Chapter Six: A Band In Crisis
“Oh, I give up.”
Mary Phillips, better known now to the world as Stormer, the synth
player
and songwriter for hot rock band the Misfits screwed up her sheet of
manuscript
paper, tossing it across the room and into the rubbish bin, burying her
head
in her hands. It was almost ten o’clock at night and she had been
working
since six o’ clock at getting the main melody of the new song to fall
right.
It worked, up to a point, but there was something missing, something
major,
and try as she might no additional medleys would fit in the way she
wanted
them to.
“We’re too limited. No scope.” She muttered to herself, getting to her
feet
and walking to the window to get some fresh air. “Three instruments
aren’t
enough, even with my synthesiser playing rhythm. How am I meant to come
up
with something new if I can’t diversify? Oh, this is hopeless. We’ll
never
have this one ready for the concert, and Pizzazz is gonna be mad when
she
finds out it isn’t done.”
Stormer had been a Misfit for a little over a year now, and in that
time
she had learnt a lot. She had begun very naïve, and in a lot of
ways
she still was, lacking the self-belief that would make her realise how
important
all her hard work was to the success of the band. It was Stormer who
wrote
the songs, Stormer who worked out the lyrics, and Stormer who took care
of
any musical glitches when the group were onstage. In a lot of ways,
though,
she liked it that way. Pizzazz, or Phyllis Gabor, the spoiled only
daughter
of a billionaire and Roxanne Pelligrini, a high school dropout from
Philadelphia
had no real attraction for work of any kind. Causing trouble was far
more
their specialty. To begin with the two girls had sparred almost all the
time,
but over their year and a bit together both had come to respect the
other’s
sense of mischief and they were quite a lethal team, often dragging
Stormer
herself in before she knew what was going on. Not that they were what
anyone
could call ‘friends’. Both girls had scorned the concept of friendship
long
ago, and their alliance was built out of tolerance and respect, nothing
more.
Stormer had long since given up trying to work out the good points her
band-mates
had, though she was sure that there were some there somewhere. And if
she
was honest, though they scared her sometimes, she was fond of them
both,
in an odd way. Particularly Roxy, for the two girls had known each
other
longer and were in each other’s debt.
She had never been quite confident enough to fight back against their
ideas.
They had a strong influence over her and she longed in many ways to be
like
them – daring and loud, with no lingering thoughts as to the
consequences
of their actions. She knew that deep down she wasn’t, and never would
be,
but most of the time she played along anyway. It was safer for her if
she
did, after all. Neither Pizzazz nor Roxy liked to be argued with.
The Misfits had had a rollercoaster of a year, she mused, as she pushed
open
the window, leaning on the sill as she allowed the cool night air to
ruffle
her hair. The project of Eric Raymond, a young and ambitious manager,
the
group had hit their first hurdle when Jerrica Benton, co-owner of the
music
company that had signed them had brought her own competing band on the
scene.
Jem and the Holograms had seemingly had a lot of breaks since then.
Jerrica
had gained control of the music company, Starlight Music, and the
Misfits
had been forced into second place.
This was something which Pizzazz was never prepared to sit back and
accept.
She wanted to be the best – fame was everything to her now.
She had convinced her rich father to buy a music company to back
them,
known now as Misfit Music and run by the irreverent Raymond, and much
of
the last year had been spent trying to sabotage Jem and the Holograms’
success.
Not that they’d succeeded to any great degree. Stormer sighed, sinking
back
down into her chair. Somehow the girls from Starlight Music always
seemed
one step ahead of any prank the Misfits tried to pull.
Deep down, Stormer half-wished the rivalry would end, but she would
never
dare voice such treasonous ideas to her band-mates. Reluctantly she
scooped
up her manuscript book once more. She had a song to finish.
“You still working?”
A voice from the doorway made her turn and she met the disbelieving
gaze
of the group’s guitar player, known to all and sundry simply as ‘Roxy’.
Roxy
had become involved in Eric’s plans after circumstances had led her to
Stormer’s
house in a storm – the house was currently shut up, for the Misfits
were
staying in a big house owned by Pizzazz’s father – and she had more or
less
invited herself aboard. Stormer did not know much about Roxy’s past,
only
that she had dropped out of school when she had been fourteen and had
been
fending for herself since then. From the odd, cryptic hints that she
dropped
here and there, Stormer had decided that Roxy’s childhood had been far
from
happy, and had chosen not to pry. After all, the girl was doing okay
for
herself now. From being a nothing in the worst part of Philadelphia,
she
had become one of the Misfits, a band that was well known across the
whole
nation and who packed out concerts of their own wherever they played.
