When I Should've Stayed Home (Track Twelve: III) 3, chapter 20

*Billie Joe*

Even as he threw a nervous glance over his shoulder, Billie Joe's hands opened the passport. The corner of a driver's license stuck out from underneath a pouch on the inside cover. Billie Joe ignored it in favor of the passport's first page with its pasted-on photo.

He narrowed his eyes as he studied the picture. The woman was much younger than Knight. Short bleached-blonde hair framed her face. Wide hazel eyes stared almost vacantly back at Billie Joe. Heavy eyeliner gave her a just-been-punched-out look.

The most striking feature of the woman was the many vivid scars on her face. A scar the width of Billie Joe's finger ran from the corner of her eye to the underside of her jaw. A multitude of smaller scars dappled her temple on the other side of her face. Another thinner scar sliced up and over the side of her nose. All of the scars looked inflamed and newly healed. What the hell happened to her?

Billie Joe's eyes traveled over to the information sheet. His brows furrowed as he went over the list. A few major points made no sense partially because they failed to meet his expectations.

Last Name: Calderwood. First name: Knight. Middle name: Asphodel. Initial of additional names (if applicable): W.

A scowl crossed Billie Joe's features. Her last name was Calderwood. W would be for Wren. Right? But, I don't remember Wren being her middle name. I don't remember her having two middle names either.

Place of Birth: Pathfinder, Devon, England. Current Place of Residence: Exeter, Devon, England. Are you a legal guardian (Yes or No): Knight had checked off Yes.Dependant's full name: Trista Avaline Vardon.

Wren went to England. I didn't know she was born there. Her parents didn't have accents. But, holy fuck, Trista's her kid!

The remainder of the passport dissolved into legal nonsense. Billie Joe closed the passport swiftly and looked around for someplace to hide it. Mike would want to have the bag. The passport had enough evidence—confusing as it was—to send off warning bells for the bassist.

Biting his lip, Billie Joe shrugged to himself. There was only one place he could stick the passport and successfully conceal it. Without further ado, he pulled on the waistband of his jeans and stuffed the passport down his pants.

*Nick*

Nick felt like a murderer. The look on Trista's face, the memory of her expression, sickened him. He clenched his hands at his sides. He had not meant to hurt her. Obviously, there was something about knives—or violence—that frightened her, and Nick had no idea why.

Knight also knew about the problem, since she was now sitting with her head in her gloved hands. To say she looked on the verge of tears would be accurate in any other person, but Nick doubted if Knight was even physically able to cry.

The knife-play had triggered some sort of painful memory for Trista and perhaps Knight as well. Nick could not tell if Knight was doleful because she had brought pain upon Trista or because Knight was also remembering a painful event. Perhaps it was a combination of both.

Nick needed to know what was wrong. Weakly, he glanced over at Knight again. Right now there were too many raw emotions between them for him to start poking in wounds. He wanted to stay alive long enough to find out what was wrong and fix it.

Trista was out in the arena somewhere. Nick needed to find her; he wanted to make things better. Normally, he hated apologies and avoided them contemptuously. They were stupid, only a way to force subservience into others. This, for some strange reason, was different. This was important.

Shoulders hunched up, Nick hustled out of the common room. Every roadie he met, he questioned about the whereabouts of Trista. Eventually, he found her in the highest row of seats in the arena. As quietly as possible, he sat down beside her.

Trista had pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. The hood of her uniform hung over her face. The bit of her cheek that Nick could see was tear-stained. She sniffled unattractively and let out a stuttering breath.

"I'm sorry," Nick said softly, "I didn't know."

"Sorry means fuck-all," Trista growled half heartedly. She dragged her sleeve across her face. "I don't wanna talk about it."

Nick bit back a sigh. This was exactly why he thought apologies were pointless. Feeling an odd mix of heavy guilt and faint frustration, Nick settled for shaking his head. Instead of speaking, he settled for watching as Trista's hand began to slide fretfully up and down her one leg. Occasionally, her fingers would slide diagonally up the outside of her leg before curling around her calf again.

"I won't pull it again unless I have to." His stupid mouth went off again, working without asking his mind for permission.

"And who defines 'have to'?" she asked miserably. She sniffed and wiped her cheeks again. Then, her hand dropped back down to her leg.

