Lyrics to Too Hot by Krokus (2010)
6:00 Monday morning, muted gray light falls through a wide casement window and creeps across pink carpet, scattering dark shadows into corners where they fester like cancer. Cold October rain sluices down the pane like tears, and wind moans in eaves like the voice of the dead.
The brown haired girl wakes to the sound of the alarm like she does every morning, and like every morning, it startles her so badly that her little heart blasts painfully against her ribcage. When she realizes there is no danger, she begins to calm. In dreams, she was dragged kicking and screaming from her bed and taken away; it had never happened in real life, though...not yet.
She reaches out, hits the OFF button, and sits up, her bangs brushing across her forehead. She gets up, takes her clothes from the closet, and goes into the bathroom, where she brushes her teeth and then her hair. The eyes staring back at her from the mirror are dark, anxious. When she leaves the house, she slips on a mask to hide them, but now, they're raw, exposed, like a quivering nerve. She can't look into them for very long, can't look at her face; she doesn't like what she sees.
Done, she peels off the nightgown, puts it into the dirty clothes hamper, and dresses in her skirt, shirt, and sweater. A muffled thump sounds in the next room, and she freezes, her heart rocketing into her throat. Is she making too much noise? She was being as quiet as possible, she really was. And if she was making too much noise, she didn't mean too.
No one yelled or banged on the door - they rarely did, to be honest - and she finished, then scurried back to her room. She grabbed her backpack, made sure she had everything, and left, closing the door behind her. A wide staircase, ornate woodwork and iron railings, brings her to the living room, which is pooled with shadows. She sets her backpack by the couch and starts into the kitchen, but stops, goes back, and sets it on the couch instead. She doesn't want to get yelled at for it being in the way. Like all of her things.
Like her.
In the kitchen, she takes a pan from the drying rack and a carton of eggs from the fridge. She sets them both on the stove, goes to the pantry, and grabs a loaf of bread, making extra sure that it's sourdough and not white. She wanted him to be pleased, and if she gave him the wrong bread he would most certainly not be.
She greases the pan with butter - not too much - and cracks two eggs, taking great pains to make sure that no shell got in. While they cooked, she put the bread into the toaster and starts a pot of coffee. Having so many things going at once overwhelms her, but she kept her focus and moved quickly. As she flips the eggs, her mind returns to the dream she had the night before, the one where she was trying so hard to be good and make him happy, but he was still mad at her - why, she didn't know; she couldn't remember the circumstances, but she could remember the anxious tightness in her chest - it was something she felt every day in waking life.
The coffee is done, and so are the eggs. She carefully transfers them to a plate, then pours a measure of brew into a white mug. She's buttering the toast when he comes in, the heels of his wingtip shoes clicking on the tile floor. Her heartbeat speeds up and her bowels quiver. The atmosphere, always dim and queasy, darkens, and as he crosses to the table and sits, she can feel the disdain radiating off of him in sickly waves. She cuts the toast and checks to make sure that it looks nice, the edges clean and not ragged.
It does.
As nice as she can get it, at least.
For a moment she stands at the counter, a mixture of dread and hope roiling inside of her, hope because maybe if she was good enough he would accept her as his daughter, and dread because deep, deep down, she knew he never would. No matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried, he didn't love her...he didn't even like her. She was a fool for trying, she knew that, but there was always a chance, wasn't there? Always the faint possibility that this would be the day his heart thawed and he finally stopped hating her.
Shaking her head like a woman coming awake from a trance, she sets the toast on the plate, picks it up, and grabs the coffee. She turns, and like every morning, he sits at the head of the table, a short, pudgy man with a bald pate, graying black hair, and glasses. He wears an expensive tailored suit and a glower, his eyes pointed straight ahead and his hands fisted on the table. His briefcase sits next to him, as constant and faithful as a loyal dog. He doesn't turn as she comes over on apprehensive feet. His profile is sharp, unpleasant; it's clear that if he ever does accept her, it won't be today.
Tears threaten to well in her eyes, but she blinks them back. She just had to try harder, that's all, and one day, he would be her father and she could be his daughter.
She sets the plate and coffee in front of him. "Here, Daddy."