Okay, so maybe Jem and her group were more popular, but the Misfits
were
far from being nobodies.
“Yeah, I’m still working.” Stormer frowned. “Trying to finish that
song.”
“The same song? Sheesh, Stormer, you’re not done yet?” Roxy demanded.
“Let
me see that.” She took the main melody sheet from the table. “What’s up
with
it? Looks okay to me.”
It had been a long hard battle to make Roxy learn how to read music,
but
in the end necessity had forced the platinum blond to give way, and now
she
was fairly competent at recognising notes. The fact that reading
language
was a skill that still eluded her was something she was extremely
touchy
about, but she had long since shrugged off the need to read. After all,
she
had a career already.
“Something’s missing. I just wish I could put my finger on what.”
Stormer replied. “Oh, I don’t know.” She set down her pen. “I’ve had
enough of it,
anyway. Pizzazz will have to make do with this.”
“I can’t believe you spent four hours on a dumb song.” Roxy shook her
head.
“Stormer, you’re no fun, you know that? You always shut yourself away
with
this stupid book – you never want to do stuff any more.”
“If I don’t write songs we don’t have songs. We’ve been performing a
lot
lately and we need new material.” Stormer replied quietly, collecting
up
the sheets of paper and piling them neatly together.
“Cool out.” Roxy replied. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you actually
like
working.” She smirked. “You’ll never guess where Pizzazz and I were
this
afternoon.”
“Oh?” Stormer looked interested. “Where?”
“Starlight Music.” Roxy replied.
“What were you doing there?”
“What do you think? We were causing trouble for Jerrica.” Roxy
shrugged. “We
snuck into her office, switched all her files about and totally trashed
her
shelves. It was a blast.”
“You’ll get into trouble!”
“I said, cool out.” Roxy warned her. “Noone saw us. It was just a bit
of
fun, anyway. No hard feelings.” She grinned. “But we found something
out,
you know, while we were there.”
“Go on, what?”
“Well, some creep phoned the office while we were there and Pizzazz
took
the call. Pretended to be that cream puff secretary of Jerrica’s.
Apparently
there’s a rumour that Shana’s left the Holograms.”
“She’s what?” Stormer stared. Shana was the percussionist for Jem and
the
Holograms, a black girl with a determined attitude to life, and one
that
Roxy had had several run ins with before. “Quit? Did they have a row?”
“Who cares?” Roxy shrugged. “Don’t you get it? Jem’s lost her drummer,
and
they go on tour real soon, don’t they? If they don’t have a drummer,
how
can they perform?” she winked. “Maybe we should offer to do the tour
for
them.”
“You really think it’s true?” Stormer asked. Roxy shrugged.
“Just telling you what Pizzazz said. The person on the phone was
some
designer woman or something – I don’t know. But isn’t it brilliant? And
we
didn’t have to do a thing. Jem and the Horrorgrams are finished!”
“You think so?” Stormer looked doubtful.
“Stormer, use your brains! They need four of them to bash out that
soppy
rubbish they call music.”
“Maybe they’ll get a new drummer.” Stormer suggested.
“In time for the tour? Yeah, right.” Roxy snorted. “Even Jem and her
saps
can’t work that quickly. I’m tellin’ ya, the stage is as good as ours.”
“I hope you’re right.” Stormer replied.
“Stop being a spoilsport. Relax!” Roxy instructed. “And forget the dumb
song,
huh? We’re going out – you can come with us.”
“I…” Stormer paused, then nodded. “Okay. Guess I need a break. Where
are
we going?”
“Down town.” A glint came into Roxy’s eye. “To make a little Misfit
mischief.”
* * * * * * * * * * *
“You can’t be serious?”
In the lobby of a Los Angeles hotel, a man with spiky bleached hair put
his
hands on his hips, staring at his companion with utter shock. “You just
can’t
be serious…Jetta, you can’t just walk out on us like this!”
Jetta ran her fingers through her thick dark hair with a sigh.
“Listen, Snake, I told ya. I’m not comin’ back to London with you lot
when
you go.” She responded wearily. “Coming to America ‘as been a dream of
mine
for long enough and now I’m here I want to explore a bit. In any case,
I’m
bored. I need something new.”
