The Tomboy

“Are you still going to our gig tonight, Laney?”, asked Mikey, as they bounded through the mostly-glass doors of Franklin High School. Mikey’s real name was Michelle, but she hated that name with a burning passion. It was too girly for a metal-head tomboy like her. 

“Of course. Knowing that I’ll be going to it is the only thing that got me through this hellish week,” replied the auburn-haired Laney, flinging her backpack over her shoulder. Mikey laughed, knowing exactly how she felt. Her week had been nightmarish too, what with the end-of-the-year tests and all. 

The two girls walked toward the parking lot amidst the throngs of other students scrambling to get off school grounds like ants escaping an anthill that had just been demolished. Mikey reached her car first and yelled out, “See you tonight,” to Laney who was making her way toward her own vehicle.

Mikey always enjoyed the ride home from school. With her windows rolled down and her brutal music cranked up, it was the perfect way for her to unwind. She cruised down Main Street, getting a kick out of the looks passers-by and pedestrians gave her. She was quite a sight to behold. The music blaring from her car was ferocious and intense, which contrasts her natural beauty. Oh, sure, her hair was dyed black and she had all the expected piercings, but even that couldn’t disguise the fact that she had angelic facial features and was a small, petite young woman… hardly the stereotypical vision of the brute-like female metal-head.

Mikey’s drive was short lived, however. As her ragged, decrepit house came into view, she sighed exaggeratedly. She hated the ramshackle abode. Its paint was almost non-existent, the roof sagged, the plumbing was abysmal and the lawn was perpetually unmowed. The interior was equally awful. The carpets were matted and stained, the walls were riddled with holes, and the entire place carried this odd musty odor that sent her sinuses into an outrage.

She entered the front door and found that her parents were gone. No big surprise there. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen them in a couple of days. They had a tendency to stay in their own little world; a world that didn’t often include Mikey. They were deeply entrenched in the “party” lifestyle and typically came home inebriated or stoned out of their gourds. They more or less left her to her own devices, which suited her just fine. After all, she had a level head and usually made good decisions when it came down to brass tacks. She was perfectly able to run her own life. Hell, she did a better job of it than her parents did, that’s for sure. They couldn’t even stay sober for a weekend, much less maintain a stable household.

Mikey had just enough time to take a shower, get dressed and grab a quick meal before loading her guitar, half-stack and pedal board into her car and heading to the club. She always made it a point to show up early, especially when it’s a venue she hadn’t played before. It gives her a chance to get a feel for the place.

After her shower, she selected her attire for the evening. Settling on camouflage pants, vintage combat boots, a spiked gauntlet and a “Morbid Angel” t-shirt, she looked every bit the part of the quintessential bad-ass metal chick. She wasted no time in preparing a meal, loading up and driving to the club, a run-down juice bar called The Pond. It was a stupid name, but Mikey was impressed with the interior décor upon entering. It was far roomier than it looked from the outside. The walls were covered in graffiti art and the entire establishment was quite dimly lit, aside from a blacklight. Nice ambience. Only a small smattering of customers was present due to the early hour.

She brought in only her guitar and pedal board and she approached the bar to find out where the club owners wanted her band to place their gear. The man at the bar was a swarthy-looking fellow in psychedelic hippie clothes. His medium brown hair was a bit disheveled and his relatively long beard looked as if it had never been introduced to a comb. In truth, it probably hadn’t.

“Hey, man,” she said, trying to get his attention. Her turned to face her. “I’m Mikey from The Unnamable. Where should we put our stuff?”

He spoke thickly, as if he had to force the words out through a glob of goop. “Oh, hey. Yeah, you can set your shit right through that door over there. He pointed toward a wooden door near the stage.

“Much appreciated,” she stated nodding to him before she charged off to the door. The room behind the door was rather small and cramped, but it would suffice. She placed her guitar and board on a table and brought in her amp. By the time she finished, she heard footsteps approaching the door. To her surprise, it was Damon, the lead vocalist of her band, who was carrying their PA and one of the boxes filled with cords and the like.

“How long have you been here?,” he asked with a wry smile that could barely be seen beneath his long, thick locks of hair that covered most of his face. He was a sturdy man in his early twenties, who had a lantern-jaw and piercing blue eyes… when his mane managed to stray away from them, that is.

“I just got here a few minutes ago, “ she said, getting up to help him unload the band’s equipment. “Where’s everybody else?”

He chuckled. “They’re on their way. Ronnie wanted to stop in and get some food before he came, so he’ll be a little later than Snake and Mason.”

The two band mates walked outside to get more of their gear. Damon remarked, “I see you finally bought that gauntlet you’ve been talking about.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty fucking cool, huh?”

Damon nodded slightly, “It is. It’s cool for on-stage use, anyway.”

She screwed up her face and inquired, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he stated plainly, “It’s just that I don’t think it would kill you to dress like a girl when you’re not on stage.”

Mikey found herself frowning, “That’s not who I am. You know that. I’ve never been into dresses and make-up and shit. Never was, never will be.”