Nick leaned forward so he could meet her puffy, red eyes. "I mean, only if they're pulling a knife on me and are tryin' to use it." Nick nearly added he would also do the same in response to threats to Trista, but carefully decided to keep that thought to himself. Trista would probably not appreciate any more fighting, especially on her behalf.

"You really are a street kid," Trista concluded in a watery voice. A fresh tear slipped down her cheek.

Nick pointedly stared at Trista's constantly massaging hand before staring out to the stage below. He spoke with false offhandedness. "Old habits die hard."

Casually, as if he had no real intent, Nick draped his right hand over the wrist of his left. His chest tightened with panic when his fingers touched the looped leather necklace that he used as a wristband. His instincts screamed he was about to be crucified.

Ridicule. 'Call that a battle scar? Try actually getting into a fight for once, you pussy.'

Disgust. 'That's wrong. You have to stop, it's sick. You need help.'

Lack of control. I can't handle this anymore! I can't deal with all this SHIT! I can't take it!

Contentment. No more. There's nothing else. Focus on the hurt. Nothing. It's all gone. It's just you. Hush.

Shame. What did I just do? What is wrong with me? Look at me. Why? Why do I do this? I'm gonna be sick.

Blindly, Nick pulled back his wristband. On the back of his wrist, not the risky forearm, were three light pink lines. Time, and a tendency to be working only when the sun was down, had nearly completely blended the light scar tissue into his pale skin.

"I don't care much for knives either." A bitter smile propped up the corners of his mouth.

Trista kept silent, worrying Nick. He stared ahead, picturing the emotions going across her face; shock, repulsion, scorn. As the seconds dragged by, Nick braced himself for an emotional slaughter.

"I've got other reasons to hate knives," Trista said gently. Nick dared to glance over at her. Anguish filled Trista's eyes, but Nick sensed acceptance beneath the pain. Letting his bitter smile come crashing down, Nick slid the bracelet back into place.

"Our generation's fucked," he stated simply.

"Yep." Trista sighed. Releasing a sigh of his own, Nick allowed his arms to drape over the armrests of his seat. Relief flavoured his sudden mental exhaustion. He had not realized a successful trip into someone else's mental minefield meant stomping on some of his own mines.

After a long moment, Trista said, "We should get back to work."

"Yeah," Nick agreed unenthusiastically. "I got shit to do. Need to take a nap sometime too." Under her breath, Trista let out a string of profanities so poignant it made Nick crack a grin.

He rose out of his seat and asked teasingly, "You don't like staying up?"

"I like sleeping," Trista grumbled.

"If it bugs you that much," Nick jammed his hands into the very bottoms of his pockets, "I could probably talk to Knight for you. She'd probably let you off after what, uh, after what happened."

Trista pressed her lips together and frowned. After a considering pause, she said reluctantly, "I can't."

"Are you sure?" Nick asked as they began to walk towards the concourse. If Trista seemed to position herself closer to Nick than usual, he said nothing about it. "You sound kind of hesitant."

Trista blew out a breath and shook her head. "I really can't. I'll be out there at two."

"She's got you well trained," he commented wryly.

"I've gotta be," Trista said simply. "This is my first major band, and I can't screw up. I always got my neck in the noose. I'm the new one, and it's kind of expected I'll bugger something up."

Nick looked over at her. "Doesn't help that Doug's an asshole."

"He just doesn't like things to go wrong," Trista said submissively. Apparently, she did not want to get into any argument at all. "I think it has something to do with the g—the talent. They have a rep."

"And so does he," Nick mused.

"I think they're behaving," Trista commented brightly.

"D'you really think that has anything to do with Doug's reputation?" Nick asked cynically.

"Okay, yeah, you got a point—wait one second." Trista darted into a nearby ladies' washroom. Nick amused himself as he waited by studying the architecture of the concourse. He wondered who would wash the shining floors and how much the arena would pay that particular person. Perhaps there would be more than one. Even if there were three, it would still take a long time to do the entire arena's floors. Nick counted himself lucky to never have had to clean such a vast expanse of concrete.

When Trista returned, only a minute or two later, her eyeliner no longer marred her cheeks. The swelling around her eyes had disappeared as well. She grinned at him, the expression glazing over her seriousness.

"Do I look alright?" she asked hesitantly.