“Has Allie been saying things again?” Snake, leader of the amateur band
the
Tinkerbillys demanded, naming his girlfriend Alison, whom Jetta had
never
seen eye to eye with. That was partly Snake’s own fault, for Allie was
innately
jealous of anyone spending time with her man, and Snake had been
attracted
to Jetta the first time he’d met her. Not that she’d ever given him any
reason
to think that she might be interested back – that just wasn’t her
style.
She was independent, quick thinking and shrewd, and Snake admired her
for
it.
“It’s nothing to do with Allie.” Jetta shook her head. “I just want a
new
challenge, that’s all.” She shrugged. “What can I say? Nothing lasts
forever.”
She offered him a grin. “Ain’t the end of the world, Snake. You can
find
a new sax player, no trouble. The Tinkerbillys ain’t quite the small
time
band they were – you’ve done America now.”
“Yeah, and look at the reception. We’ve barely had a good crowd one
night
we’ve been here.” Snake rolled his eyes. “Guess the yanks just don’t
understand
what we’re tryin’ to do here.”
“I don’t blame them.” Jetta thought to herself with a slight smile. The
Tinkerbillys
were not the most musical of groups, and it had taken her some time to
get
used to their unique sound.
“Look, Snake, me mind’s made up.” She said now with a shrug.
“How are we ever going to replace you?” Snake demanded. “You’re
dynamite, Jetta. Pure dynamite. We’ll never find anyone as good as you
in a million years.”
“I ain’t that good, and you’ll have no trouble.” Jetta responded dryly.
“It’s
sweet of you to say, love, but the Tinkerbillys were a group before I
came
along and I don’t see why this is such a crisis.”
Snake shook his head slowly. How could he explain to her how much it
meant
to him for her to stay? He was not one to reveal his own feelings to
people,
and Jetta herself scorned anything that came under the heading of
‘mush’.
She had never let him get as close to her as he’d have liked to, and
now
it seemed he’d never get a chance to break her down.
She was leaving them.
“You will play out our last concerts tonight and tomorrow, though?” he
asked
her.
“Of course.” Jetta nodded. “Finish with a bang.” She grinned. “Cheer
up,
duckie. Think of all them American birds you could be making the eye at
tonight!”
Snake stared at her. He had had no idea that she knew only too well how
his
train of thought ran.
“Not much point. Allie would go mad and I can’t smuggle ‘em back in me
luggage.”
Was all he said, however. Allie was so clingy he had not yet been able
to
shake off her affections.
“Allie’s a drip.” Jetta looked scornful. “My advice is put ‘er on a
plane
to Malaysia with a one way ticket an’ leave her to it.”
“Sometimes I’m tempted.” Snake sighed. “Hey, what are you going to do
over
here? You don’t have a work permit. How are you going to find work?”
“I’ll think of something. Don’t worry about me, Snake, I can take care
of
meself.” Jetta shrugged, though the work permit problem was something
that
concerned her, also. “Anyway, it’s gettin’ late an’ I need to change if
I’m
gonna play tonight. I’ll see you later, okay?”
With that she sauntered towards the lift, heading back up to her room
to
shower and change for the concert.
Left alone, Snake sank down into an empty chair, burying his head in
his
hands. He knew that there would be no changing her mind now. Once Jetta
had
decided something, that was it. And he knew he was going to miss her,
worse
than he’d ever realised.
“She’s more than just the band’s saxophonist, she’s part of our sound
and
more…I want her to stay.” He told himself, banging his fist angrily
down
on a nearby coffee table. “We’re nothing without her these days – and I
might
never see her again if she doesn’t fly back with us.” He sighed. “She
can
take care of herself, though, and she doesn’t need me. She doesn’t need
anyone…she’ll
make things work.” He stood, slowly walking towards the lift himself.
“And
who knows? Maybe one day she really will be a star.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Stormer, where’s that song?”
Pizzazz sent the synth player an irritated look. “You said it’d be done
by
today and I’m sick of waiting for it.”
“It’s here.” Stormer reached into her bag with a sigh. “But I’m still
not
sure about it, Pizzazz…something’s missing.”
“Give me that.” Pizzazz snatched the sheet music from her companion,
skimming
over it. “What’s wrong with it, then?”
