Not a Pretty Girl by idyll, commentary by athenejen (1/4)
Title: Not a Pretty Girl
Author: idyll
Fandom: Bandom: MCR
Commentator: athenejen
*
I’ll say this up front: I chose this fic purely because the idea of having an excuse to read it over again (for the nth time) delighted me so thoroughly, I just couldn’t resist.
I’m going to progress in the order that I first rest them - the published order (with one exception). If you haven’t read it before, I suspect you’ll get a lot more out of both the fic and this commentary if you go and read it all first and then come back here and read. It was written as a series of ficlets for 14valentines; you can either read it in published order or in chronological order - my second time through I did the latter and it was just as fantastic, and I don’t say that lightly. Usually I’m kind of a stickler for published order - I still wince whenever I see Narnia box sets these days - but really, I think either works well in this case. *wry smile* And I’ve gotten a lot more understanding about other people’s preferences as I’ve gotten older, anyway.
I’m also going to leave intact most of the author’s notes, as they give provide a great sense of the process of writing this, which was clearly an experience in and of itself.
*
Ficlet: Not a Pretty Girl - The Photo Shoot (Girl!Bob) PG13
Title: Not a Pretty Girl - The Photo Shoot
Fandom: Bandom: MCR
Character: Girl!Bob
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 2044
A/N: This is a snippet of something larger that I'm desperately trying to wrangle into order and develop a story line for.
Summary: The make up woman tells Bob, "Your boys are going to love it!"
Bob really fucking hopes not, otherwise she'll have to kill them. Slowly.
*
"Wear the fucking outfit, Bob. They ran the entire concept by me and I approved it."
Bob stares at the skimpy skirt and corset hanging on the wardrobe rack. "Brian--"
And of course he fucking hangs up on her. Of course. Bob curses, kicks the fucking four-inch heeled boots, then curses some more before actually getting dressed. The stylist has to help her because Bob doesn't wear thigh high stockings much less fucking corsets.
She's not sure what they do to her hair and face, but she accidentally catches sight of herself in the mirror and sees slicked back hair, whore red lipstick and matching eye shadow. After that she closes her eyes anytime she's in sight line of a mirror because if she actually looks at herself for any length of time she might fucking cry.
The stylist, hair person, and make up woman all say she looks "hot" and the only thing Bob can think is that she wants to skewer someone's goddamn nuts with the stilettos. And by someone she means Brian.
The make up woman tells Bob, "Your boys are going to love it!"
Bob really fucking hopes not, otherwise she'll have to kill them. Slowly.
Every time I come to this section, I have two main trains of thought that kind of collide in my head and try to run over the same track: one involves a mini-rant about what hotness really is and how the media and normal people (and ill-defined group, I fully admit, but my brain has developed certain kinds of shorthand in order to talk to itself, okay) seem to believe that it’s mostly about living up to other people’s expectations, when really, it’s about your own sense of hotness and projecting that, and given how totally freaked-out and uncomfortable and unable to walk Bob is here, it’s pretty fucking unlikely that she’s projecting “I am hot.”
The other one then jumps in and says yeah, but she’s incandescently and justifiably angry as fuck, and in this intense, active way, and if that isn’t really fucking hot, then what is?
*
The stylist helps her out to the shooting area because Bob literally cannot walk more than two steps in the boots. As it is, she thinks she managed to twist her ankle on her first step and she's not looking forward to getting the damn things off.
The stylist is eight inches shorter than Bob in stocking feet, and Bob towers over her like a giant freak of nature in her too-high heels, with her whore lips, and her breasts which have been pushed into the shape of a shelf that can easily accommodate two six packs without trouble. Bob won't even think about the skirt, which she thinks is flashing her panties with every step, it's that short.
Bob is stiff and uncomfortable and halfway wishing she'd never joined this fucking band when she finally gets to the others, who are dressed in pants and flat shoes and shirts that cover their fucking chests. The stylist lets her go and Bob flails her arms around a bit until she's as balanced as she can be.
