Time to Roar, Part Two
a misfits femmeslash fanfic by d.l. schizoauthoress
dedicated to Stormkeeper
Congratulations!
You're on your way out
From here on in, I'll be takin' the lead
Congratulations!
You're on your way out
I'm bound to win, I was born to succeed
---
With Jetta established in the room to the right of mine, we ready ourselves for some well-earned rest and relaxation. Roxy's room is directly across the hall to mine, and Stormer's is on the left of hers, directly across from Jetta.
Stormer is painting her nails again; her door is open and the portable fan is whirring, just loud enough for me to hear over the noise my other bandmates are making. Jetta is still rearranging her things, not that she has much right now. Roxy's door is firmly shut, but she is definitely not asleep. Part of me wants to get up and pound on her door, scream at her to stop banging away on that damned drumkit, but most of me wants to stay in my recliner and get my feet massaged.
"Ooh!" I cry softly as the massage therapist (really, he's Daddy's personal trainer and masseuse, not mine) hits a particularly tender spot on my left heel. I snap at him, "Be careful! That hurts!"
"I'm sorry," he tells me calmly, "but it's going to, a little. You have some adhesions here. Probably from all that walking, and not enough water over the past few days. I'll try to be more gentle, Miss Gabor."
Mollified, I settle for grumbling "You do that, buster," at him and pick up my book. H.G. Wells, The Time Machine. I've read it at least ten times already, and I never get tired of it. What I am tired of is having a spastic drum-majorette for a roomie.
"Hey!" I shout. No response. "Rox!" Still nothing. Just that wild, raging percussion beat. Finally losing my temper, I grab the nearest thing on the nightstand -- a five-armed brass candleholder, complete with French Vanilla-scented tapers -- and fling it at her door, shrieking, "Rox-y! Quit it!"
Silence, for all of ten seconds. Then, badum-dum-clash -- that cliche post-joke drumroll. I can't help it. I laugh.
---
There's something wrong, some weird tension in the air as the new Misfits -- Jetta, Roxy, Stormer, and I -- endure the ministrations of the TV station's hair-and-makeup people. Jetta is soaking up this newfound attention, snapping orders at the girls unfortunate enough to have to work on her. Stormer submits to the mercilessness of the male hairdresser assigned to taming her wild curls. Roxy and I know that once the guy lets Stormer up, she'll just toss her head, upsetting all that work, and tuck her orange silk daisy into place. I've seen the mischievious grin she has while doing it.
Roxy is nothing but nonstop complaints. She's getting prodded with liner pencils; how many times do they have to mess up the pattern of her eyeshadow; this stylist rounded her nails, and she only gets squared-off nail tips; that stylist got Aqua Net in her eyes, dammit! But not even Roxy's bitching can get me upset -- and I know that, for some reason that she won't say, she wants me upset. But I am thoroughly enjoying all the pampering I'm getting.
Roxy will just have to deal with disappointment.
---
She is dealing with it by pointing out, loudly, "Hey! That's the wrong shade of orange!" when someone butts in.
"Oh, give it a rest, you big baby!" Jetta barks out suddenly, causing the makeup artist working on her lips to jump. A dark fuschia slash of lipstick appears on her left cheek. Roxy glares at her as she is cleaned up with a makeup remover cloth and sneers,
"Big baby, huh? When it comes to experience, you're the baby, Jetta!"
Everyone pauses, enraptured by the drama unfolding before them. Everyone but me, that is. I'm just pissed off that Roxy couldn't say this at the mansion, or maybe in the car when she was giving all of us the silent treatement. Noooo, she had to wait until there was an audience in it for her, she couldn't just tell me what was bothering her.
The stylists have backed away from Roxy now. Maybe they're scared of getting burned. "Pizzazz only let you in the band because she felt sorry for you. But you won't last a week with us!" Roxy rises from her chair, ripping off the sheet-like makeup bib as she stands. "The Misfits are the big-time, Tinkerbilly, and don't you forget it!"
"Big-time! The big-time!" Jetta repeats shrilly, incredulously. "How can the Misfits be 'the big-time' if they have to drag around a small-timer like you, you gutter trash?"
Roxy whirls to face Jetta, and I realize with a chill that Roxy could kill her. Could and would kill her, for that insult.
"Jetta," I say in a low, sweet voice. They both freeze. I stand up slowly, sweping off my own makeup bib with a regal gesture, and continue, "Jetta, did you just insult the Misfits? Did you just insult me?"
"No!" Jetta cries, "I didn't!" That's right, bitch, be afraid of me. I'm not afraid to call Daddy's lawyers and tell them to forget about that work permit of yours.
"I think you did," I argue, slinking over to her chair. Cornering her. "I think you implied that I'd waste my time in a musical group that wasn't the absolute best. Didn't you?"
Jetta shakes her head emphatically, protesting, "I didn't mean to, Pizzazz! Honestly, why would I insult you when you've been so good to me?"
Roxy sniffs derisively. Stormer has stood as well, and moved over to my other side. I shift my gaze to her, and note with approval that her usually gentle expression is altered by the cold, turbulent blue eyes that inspired me to give her that stage name. Stormer is now furious. Roxy is now cold and disdaining, but she can shift into firey fury in a heartbeat. And I? I am about to reveal to Jetta just how much she is in my mercy, and what it means to be vulnerable around me.
"Listen to me, Jetta," I command softly. "Listen real good, girl. I want you in this band. I want you to be a Misfit. And what I want, I get. But," I continue, enjoying the sight of Jetta's first hopeful, then wary expression. "I don't want people stealing my thunder. I don't want people pissing off my friends. I don't want you turning out to be a fake.