“It needs a counter melody.” Stormer looked surprised, for Pizzazz was
not
usually interested in the composition of songs, merely in how good they
sounded
when she performed them. Not that Pizzazz felt that the group relied on
Stormer,
more that they left the boring stuff to the submissive younger girl.
She
was certain that she could write a song if she wanted to, only it was
too
much like hard work, and pointless when Stormer’s songs would do just
as
well. Over her time with the band, Stormer had learnt the kind of
lyrics
and beat Pizzazz expected from her, and had honed the style to
perfection
to avoid as much criticism as possible. Roxy had a short attention
span,
in any case, so any chance of working on the song as a group to improve
it
was very remote indeed. Stormer wrote every song she did with Pizzazz’s
vocals
in mind, and ninety percent of the time her work met with grudging or
unspoken
approval…that was good enough for her. She had no mind to lose her
place
in the band by refusing to produce music – she was nothing without the
Misfits.
At least, that was what she had been led to believe, and, being the
trusting
soul she was, she had taken the idea to heart. Whilst Pizzazz and Roxy
both
treated the world at large with a self-centred, suspicious air, Stormer
preferred
to believe the best in people.
She had not allowed herself to form too much of an opinion of the
Holograms. Too dangerous to try it, with Pizzazz so dead set against
them. The two groups
were rivals, and that was that. Stormer had learnt to think of them as
a
nuisance, but she had very little actual malice for the other band. In
fact,
she had very little actual malice anywhere inside of her. It made her
an
unlikely Misfit.
“Well, if it needs a counter melody, smarty pants, why doesn’t
it
have a counter melody?” Pizzazz’s eyes narrowed.
“We…we don’t have enough instruments to play one.” Stormer faltered.
Pizzazz
was intimidating when displeased, and that was most of the time. “Even
if
I program my synth to take the beat.”
Pizzazz rolled her eyes.
“Great.” She muttered. “Always some excuse, isn’t there? Well, I
suppose it’ll
have to do, won’t it? Without the counter.” She glared at
Stormer,
then took the music, setting it down on the unit as she reached for her
guitar.
Stormer bit her lip. It could have been worse. Many had the time been
when
her hard work had been greeted with a sneer and her precious
manuscripts
had wound up in several pieces on the floor.
At least this time it seemed the melody would pass muster, even if it
wasn’t
one of her best.
“Where’s my part?” Roxy demanded.
“Here.” Stormer held out the sheet for bass guitar, glad at least that
Roxy
had knuckled to learning to read music. All of her sheet music was
marked
in the corner with a star, so she knew it was her part, and each song
had
been numbered, for the blond was incapable of reading song titles. All
the
backing lyrics were recorded by Stormer onto cassette for her companion
to
learn, and so far her illiteracy had been more or less kept a secret
from
the scornful Pizzazz and the ambitious Eric Raymond.
Though she would never admit it, Roxy was ashamed of her lack of
reading ability.
School had never been important to her in the past, and she had little
regret
for dropping out as young as she had. But it had begun to occur to her
that
not learning to read hadn’t done her any favours. It was too late now
for
her to consider beginning – her pride was dead set against it – and she
had
shrugged it off with a nonchalant ‘so what?’ But deep inside of her it
bothered
her that she wasn’t able to read everything that her companions could.
It
was more than a little humiliating to have to have her lyrics recorded
to
tape in order for her to learn them, but at least Pizzazz hadn’t yet
found
her out. That was one humiliation she wasn’t sure she could take.
She picked up her bass guitar, glancing over the music with a frown. It
was
typical. Stuck practicing some dumb new song when they could be outside
topping
up on their tans by the pool of the big Gabor mansion. Life was a drag
sometimes.
Roxy liked the high life that being a Misfit had brought her. No more
scrounging
for food or shelter, or risking her neck by stealing here and there.
She
had never had any attention bestowed on her as a child, so she, like
Pizzazz,
loved the idea of being a household name.
Stormer sighed, setting herself to programming a new beat into her
synthesiser,
and then glancing idly over her own part. She knew it pretty well
already,
after all, she had written it. She played the opening few bars, then
stopped.
It still lacked something.
“Maybe when Pizzazz sings over it it’ll sound less jerky.” She told
herself.
“I hope so, anyway. We don’t have enough variety of instruments and
it’d
be nice if those two would help me out sometimes with ideas – I think
I’m
running dry!”
“Good morning, girls!”