The words were barely out before she realized her mistake. Her heart clutched and her hand went to her mouth. Her stepfather's head slowly turned, his eyes narrow and his lips puckered as if in disgust. "I'm sorry," she says quickly, panic rising within her, "it slipped."
He glares at her for a moment, then turns away and starts to eat.
Stupid. She knew he didn't like it when she called him that but she let it happen anyway. Now he was mad at her again. If you want his love and approval, you're not doing a very good job of getting it.
She knew.
She knew all too well.
Blinking back a rush of tears, she goes off to clean the skillet. Neither one speaks; the silence between them is black, dense, pushing against her chest like hateful hands. By the time she is finished, so is he; he gets up, grabs his briefcase, and walks out with nary a word. She pauses and listens for the door.
It slams.
That means he's still mad.
She takes a deep breath and bows her head.
Maybe tomorrow.
She gets his plate and mug, washes them, and puts them in the drying rack with the skillet. By this point she's running late, but she doesn't care. In the living room, she grabs her backpack, slips it on, and leaves, grabbing her umbrella from its spot by the coat rack. On the step, she opens it, holds it over her head, and shuts and locks the door. The rain makes a tap-tap-tap sound, water on canvas. She hated walking in the rain, but she knew better than to ask her mother for a ride; she'd still be drunk from last night.
Bowing her head, she hurries down the drive and along the sidewalk, moving as quickly as possible in the irrational hope that she'd get to school before her shoes and socks got wet.
Too late.
As she walks, she goes back over the encounter with her stepfather again, as she always does, and looks for a point where she could have done something different, something better. Obviously today she called him Daddy, but some mornings she screwed up in other ways, more subtle ways that took her hours and hours to pinpoint: Coughing near him, using too much butter in the eggs, letting her longing gaze linger on him and creeping him out. At least she thought they were the reasons he was upset with her. Maybe they weren't. She didn't know, but it had to be something, didn't it?
Why did she always mess up? Why couldn't she be good enough? Why didn't they love her?
That last thought sent goosebumps racing down the back of her neck. It sounded needy and melodramatic.
And stupid.
She quckens her step; her socks squelch and she winces. Hopefully she would have time to go to the bathroom before class and dry them with the hand blower. Hot shame crept across her cheeks as she pictured someone walking in on her doing it; she'd rather just wear wet socks and suffer.
Why didn't she keep an extra pair in her locker? Every time this happened she thought to, but she always forgot.
She was stupid.
Just like her mother said.
She'd remember this time. She didn't want to be stupid.
By now, she was crossing the street. Royal Woods Academy loomed over her like a tomb, its brick facade grimy with years and its windows like dead but seeing eyes. Cars idle at the curb as kids kiss their mothers goodbye and get out. She keeps her eyes averted because if she doesn't, she might feel jealous, and feeling jealous depresses her.
Inside, she goes to her locker and opens it. Crowds of kids dressed in uniforms fill the hallway, and after she gets her books, she looks around for Leia or Marsha. She spots the latter down the corridor, leaning next to the water fountain and talking to Susan Norton. Marsha is a tall black girl with glasses; she is very deep and analytical, and every time she is around her, she feels even stupider.
She closes her locker and goes over, her steps light and unsure. Sometimes, she didn't like approaching her friends because she's afraid of being a nuisance, like they only tolerate her out of pity or something, and when they see her coming they secretly roll their eyes. Ew, here comes Gwen. Put on your biggest, fakest smile and pretend. There were times she would walk right past them in the hall without even looking at them. They said it's almost like you think you're better than us.
No. Not really.
I just don't want to bother you.
It wasn't always like that, though. Sometimes she was so desperate for a smile or a friendly word that she didn't care if she pestered them, didn't care if they were only pretending to like her...because sometimes pretending is all you have.
As she walks, she dons her mask.
Marsha looks up and Susan turns her head. Gwen searches their eyes for traces of detestation, but sees none; she never does, but that's no consolation. "Hey, Gwen," Marsha says.
"Hey," Gwen replies easily and rests one shoulder against the wall.
"I didn't see you this weekend," she says as Susan rushes off; she says she has somewhere to be but Gwen thinks she just doesn't want to be around her.
"Yeah," Gwen says, "I was with my boyfriend."
She smiles at the mental picture of Lemy Loud that flashes through her mind, but the words feel empty, hollow.