"Roxy's right," and here Roxy's eyes soften, just barely, as she glances at me, "I did get up on that stage last night because I felt sorry for you. I felt sorry for you, because I thought you were a person worthy to be one of us, slumming it with that crappy band, in that crappy club. Don't prove me wrong, Jetta."
And, as one, the original Misfits turn their backs on Jetta and walk away. To the caterer's table, of course. Eric dragged us out of bed and hustled us off before we could eat a proper breakfast this morning.
I pull apart one of the plain bagels arranged on a tray, generously spreading one side with cream cheese, the other with strawberry jam. Sticking both sides back together, I nibble daintily at the messy concoction, watching my bandmates with amusement.
Stormer has gotten someone to buy her a small container of cottage cheese -- that sweet, pleading look of hers works miracles. She is parked on the table by the display of sliced fruit, dipping in pieces of apples and peaches and eating them with her fingers. Roxy juggles two maple bars, a glazed lemon-filled donut, an orange, and a full glass of milk as she wanders about, looking for a place to sit. Jetta, isolated by our unspoken agreement, hovers near the stage entrance, munching on a pear.
"Let me sit down with you, Pizzazz." Roxy says, speaking around the maple bar shoved between her teeth. Except it sounds like: 'Lemme si' 'own w'ya 'Zazz.'
Gazing up at her through my mascaraed lashes, I inquire, "Why?"
"Cos I got all this stuff; Pizzazz, come on!" she whines, voice muffled. I only smile at her and finish my bagel, knowing that it irritates her when I don't answer. Finally, she offers, "I'll give you a maple bar. I know you like them."
"That's why you got two, sweetie," I point out, letting her take my seat. Then I perch daintily on her lap and take her glass of milk and the donut that's not in her mouth. With one of her hands finally free, she begins eating. I watch her wolfing down her food, sipping from her glass. I stand up and stretch once I've finished my maple bar.
As fast as Roxy eats, she's barely finished when Eric comes backstage. He grumps, "Come on, ladies, your public awaits!" and checks himself out in one of the mirrors, smoothing his brows with his fingers. I wonder if I could get Roxy to hold him down so I could pluck those monstrosities. That would be fun.
"It's just the press, not the public. And the press can 'await' a little longer, Eric," I chide him, motioning one of the makeup people over for a final check and touch-up.
"Yeah, we're stars!" Roxy chips in. Jetta, who'd been heading for the stage when Eric ordered us out, halts suddenly, glares at Roxy, and pretends to casually head back to us.
Stormer is nervously smoothing her outfit. "Roxy," she calls, turning her back to us and looking over her shoulder, "is my skirt wrinkled?"
"Little bit," Roxy responds, moving over to help her.
Jetta slides into a spot beside me, murmuring, "Pizzazz, about earlier...I'm really sorry."
"You should be," I reply breezily.
"Anything I can do to make it up to you?" She asks smoothly, moving her hand almost to touch my shoulder, but letting it hover. "Anything at all?"
I busy myself by brushing imaginary lint off my jacket. "Let me think," I tell her.
"Because," she continues, as if I hadn't spoken at all, "I'd hate for us to have this silly quarrel between us. Especially if we can make time to visit the Queen Mum, when we tour Great Britain."
"Really?" I ask, my interest piqued. Visions of myself in Buckingham Palace, trading witty reparte with royalty, start dancing in my head. Add Jem being hustled off by the palace guards by order of the Queen for good measure. Oooh.
"Oh, yes, luv. I'd be able to get us in. Known the royals since I was a bitty baby." Jetta smiles distantly, probably remembering how she took her first steps in the throne room or something.
"Let's go." Eric grinds out in that impatient tone he gets. I hustle Jetta ahead of me, dimly aware that the others are following.
There are small Xs of black electrical tape that mark where we should stand. Jetta is gazing out on the group of media people, setting off wondering comments and photographers' flashbulbs. She's so absorbed in getting her picture taken that she overshoots the mark by a few steps. I groan, very softly.
"Amatuer," Roxy hisses, just loud enough for me to hear, while Stormer stifles a malicious giggle at Jetta's expense. I grab Jetta's arm none too gently and tug her back my way, pointedly tapping my own black X with the toe of my shoe. She gets the hint and moves to hers, just in time.
"Your attention! Your attention, please!" Eric calls out from the middle of the crowd, raising both arms. "I am please to announce the addition of a sizzling star from Britain. England's loss is our gain. The new Misfit: Jetta!"
'Blah blah blah, Eric. How long did it take you to come up with that little speech?' I think bitterly, remembering that he'd never made introductions like that for me. Maybe Roxy's got a point. But then again, Eric might just be laying the praise on thick because he thinks that he has a chance to screw Jetta, and not in the financial sense either.
A male reporter with a whiny, nasal voice asks, "Jetta, if you're so famous, how come we've never heard of you?"
"Maybe you've been living under a rock, Yank." Jetta replies with disdain.
"There's a rumor that you're a close friend of the Prince and Princess," states a woman in the crowd.
"The royals," Jetta says, crossing her fingers, "are close personal friends of mine. Oh, yes, like this!"
I put a hand on her shoulder and revel in the attention that one little statement gets us.
---
It's not until later, when we've answered all the questions and gone back to the dressing rooms that the doubt hits me. Jetta kept one hand behind her back while she was telling me about the Queen, and when she talked of her 'close, personal friendship' with British royalty to the press, she had her fingers crossed.
She had her fingers crossed.
I wonder. Could she have. . . would she dare to, to lie to people like that? To tell a boldfaced falsehood to my face, when I'd as good as threatened to kick her out if she upset me again?
No. No way.