Eric made his entrance at that moment, looking unusually cheerful. He
didn’t
often involve himself directly in a Misfit practice session – bruises
acquired
from flying bits and pieces had taught him that it was safer to remain
outside,
but that morning he decided to try his luck, hoping that neither
Pizzazz
nor Roxy were in a throwing mood.
“What’s got you so perky?” Pizzazz demanded, pausing in her appraisal
of
the music with a displeased frown on her face. “We’re trying to
practice here,
you know, and if you keep butting in we’ll be stuck doing this even
longer.”
“Oh, nothing in particular.” Eric responded with a smile. “How’s the
new
song coming?”
“It isn’t.” Stormer sighed, sliding her synth off her shoulder. “Eric,
how
am I supposed to write new songs when I’ve got only the same three
instruments
and same eight basic notes to work with? It isn’t possible.”
“Excuses.” Roxy rolled her eyes.
“Now, I’m sure it’s great.” Eric did not seem to be paying much
attention to Stormer’s complaint, but then, he very rarely took much
serious notice of complaints raised by any of them. They had become
useful to him in more ways than just musically – he had managed more
than once to manipulate their
sense of mischief to doing his bidding in other areas, convincing them
that
they were getting something out of it. He was a shrewd operator and he
had
his three protégées well sussed out.
“When you’re done, come up to my office.” He continued. “I’ve something
that
I need to discuss with you.”
“But Eric, it’s almost nine o’ clock already!” Roxy protested. “You
gonna
keep us here all night?”
“Not at all, my dear Roxy.” Eric sent her one of his patently false
grins.
“I just have a little proposition for you three to consider, that’s
all.
I’ll leave you to it.”
“What do you suppose that jerk’s up to now?” Pizzazz asked once he had
left
the room, looking suspicious.
“Who knows?” Roxy shrugged. “He’s plannin’ something, though.” She
scowled.
“He’d better not be planning to keep us here too late, I wanna go out
tonight!”
“Like he could keep us locked in his office.” Pizzazz looked scornful.
“We’re
three on one, girl. Even with Stormer, we could still have him tethered
to
his pot plants within minutes.”
Stormer ignored the jibe, turning her attention back to the song and
playing
the opening bars again.
“Pizzazz, maybe if you tried the vocals?” she asked hesitantly, for she
knew
better than to tell the singer what she should do.
Pizzazz’s eyes narrowed, but she snatched up the lyric sheet, glancing
over
them.
“Well, least these aren’t so bad.” She said. “I Like Your Style…whose
style,
Stormer? Another of your make-believe people?”
“I…I don’t know.” Stormer admitted. “I just…thought…”
“Well, it ain’t gonna be about Jem.” Roxy smirked. “Hey, you think that
Shana
chick really has quit on them?”
“I’m counting on it.” A slow smile spread across Pizzazz’s face. “Best
move
that cream puff wimp ever made, leaving those no-hopers.” She tossed
the
piece of paper aside. “Okay, lets give this song some life, huh?
Stormer, you’ll have to play my part. I can’t sing and play.”
“But…” Stormer’s eyes opened wide.
“No buts, Stormer!” Pizzazz interrupted her. “What do you want me
to
do, huh? Sing or play?”
“Okay.” Stormer sighed. “Let me just set up the synth…”
It wasn’t impossible for her to play both parts, for they harmonised
fairly
well together, she mused. And she was all too used to having to take on
the
extra melody, for Pizzazz, whose forte had never been guitar, all too
often
waltzed off with the microphone, casting her own accompaniment aside.
It
was, in all truth, a good thing for the Misfits that Stormer was such a
natural
musician, else they would have found themselves in dire straits long
before
this.
A gruelling hour later, the song was beginning to sound more like a
song
and less like a cacophony. As she finished the vocal line for the
eighteenth
time, Pizzazz turned and tossed the microphone clean out of the studio
window.
“There, bored with it.” She announced, shutting the window firmly. “I’m
not
singing that thing again till we’re on stage, all right?”
Stormer, who was used to Pizzazz destroying bits of musical equipment
wondered
idly what poor soul the microphone had landed on this time. Having
grown
up with so much money, Pizzazz rarely considered how expensive her
destructive
behaviour was for her father’s company, and even if she had known she
probably
would not have cared. Her father was there to indulge her many whims,
whatever
the cost.
“Guess we’d better go see what that creep Eric wants.” Roxy observed
with
a frown. “Where does he get off telling us what to do, anyway? Jerk.”