Nick kept an affectionate smile from conquering his face. "Yeah, you look fine." Trista looked at him uncertainly and fussed with the drawstrings of her hood. She then tugged the hood down so it almost touched her nose. They had just started to walk again when Landon went by in the opposite direction.

He did not turn his pink-bristled head to them, but kept walking. "Nick, stagehands are supposed to be in the south hall. Just got the page. Trista, you're wanted for something with the riggers on the stage. You see anyone else, let 'em know." The south hall meant Nick had to return in the opposite direction. He dragged his feet to a halt. Silently, he cursed Landon for coming along at just the wrong moment.

"I guess I'll see you in a while then," Nick offered apathetically.

Trista nodded. "Yeah. I'll see you around." Nick stuck his hands into his pockets and shuffled to the south hall. His mind began thinking a mix of job and Trista. What if she dozed off at his side again? Who would ask Landon to get every stage hand to the hall? What was in the south hallway? It was so odd that she, with such a different background than his—to be honest he did not actually know her background, but he bet it was different—did not shun him like those who had a more similar background to him.

Nick was still pondering when he reached the south hall. Landon was already there, giving out firm orders. A stack of lighting trusses barred the one end of the hall. Cables, normally used to suspend the trusses, wrapped around them in a cocoon. The soft LED drape, used for some of the concert projection effects, sprawled over half of the barrier. The silk-like cloth spilled on the floor, making it difficult to walk without slipping.

"Nick, deal with the left side cables," Landon commanded.

In order to find the carabiner that held the cables, Nick had to clamber onto the pile. It was not easy, for the stack rose right to the hallway's roof. At the top of the stack, sneaker sliding on the smooth metal of a near-vertical truss, Nick was just barely able to through gaps in the steel to other side of the hallway.

He followed one cable, carefully edging along the unsteady stack. Visions of steel shattering, his fall, and subsequent impalement danced through Nick's mind. After the other accident involving the truss snapping, Nick considered such a gruesome death nothing short of plausible.

Nick cursed to himself when he discovered the cable disappeared under the LED drape. He tried to sidle forward, placing a steadying his hand on a drape-covered truss. The slippery black material shifted, and Nick lost his grip. He pitched forward, slamming his chin down on the sharp corner of a truss. Hot pain stabbed into his jaw and then vibrated into his teeth.

Spitting out a curse, Nick braced himself on the truss again. Still holding tight with one hand, Nick flicked the drape away from the truss. Next, he reached up to touch his chin. His fingers came away blood-stained, but not soaked. It was only a scratch; he was not gushing over everything.

Trying to ignore the stinging pain in his chin, Nick continued to search for the carabiner by running his hand down the cable. A pair of trusses had caught the clip between them and wedged it tight. Nick tried to peer down for a better look, but the carabiner was out of sight. Only Nick's hand and part of his arm would fit into the gap between trusses. He would have to blindly unhook the clip. Staring off down the hall, Nick concentrated on unhooking the carabiner.

Sourly, he thought, It'll be my luck I'll unhook it and the friggin' trusses'll take my arm off.

Knight suddenly rounded the corner at the far end of the hall, on the other side of the truss barrier. All of her previous weariness did not show in her quick, firm, stride. At each of the doors along the hallway she opened them, looked inside, and pulled them shut again. Midway down the hall, she halted at the sight of the barricade and crossed her arms.

From his vantage point, Nick saw one hallway door—the last one before the barricade—crack open just a hair. Nick frowned to himself, and dismissed the movement as the work of a draft. He bit the inside of his cheek and forced open the carabiner. The loop at the cable's end sprang off of the clip, grazing Nick's fingers on the way.

The entire stack groaned and began to ponderously slide apart. Not seeing any major danger from the very slow collapse, and having no other alternative, Nick rode out the shift. The stack ceased to move once it was roughly three-quarters of its former height.

Knight adjusted her bandana strictly and recrossed her arms. Nick saw the door open from a thin crack to the width of a thumb. Knight shook her head like a dog with sand in one ear. Brow set in irritated furrows, she opened another door.

Immediately, a thick spray of pasty tan-pink liquid spewed into her chest. Two other doors, one at the far end of the hall and the one nearest Nick, burst open. Billie Joe exploded out of the farther door, packing his stage water gun. From the closer door came Ronnie, wearing an odd-looking backpack that attached via a hose to his water gun.