Marsha lifts her brow. "Boyfriend?"
Gwen nods. "Yep. Boyfriend."
"Who?" she asked. "And when?"
"Leia's brother Lemy," Gwen says. His name feels good on her lips, but it makes her want to cry and never stop. "We kind of got together on Friday."
Kind of.
Marsha purses her lips thoughtfully. "Hm. He's cute." Her cheeks blush and her eyes sparkle. Gwen hopes she envies her, because as long as they'd been friends, Gwen had envied her.
"Really sweet too," she says. She remembers the last time they were 'together,' the way he touched her with soft, fleeing hands and kissed her gently. Her heart begins to ache...with both love and longing.
Sometimes pretend is all you have.
"Have you guys...you know?" Marsha asks, a suggestive hilt in her voice.
Gwen sucks her lips in to hide her big, goofy grin. Marsha grins. "You have. How was it?"
"Amazing," Gwen answers honestly. It was sweet and passionate and honest and real. You can fake a lot of things, but there are some things you can't.
Marsha started to speak, but Leia came up and cut her off. "You left something at my house," she said and holds something out. Gwen turns, and her face blushes when she realizes it's a pair of her underwear.
"Ooo-la-la," Masha laughs as Gwen snatches them away and shoves them into the pocket of her skirt before anyone can see. "Gwen says she and Lemy are a thing now."
"Umhm," Leia says, and looks at Gwen. "You're welcome."
"Thank you," Gwen replies. Thank you for making me happy.
Kind of.
Before class, Gwen goes to the bathroom. In the far stall, she takes out her phone and texts Lemy. "Have a good day, Freak," followed by a heart. She doesn't expect a response, and when she gets one less than a minute later, her heart bounces. She takes the phone back out and reads it. You too *heart*
She smiles wanly at the screen.
Sometimes pretend is all you have...but sometimes it isn't enough.
Returning the phone to her pocket, she takes her books from the counter and goes to class, where she struggles to focus. Sitting with her chin in her palm, she stares out the rain streaked window; her stomach twists and turns and her heart feels like it's being jabbed with a million little needles. Painful thoughts circle her consciousness like a school of sharks waiting to move in, and she does her best to fight them back.
He loved her. What they had was real. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch, in the way he held her close after sex. The last time was special...she could feel it. He put his arms around her and kissed her shoulder with such tender affection she almost cried.
He doesn't love you. He loves Lyra.
Her heart clinched and a ripple of pain went through her midsection. That wasn't true. A-And if it was, she would just work harder.
Be better.
The rest of the day passed at an agonizing crawl. She kept the dark thoughts at bay, for the most part, and when the final bell rang, she gathered her books and went outside. The rain had stopped, but the pavement was still wet, and by the time she was two blocks from home, her socks were damp again. Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she took it out. Another text from Lemy. She flashed a tight smile. See? If he didn't love her he wouldn't be texting her so much. Are you coming over?
And if he didn't like her, he wouldn't ask that, now would he?
No, she replied, I can't. Tomorrow I will.
A few seconds later: Oh. *Frownie face* Okay.
I'm sorry.
It's okay. I just wanna see you.
That made her smile.
At home, she went inside and started up the steps, freezing when she heard movement in the kitchen. Her stepfather's car wasn't in the driveway, which meant he was still at work.
It had to be mother.
Gwen waited to see if her mother would call out to her (you did something wrong!), but she didn't', and Gwen hurried to her room. Mother was the resident phantom: Rarely heard and seldom seen. And when you did see her, it wasn't a happy experience.
Shutting the door, Gwen dropped onto the edge of the bed and kicked her shoes off, then peeled the wet socks from her feet. They ached dully and stank. She should take a shower: If she waited too long, her stepfather might yell at her; he went to bed early, and didn't like her making noise.
She didn't want to go out there, though. She wanted to stay here, in her only sanctum. Elsewhere in the house she was unwelcome...unloved.
Putting that aside, she gets up and goes into the bathroom, where she strips and climbs into the shower. The water is hot against her cold skin, and as she lets it warm her, she thinks of Lemy, of his cute smile and his big brown eyes, of the way he blushed like a little boy when she said something dirty. When she first saw him over the summer, she recognized something in his eyes: Sadness. He looked so sad that she wanted to put her arms around him and hug him tight. I'm sad too. She dreamed many nights of holding his hand, snuggling him close, holding him and giving him soft kisses until the hurt was gone, she yearned for it so badly that it made her sick. And maybe...maybe he could do the same for her.