Bob stays where she is, mostly because she doesn't have a choice, but also because she's sort of at a loss. She wants to be anywhere but here. She wants to sit down, take these ridiculous boots off, and then stomp back to the dressing area and change into her own clothes. She wants to be behind a board, on a bus with a half dozen techs, or back in that skeavy ass club she got her first regular gig at.
She doesn't know when the guys catch sight of her, but suddenly Ray is at her side, telling her to, "Okay, shit, calm down." He touches her hand, quick and easy, and Bob realizes that somewhere along the way she curled her hands into fists without realizing it. "Breathe, Bob."
She can't. The corset is tight and restricting, cinched to within an inch of its and her life. She does unclench her fists, though, because she's a fucking professional and she will not haul off and hit someone just for the fuck of it. She won't. Even if she really wants to.
She takes a shallow breath, the most she can manage, and Ray nods encouragingly. Bob looks away and sees Frank scrambling across the set to Mikey and Gerard, who are sitting on the floor and sharing a set of ear buds, their backs to the rest of the room.
Frank tugs the buds off their ears and when they start to bitch he says, "Shut up, we have a fucking problem." He shoves at their shoulders until they turn around. Gerard and Mikey share a few common facial expressions that give them away as brothers, but until this moment Bob never knew that stone-cold horror is one of them.
How much do I love this moment of levity here? So, so much.
Also, this is probably the time to warn you that this right here is the first, but definitely not the last, time I completely and totally fail to restrain myself from gushing about how much I love all of the characters in this fic. Because I really really do. And the reaction of the rest of MCR here is a perfect example of why.
It’s how they understand immediately that something is really fucking wrong, and how each of them, in these little personal ways, does their best to do the right thing by Bob. Without, I might add, making her into any kind of victim to be saved. Just a friend being shit on, and who needs their support. And well, their best is pretty fucking awesome.
The photographer moves to the center of the set and announces they're ready to start.
Gerard shakes his head. "No. We've got a fucking problem." He shoves his hands in the pockets of his wardrobe pants. "Shit, I don't have--"
"I've got mine," Ray says and holds up his Sidekick.
Mikey looks from Bob to Ray. "Call Brian."
"I already did." Bob's voice sounds weak and faint, which just pisses her off. "He said to get it done."
"Yeah, no," Frank says, staring right into Bob's eyes with a fierce look. "Ray, tell him to--"
"Brian, get your ass over here now," Ray says into his phone, then hangs up.
I love how they’re all on the same page here. A good friend of mine, veteran to many a rock band before settling down with a spouse and two kids in the suburbs, once told me that being in a band was like being in a dysfunctional relationship with every single other member of the band. Except, you know, even more dysfunctional, because you’re all doing it at once. A couple of years later I joined a band for a while… and yeah. It really, really is. Really. But in the astonishingly good ways as well as in the occasionally difficult ones.
Gerard says something to the photographer, and then the guys gather around Bob. They stand close but are careful not to touch her or look anywhere but at her face.
It's nice, sweet even, but Bob doesn't need nice or sweet. She's not that kind of girl, all right? "Guys, let's just do this and get it over with."
Frank rolls his eyes. "No."
"Brian told me--"
"Shut the fuck up, Bryar," Gerard says flatly.
They stand just like that for about twenty minutes. Bob almost falls at one point--fucking boots, goddamn corset--and steadies herself by fumbling out a hand and grabbing a fistful of Frank's hair.
Frank pouts and says, "The fucking indignities, man."
Bob stares at him and considers punching him, because, seriously. "I think I've got the market on indignities cornered, you tiny little bitch."
I am also totally envious of the way they’re all so comfortable with each other. The natural cadence of the affectionate insults in this whole fic really works for me.
And for some reason that sets everyone off, so that when Brian does finally show up they're laughing hysterically. It's sort of agony for Bob on account of the corset, and she bends at the hips, clinging to Frank's hair and Ray's shoulder to keep from falling down.
