snapped his fingers, making Angie and Matt snicker.