My Dad doesn't have much time for me.
I do. I'll give you every waking moment; I'll give you everything I have if only you'll have me.
Well...that was a lie. She could have gone over to his house after school - her mother didn't care when she came home, if at all - but she couldn't. She couldn't take seeing him look at Lyra the way he did Saturday at the mall. Heh. She was on thin ice and she wanted to keep the illusion alive.
Done, she gets out and towels off. In her room again, she dresses in clean clothes and picks her phone up off the nightstand. Lemy texted. What are you up to?
Nothing, she replies, just thinking about you. *wink*
She waits impatiently for his response; she wanted to see what he would say to that. He got kind of weird sometimes -
Because he doesn't love you.
- and it worried her.
I'm thinking of you too.
Maybe he does love me.
And maybe he doesn't.
I don't know, she thinks and put her face in her hands, I'm so confused. I want him to love me so bad, but I'll pretend if I have to. Sometimes pretend is all you have.
Suddenly drained, she curls up on top of the covers and wraps her arms around her knees. It's really not so bad, because when they had sex, she could forget; in that moment she was everything to him, all he wanted, all he craved. During the act, she felt loved, she felt wanted, and she felt beautiful. It was heady...addictive...everything she ever dreamed it could be.
If that was the only way he could love her, so be it.
That might hurt some people's pride, but not hers.
Because even though she made believe, she had no pride.
Monday afternoon, Lemy strode along the sidewalk,his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his military jacket - there were patches on the shoulders now. 101st Airborne. Get it? Because when he got high he was...nevermind. Music filtered through one earbud (the other hung limp across his chest), but he didn't hear it. He snickered to himself and looked up into the gray sky: Barren trees lined the way, their branches shaking and knocking together in the damp wind like woodland skeletons or some shit. That's a morbid image, huh? Yeah, strange, because he didn't feel morbid. At least he didn't think he did. He felt...good...but also kind of confused. And kind of bad, too, like...there were steely fingers digging around in his chest and the only thing that could get them to go away was seeing Gwen.
One life, one love
Gettin' ready to ride
New name, new place
And the feelin' is right
I know what you're thinking. Lemy, dude, you fall in and outta love like that. You're worse than Ted from How I Met Your Mother. Well...hear me out. I...I still love Lyra, okay? But I love Gwen now too. Yeah, okay, maybe it happened a little suddenly. I just...man, yesterday was...I-I don't even know. I can't explain myself, alright? I just...I fell for her, man, I really did. She kind of, you know, won me over. She's...what's the word? I wanna say bright. Not like she's smart (which she is), but just bright, like a lamp. And I...come on, you saw. Do I really have to sit here and explain the ins and outs of my emotions? You know how fucking tiresome that shit is? Just...take my word for it.
I'm in love with her.
She takes care of the man in me
Ooh yeah! Sets the bad boy free
Don't understand the way live
Knows when to take and knows when to give
Man, just thinking about her I feel all goofy and shit. I'm grinning and, man, it's...it's wild. I feel...you know...differently for them, her and Lyra. Like...I still think that Lyra gets me, but - and I've been thinking a lot since yesterday - Gwen is...man, I'm struggling here, sorry. I've just been looking at it and I'm asking myself: What I have in common with Lyra...is it really that important? For so long I've been hung up on oh, she understands the pop culture references I make and blah blah blah, and while that's great...is that really who I am?
Oh, you're suddenly questioning your oh so deep love for her after one day? No, it's not that. I said I've been thinking a lot about this, and I have. All of that stuff, the music, the movies, the slang and shit...it's kind of superficial. It's surface stuff. Deep down at my core, I'm insecure and have self-esteem issues. Doing Leia and Lyra (and even Gwen) hasn't changed that. Looking back at some of the things Gwen has said and done from a more...I guess charitable standpoint...I think maybe she might feel the same way. I get the feeling that we're more alike than I thought. She might even be more like me than even Lyra. Lyra, man, she's pretty and she's popular, she's confident, she's really the polar opposite of me in a lot of ways. Ways that really count, you know? Us liking the same movies and shit...it's important in a way, but really it's also not.