Knight stumbled back, arms up in weak defense. Jason Freese, the initial attacker, stepped out of his room and continued to fire. Billie Joe darted to one side and also contributed to the soaking.

A horrible, sickening, rotting smell filled the air. Nick swiped at his eyes as they suddenly began to burn. Snarling threats, and interrupting them with curses, Knight scuttled away from Billie Joe. Once she was in line with him, Ronnie also began to fire.

The noxious liquid splattered all over Knight's black clothing. As she whirled, not knowing who to attack first, she received a blast directly to her face. Nick watched in alarm as Knight danced, blind and infuriated, amidst her tormentors.

With a cry, she bolted across the hallway. Knight made no effort to stop as she careened into the door. Her gloves slipped on the handle several times before she managed to shove the door open. As quick as she opened it, Knight darted into the dark room. Liquid splattered on the door as she slammed it shut.

Immediately, there was a loud boom and a sound like a thousand pillows exploding. Light flashed from under the doorway. The door crashed open an eye blink before Knight bolted back into the hall. In addition to the liquid, green, white, and red tickertape paper wetly stuck to her. The three men fired at her without mercy. Knight literally slid to a halt and did not move. She did not make any attempt to fight or escape.

The scene, with its mix of comedy and cruelty, stunned Nick beyond any action. He stared wide-eyed as the men emptied the last of their tanks onto Knight. Laughing heartily, they then strolled away down the hall.

On any other day, Nick would have laughed until he cried. He tried to smirk, but unexpected pity held his lips in a firm line. C'mon, what's the matter with you? he berated himself. She had a knife at your throat! She's embarrassed. This is funny!

Nick tried on a sneer; it did not fit perfectly, but he continued to use it regardless. A sour taste dried his tongue. He was not sure whether it was the taste of disgust, or the taste of the rank air.

*Knight*

It stunk. That was the best Knight could describe it. Even a list of all the smells within smells—fish, turpentine, rot, sickness, to name a few—was no justice to the real experience. A disgusted shudder ran through her dripping body. She needed a change of clothes, and fast. Not even bothering to read any onlooker's expressions, Knight jogged out of the hallway.

She loped into the truck mere seconds later and hastened to her bed. As soon as she saw the empty bunk, a crater opened in her chest and continued on down beneath her feet. They had her traveling bag. They had her clothes. They had her necklace. They had her passport, birth certificate, and wallet. Knight felt absolutely sick.

I have to go back. Knight ran out of the crew truck. Perhaps they haven't checked inside of the bag yet.

Before the spay attack, Knight had been in the process of readying for preliminary sound check. Though it was not as long as the next day's sound check, the band had to be present. Knight slipped onto the main floor, dripping foul liquid all over the floor. The band immediately began to laugh like a pack of crows.

"Where's my things?" Knight barked. Instead of replying, the band tore full-blast into a song. Knight rolled her eyes and ghosted over to Keely.

"Cut the sound," she ordered.

Keely with her headphones on could not hear Knight, but the crew chief's body language was enough to convey the message. Wrinkling her nose, Keely reached over and hit a switch on her board.

At the same time, as choreographed for that particular part of the song, firebombs exploded and red pennants plummeted. Knight stared in shock at her clothes, suspended by the chords that dropped the pennants. Everything from her socks to her pants to her underwear was on display.

The shock had barely begun to sink in when a loud pop caused everyone onstage to flinch. The popping raced along the front of the stage, leaving smoking amps and monitors in its wake.

A stunned silence consumed the arena. From the way Billie Joe and his second guitarist exchanged glances, the miniature explosions were complete surprises. As the little puffs of smoke dissipated, Knight's eyes followed their progress upwards.

Near the ceiling, her eyes drifted across the riggers. Trista, seemingly oblivious to the strange turn of events, worked furiously on a light. Around her, all of the other riggers gaped down at the stage. Trista furtively tossed her head up and met Knight's eyes.

Surprise widened Trista's eyes, and her mouth opened. Immediately, she dropped her gaze and resumed working on the light. She was too late. Knight clenched her jaws together at the heavy guilt she saw Trista's eyes.

Betrayal, right from inside. I gotta admit, he's good. Knight conceded silently.

Tré hopped off of his throne and gestured savagely with his sticks. "How d'yah like that one?"