“He’s a loser.” Pizzazz nodded. “And I want to know why he’s so happy
today…come
on, girls. Let’s go beat it out of him.”
Stormer knew that practice was over for the day and she put her
synthesiser safely back in it’s case, following her companions upstairs
to the big office
Eric called his own. Life outside work for Eric Raymond held little
meaning,
so the office was almost his second home.
And Pizzazz delighted in upsetting him by wrecking it from time to
time.
Not today, however. Today Eric was seated at his desk, filing tax
reports and damage claims when the girls entered – no Misfit ever
knocked – and he
bestowed them all with a smile.
“Well, my dears, how goes the song?” he asked.
“Like you care.” Roxy snapped. “Come on, Raymond, out with it. What’s
this
big proposition of yours?”
“Well, firstly I think you should take a look at this.” Eric pushed a
magazine
across the table, and Pizzazz snatched it up, leafing through the
pages.
Her eyes narrowed as she registered what was on the front cover.
“A talent search?” she demanded. “Jem and the Holograms are having a talent
search?”
“It seems they need a new drummer.” Eric nodded his head.
“Yeah, we know. So?” Roxy demanded.
Stormer nodded.
“They can’t get one in time for their tour.” She said, then paused.
“Can
they?”
“Well, Jerrica seems to think that they can.” Eric replied. “And fliers
and
articles have been posted all over the place to get people’s
attention.”
“How’s that such a good thing, Eric?” Pizzazz exclaimed.
“If you’ll trust me, I have a plan.” Eric responded, his expression
infuriatingly
calm. “We’re going to upstage them.”
“Upstage them? How?” Stormer asked.
“Well, if you’d just listen to me for a moment, I’ll explain.” Eric
retorted.
“I’d appreciate it if…”
“Oh, get to the point, will you?” Roxy snapped. “We do want to leave
this
dump sometime tonight, you know!”
Pizzazz’s gaze ran down the article.
“I still don’t see why this is such a good thing, Eric.” She said, her
tone
petulant. “Listen to this. ‘The nationwide talent search that’s gotten
under
way in the last few hours looks to be the hottest news of the year, as
percussionists
from all over the country travel to Los Angeles in the hope of being
selected.
Word of Shana’s disappearance has spread fast and in the urgent race to
meet
the deadline for the start of the Holograms’ tour, the presses have
been
buzzing louder than ever.’ We’re going to have to go some to upstage
that.
This idea of yours had better be good, Eric.”
“Oh, it is.” Eric nodded. “In fact it’ll be the last thing any of them
are
expecting from us. I hope you had no special plans for tonight,
ladies…I’ve a little assignment for you.”
“What are you gonna get us doing now, Eric?” Roxy demanded. “Just
remember who’s working for who around here, all right? You can’t tell
us what to do!”
“Yeah, we’re the Misfits.” Stormer nodded her head.
“Give me strength.” Eric rolled his eyes. “Pizzazz, are you done with
that
article now? I’d kind of like to get this settled tonight. We haven’t
any
time to lose.”
Pizzazz was paying little attention to her manager.
“The question that everybody is asking is ‘who will be the new
drummer
for Jem and the Holograms.” She read aloud. “That witch and her group
are
getting tons of free publicity out of this! It’s driving me crazy!” She
tore
the magazine in half, tossing it onto the floor.
“Come on, we have clubs to visit.” Eric smiled his infuriating smile
once
more.
“Clubs?” Now Pizzazz stared at him. “For what?”
“For the one thing that will knock Jem out of the news.” Eric paused
for
effect. “A new Misfit.”
* * * * * * * * * * *
“Are you really quitting on us, Jetta?”
Bongo, drummer for the Tinkerbillys for many a year now eyed the sax
player
in consternation as she tuned up her instrument. She turned, nodding
her
head.
“Yep, I really am, Bongo.” She responded, sitting herself down on the
bench.
It was quarter of an hour before her last ever Tinkerbilly appearance,
and
despite herself she felt a buzz inside of her. This was the end of one
era,
but the beginning of something new. She didn’t know what the future
would
hold for her, but she was determined that she was going to get
somewhere, and be something. The Tinkerbillys had served their purpose,
but there was
no challenge, no excitement. She needed something new.