Too hot, too hot to handle
Lay me down right now
Too hot, love is a gamble
Don't stop let it out
I mean, you have to have things in common, that's vital, but look at Dad. He doesn't have all that much in common with Lucy, Lynn, Lana, and the others when it comes to hobbies or tastes. Lucy likes that old school emo music, Dad...he's into Smooch, you know, that gay ass KISS knock off band with the pedophile lead singer - hey, no wonder Dad likes them. He's not into sports like Lynn and there's' a reason Lana calls on me when she needs a helper...Dad's worse than The 3 Stooges when it comes to handy man stuff. Yet...I know I talk shit about the guy, but I believe he really loves them and that they really love him.
You know that Rick Springfield song Jessie's Girl? He's in love with his best friend's girl, and at one point he's like, you know, what doesn't she see in me? I'm handsome. Isn't that how love works? The implication is that he's shallow and has no fucking clue how love works. Maybe that's me. Maybe I've been shallow all this time.
One head, one heart
Sweet child is born
New shoes, new face
And the passion is strong
Honestly, I don't know. I just can't get her out of my head, and when she texted me that I couldn't see her today, man...bitter disappointment. I keep thinking about her, about us having sex, and also about us just hanging out. Like at the park, swinging, man, the sound of her laughter, the light in her eyes…
Presently, he turned onto Franklin. It was starting to drizzle, drops of rain pelting leaves and knocking them from trees. One drifted down and landed on top of his watch cap; he peeled it off and tossed it away.
Workin' hard it's tough on the street
Her love gets me back on my feet
The flame is high she feeds the fire
Nothin' can stop my burnin' desire
I see how Dad can love more than one woman now. I thought it was a crock of shit, but I get it.
The fact remains that Lyra doesn't love me like I love her, and, dude, I think that's going to be something that'll bother me for a while, but Gwen...look at me, you see this shit-eating grin? I really dig her.
Ahead, the house huddled against the somber day, one of the second story shutters slamming in the wind. I really wish she could come over today. I was hoping she would - I was expecting her to. It's gonna be a long fucking wait until tomorrow; I can already see myself being restless and shit.
Too hot, too hot to handle
Lay me down right now
Too hot, love is a gamble
Don't stop let it out
Let it out, let it out, right now
And he was. Very restless.
Dinner.
Gwen sat in her spot and stared down at her plate. Her stepfather was at one end of the table and her mother at the opposite. The air between them was heavy and tense; breathing was hard and she felt herself beginning to chafe. At any moment they could begin to argue, and she would be stuck literally in the middle, too scared to get up and scurry away because her stepfather might get mad at her. When they fought, he always talked bad about her. Last night, as she lay in bed listening, it was If it weren't for me you and your slut daughter would be suckng dicks on the street for pocket change.
His words hit her like the blade of a knife, and for a long time afterwards she lay awake, expecting him to come in like he sometimes did, looking for something to yell at her over. Close the window, the heat's on; turn the light off, it's too late for this; stop pacing the floors, you're making too much noise. He never came, though, and she was left alone to tearfully wonder why: Why didn't he like her? Why wouldn't he let her be his daughter? She'd be the best daughter ever; she'd love him and kiss his cheek and do anything to make him happy...if only he let her.
Work harder.
Be better.
And maybe he'll love you.
Her mother, a tall black-haired woman with wrinkles despite being only twenty-seven, was working on her third glass of wine. She wore a sleeveless white blouse and black pants; her gaze was downcast, her blood red lips arranged in expression of distaste. She took a bite of her steak and grimaced as though it were foul. Her husband looked up with hate-filled eyes and watched as she took another drink.
Gwen slouched down in her seat. Please don't fight, please don't fight.
Mercifully they didn't, though the shimmering resentment between them intensified. She stared at her plate; she didn't want what was on it, she just wanted to go back upstairs where she didn't feel like the walls were closing in on her. She had to finish her dinner, though, or he might make her sit there until she did like he used to when she was little. She picked up her fork and sank the tines into a butter slathered brussel sprout. It tasted like cardboard in her mouth.
"Peas," her stepfather grunted. Gwen, eager to do good and make him happy, shot out her arm to get them, but tipped the bowl over instead, spilling peas across the table.