Before the conversation could’ve gone further, they spotted Snake and Mason pulling into the parking area in the back. They got out and simultaneously stretch. The VW bugs just aren’t meant to fit two burly guys in them. Snake is the taller of the two and has wavy dishwater blonde hair that spills down to his mid-back. He has a tattoo of intertwining snakes covering most of his body. His face has been spared such a fate, however. Mason has a shaved head and is barrel-chested, looking something akin to a late nineteenth century prizefighter.

After a quick greeting off high fives and handshakes, the band members proceed to bring their stuff inside. The opening band was setting up on stage when Ronnie showed up. But Ronnie was hardly as jovial as the others. In fact, he looked downright concerned. He approached Mikey and said, “Hey, you might want to give your uncle a call. I bumped into him at the burger joint. He’s been looking for you. Said it was urgent.”

“Uncle Jeff?”, she scoffed, “He was probably wanting me to set him up with Laney again, the fuckin’ perv.”

“I don’t think so, Mikey. He sounded really freaked the fuck out,” Ronnie said, shaking his head.

“I’ll give him a call after our set, okay?” she said in an effort to drop it.

“Alright, but I think something’s seriously wrong.”

The opening act was a deathcore band called “Over the Abyss”. Mikey wasn’t all that impressed, noting that they sounded like every other Whitechapel knock-off out there. They were talented, but they could use a dash of originality. The band in question played a half hour set before relinquishing the stage to the Unnamable. 

The crowd was somewhat small, but still very active and vocal. As Mikey strapped on her guitar, she couldn’t help but wonder why her uncle was looking for her. She tried pushing it to the back of her mind, though, so she could concentrate on her performance.

The Unnamable ripped into their first number with a vengeance. The crowd immediately took to their old school death metal stylings, initiating a mosh pit almost immediately. With the fans in a frenzy, the band put even more effort into it. Nothing drives a band onward like a mass of rampaging fans swirling in a mosh pit in front of them.

The rest of the set went just as swimmingly. Judging by the crowd’s uproarious reaction, it was a safe bet that the proprietors would ask them to return at some point. The fans were still cheering as the band exited the stage area. After their equipment was loaded into their respective vehicles, Mikey stepped out of the club’s back door to call her uncle, using Damon’s cell phone.

  

“Hey, Jeff. I heard you were looking for me,” she asked tentatively.

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been hunting you down for hours.” His frustration was evident, but equally evident was how panicked he was.

“What’s wrong?”

“Look, Mikey, you know I ain’t too good with shit like this, but, uh, y’know, well… Amy and Joe were killed in a fire today at 4:00 or so. I’m sorry, kiddo. I really am.”

Mikey felt suddenly hollow, much as if she was floating above her body. It was all too surreal. “What the fuck are you talking about?!”, she belted out. “Mom and dad and dead??”

There was a slight pause before Jeff spoke. “Yeah. They were in a meth lab or some shit and, well, it went up in flames and they didn’t get out.”

Mikey instinctively thought of self-preservation, something she’d soon feel guilt over. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

“Beats the shit out of me. I don’t know anything about this stuff, y’know? I mean, you’re sixteen, right? Can’t you live on your own at sixteen these days?”

The reality of the situation began to sink in. Her hard-ass routine started to crack a little, as she wiped away a stray tear that rolled down her delicate cheek. “I can’t go live in no orphanage and I can’t stay with you because of your felonies and shit. I have no other relatives that I know of. I am so fucked! SO fucked!”

The rest of the night was a blur to her. Her band mates were all very sympathetic to her plight and offered her any assistance they could. She felt terrible because she harbored such resentment for her parents. They barely acknowledged her existence, being gone for days at a time and saying very little to her when they were home. Still, they were her parents and she just couldn’t help but love them. 

The following day, she was awakened by a social services worker knocking at the door. The woman was pleasant, but Mikey wasn’t a fool. She knew that this was just another case to her. Once the lady dealt with this one, she’d forget all about it and be on to the next case, leaving Mikey to live with her parents’ deaths.

The social worker explained that she was still too young to live on her own and that they have found a relative who was willing to take her in. It was her cousin Mesa and her husband, Mark. She barely knew them, to tell the truth, and Mesa was only in her mid-twenties. The idea of having someone so young in charge of her was annoying, but at least she lived in the same city. It would prevent her from having to uproot from her school, friends and band. So, in that way, she figured she was fortunate.

Within a few hours, Mesa arrived. The caseworker stood outside and spoke with her for some time, while Mikey packed the rest of her belongings. She couldn’t hear much of their conversation, but she gathered enough information to learn that they were all going to be going to the social services office to sign paperwork and such.

Mikey was nervous to see Mesa for the first time in many years. The last time she saw her, she was six years old and Mesa was a teenager. Her memory of Mesa was vague, but she recalled that she was very much into wearing fashionable clothes and acting girly. Perhaps she’s changed. Or perhaps not.