“Well, I’m glad she’s going.” Allie scrutinised herself in the mirror,
examining
her make-up. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”
“Thanks.” Jetta smiled dryly. “Allie, if you stare into the mirror much
more
you’ll break it with your ugly mug. You ain’t working any miracles with
that
makeup so give up. It’s not gonna hide your singing voice, anyhow.”
“Why, you…” Allie scowled, tossing her lipstick at her foe, who dodged
it
with little difficulty.
“I won’t miss you either.” She said with a shrug, turning back to her
saxophone.
Bongo glanced across at Snake, who usually broke up spats between Jetta
and
Allie with a curt few words, but tonight it seemed their leader was
lost
to the world. He had not said anything to anyone about his feelings for
Jetta,
and knew he never would, especially not to the girl herself, but he was
not
looking forward to going back to London without her. And, emotions
aside,
he knew that they would be hard pressed to find another sax player with
as
much class.
“But we’ll have to try.” He told himself. “I’ll be damned if I’m going
to
let the Tinkerbillys fizzle out and die just because one of our number
is
going AWOL.”
“Tinkerbillys? Five minutes.” A club employee put his head around the
door
of the makeshift dressing room the group were tuning up in, and Jetta
got
to her feet, saxophone in hand. After a glance at her reflection to
make
sure that her hair and make-up were okay, she slid the saxophone’s
strap
over her shoulder.
“Guess we should make it a good one tonight.” She said thoughtfully.
“Or
as good as we ever get,” she added to herself silently.
“We always do.” Jerry, the laid back keyboardist of the band sent her a
grin.
“You want a good send off, huh, Jetta?”
“I’ll give her a good send off.” Allie muttered under her breath. Jetta
just
rolled her eyes, swinging open the door.
“Come on.” Was all she said, however. “Let’s go.”
“This was a bad idea.” Roxy grumbled as the Misfits followed Eric
back out to his car. “We’ve done five clubs and they’ve all been awful.
Worse than
awful. How long do we have to do this?”
“Yeah, what exactly are we s’posed to be looking for?” Pizzazz
demanded. “You
can’t just make someone a Misfit, Eric. It takes a special kind of
person.”
“I know what kind of person it takes.” Eric retorted, glancing between
the
two musicians. “Shut up your complaining, will you? Do you want Jem to
have
all the publicity to herself?”
“No, not unless it’s bad publicity.” Pizzazz clenched her fists. “That
witch
Jem always has to be in every paper or t.v show – it makes me sick! Who
wants
to see old pink hair and the wimpograms anyway?”
“Then come on.” Eric pulled open the car door, allowing his companions
to
get inside. “Trust me.”
“Yeah, right.” Roxy snorted. “You better not be wasting our time,
Eric.”
“This isn’t exactly a fun night out.” Pizzazz agreed.
Stormer remained silent. She was, if she was honest, in two minds about
Eric’s
idea. Sure, a new band member would solve her musical crisis, for she
would
have another instrument to write for, and from that point of view she
was
keen as anything. But then…she dreaded to think what sort of person
Pizzazz
and Roxy would approve as a new Misfit. Dealing with two of them was
often
hard enough work. She wasn’t sure how well her sanity would stand up to
three.
“Still, if it gets Jem out of the news Pizzazz will stop her tantrums.”
She
told herself with a sigh. “So I suppose it’ll work out in the end. And
who
knows? The new member might not be so bad. I guess I just have to let
it
go and wait and see what happens.”
PART ONE: SHEILA
Chapter One: Life in London
Chapter Two: The Saxophone
Chapter Three: A Friend In Need
Chapter Four: Never Again...
PART TWO: A DESIGNING WOMAN
Chapter Five: Sheila's Decision
Chapter Six: A Band In Crisis
Chapter Seven: First Night
Chapter Eight: Making It Happen
PART THREE: BACK IN THE CITY
Chapter Nine: The Misfits In London
Chapter Ten: On Every Screen...
Chapter Eleven: A Musical Reunion
Chapter Twelve: Jealousy
Chapter Thirteen: An Old Acquaintance
Chapter Fourteen: Doing London
Chapter Fifteen: Sabotage!
Chapter Sixteen: The Final Straw
Chapter Seventeen: Opening Night
Chapter Eighteen: Jetta
(The Misfits and Holograms and other animated Jem characters are copyrighted to Hasbro Inc. All characters who do not appear in Jem episodes are my own creation. This story is copyrighted to E.A Woolley (2001)