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)