Her heart dropped.
"Really, Gwen," her mother spat.
Her stepfather made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, shook his head, and went back to eating.
"I-I'm sorry," Gwen said and started to stand, "I'll clean it up -"
"Sit down," her mother said, "you've caused enough trouble for one night."
Gwen obeyed, hot, stinging tears filling her eyes. Why can't I do anything right? Why do I always fuck everything up?
She tried to fight them back, but they came regardless. Her lips began to quiver, then that was it: She broke down, bowing her head to hide her shame.
"Now you're acting childish," her mother said. "It's only peas."
No it wasn't. It was everything.
She was sobbing hysterically now, her body shaking and all of the pain bubbling up inside of her like boiling acid.
"If you're going to cry, go to your room and do it," her stepfather spat.
Shoving away from the table, Gwen got up and fled to her room, her stepfather's voice following. "There's something wrong with your daughter."
"Shut up, Winston, I'm really not in the mood for this."
In her room, Gwen closed the door and dropped onto the bed, her face burying in the pillow. She failed. Again. Every time she tried she screwed it up, every step she made was a misstep. She couldn't make Winston happy, she couldn't make her mother happy, and she couldn't make Lemy Loud happy. None of them loved her.
But at least Lemy pretended, and she was so grateful for that that she cried even harder.
Shortly, the tears tapered off, and she sat up; her nose was stuffy and her cheeks wet. The room was full dark, and she snapped the bedside lamp on. Reaching into her nightstand, she pulled out a brown leather bound book and sat it on her lap; whenever she was sad, he took it out and paged through it. Sniffing and wiping an errant tear from her face, she opens the cover, her eyes falling on a photo depicting a very, very light skinned black man with crystal blue eyes. He's standing on a beach in a pair of shorts and a short-sleeved button up shirt open to reveal his muscular chest. His smile is warm, genuine.
His name was Quincy Harker, and he was a TV actor who played in sitcoms, dramas, and comedies - never a main character, always a supporting role. Looking at his face, Gwen felt a rush of familiarity...and love. She brushed her thumb across his face and smiled sadly.
When she was little, she asked her mother about her father - her real father. Mother pointed to the TV. "You're father looked kind of like him. Your grandparents didn't like him." She turned to the screen, and that's when she first saw him; he was dressed as a doctor and laughing easily with a coworker, his eyes filled with a sparkling happiness she had never seen before.
He was beautiful.
From then on, she clipped pictures of him from magazines and printed them from the internet; she would spend hours and hours looking at them, studying his face, imagining she was in there with him, her small hand clutched in his fist and his loving eyes cast down upon her, or sitting on his shoulders and giggling as he gave her a piggyback ride. She spun elaborate fantasies where he really was her father, and took her away to live with him, and when she was feeling down about herself, he would hold her in his strong arms and tell that she was smart and beautiful and that he believed in her.
As she got older, she found herself looking at him in a different way, her eyes lingering too long on his chest to be daughterly, her stomach feeling funny when she heard his voice on the television. Her fantasies changed: No longer was he simply holding her in his arms late at night, loving and comforting her, now he was touching her, his fingers massaging her breasts and between her legs, his breathing ragged on the back of her neck, his kisses more urgent, more sensual. For a long time, they ended there, but last spring, she finally imagined him mounting her, threading his fingers through her hair and making slow, sweet love to her as she panted his name. Daddy. A part of her was ashamed of this, but another part cherished it, because what better way, what deeper way, to show your love for someone than to unite your body to theirs? To become totally and literally one with them?
The way she became one with Lemy.
She turned to the last page of the scrapbook. Carefully and reverently taped there was the strip photo from Saturday. Her, Lemy, and Leia. In the top one, they were each kissing one of his cheeks while he blushed and looked vaguely uncomfortable. In the last, his face was beet red as she and Leia looked down at his thing. She touched his face the way she had touched her father's, and a single tear dropped onto the picture.
"I love you, Freak," she said softly, "even if you don't love me."
Her lips were beginning to quiver, and she sucked them in lest she break down again. She went back to the first picture...her father at the beach. "Goodnight, Daddy," she said, bent, and kissed it. She closed the book and returned it to her nightstand, then curled up under the covers.
Sleep didn't come for a long time.