Bob's mostly hidden by the others because of the way she's leaning over, so Brian doesn't see her right away. He looks pissed off, from what Bob can tell from her view, but his face goes slack when Ray tugs her into a full upright position.
"Tell me you didn't actually approve this," Mikey says.
Brian opens his mouth, closes it, then shakes his head. "Wait right here."
Brian and the photographer are too far away to hear, but Brian's face is set like stone, and the photographer turns purple at one point, and eventually the stylist is pulled into the mix.
When Brian comes back over, his first words are, "No, I didn't fucking sign off on this." He looks at Bob. "I wouldn't have."
She shrugs and looks away. The movement almost topples her, but Gerard puts a hand at her waist and keeps her on her feet.
*
Bob goes back to the dressing room, is re-dressed in tight, low riding black dress-pants that match the guys', and an equally tight black button down shirt that's undone enough to show off the top of a red lace bra. They give her a set of industrial boots with stacked heels, and if Bob maybe tears up in relief, well, no one can prove anything.
They redo her make up to something that's only two steps above what she does for herself on an average day. Her eyes pop, and her cheeks look contoured, and her lips are shiny and neutral. Her hair is tussled out of the slicked down style that went with the corset--and later Bob is going to have fucking nightmares about whatever concept they were trying to go for because, god, she has to live with the guys and she never needed thoughts like this in her goddamn head--and curled subtly so that it's not as pin-straight as usual.
When she gets back to the set the guys look at her and then grin, like their world makes sense again. Bob breathes.
This line always gives me echoes of the scene in the movie 10 Things I Hate About You when Kat Stratford (Julia Stiles) first meets Patrick Verona (Heath Ledger). He accosts her after soccer practice, and in the process of her putting him in his place magnificently, they have this exchange:
Patrick: Hey there girly. How you doin'?
Kat Stratford: Sweating like a pig actually, and yourself?
Patrick: Now there's a way to get a guy's attention.
Kat Stratford: My mission in life. But obviously I struck your fancy, so you see it worked. The world makes sense again.
Hmm. It’s probably not as effective without Julia Stiles’ perfect sarcastic delivery. And the context is completely different, of course. But it makes me smile, anyway.
*
After the shoot Bob is back in her own clothes: black cargo pants, her eight-year old Docs with the faded remnants of silver permanent marker dotting them, and a worn t-shirt. She shoves her sunglasses on her face and wishes she'd brought a hoodie with her because she's still feeling exposed and tarted up even now that everything but her arms is covered.
Docs. The mention of her Docs makes me heart clench up. Damn it, Dr. Martens, why the hell did you let your quality plummet and then discontinue my favorite steel-toed boots? Why why why why why?
Brian keeps trying to catch her eye but Bob pretends that she doesn't notice. He tries to talk to her when they're waiting for the van to pick them up outside the shoot location, but someone always gets between them. Bob's not sure that's a coincidence; on the rare occasions when Bob and Brian fight, it's ugly. They don't yell and scream, but it's all low blows and shanks in soft spots. The band witnessed it once and Bob doesn't think they're all that eager for a second viewing.
Smart, smart boys.
Bob stands with her arms crossed and her hands splayed over as much of her upper arms as she can manage. She's exhausted, her head is pounding, her jaw aches from clenching it earlier, and she needs about five ibuprofen and an hour in a hot shower.
Frank hangs off of one of her shoulders and shares a cigarette with her, holding it to her mouth when it's her turn. His other hand is wrapped comfortably around the side of her neck, and every so often he scratches his nails at her hairline, or tugs at her ear.
Before they get into the van, Gerard strips his hoodie off and gives it to her. It smells like unwashed Gerard, stale old smoke, and bitter post-show adrenaline. Bob slumps in her seat, the hood tugged over her head, her hands shoved into the pockets. Mikey tucks his right knee over Bob's left thigh and leaves it there while he focuses on his Sidekick. On her other side, Ray is pressed tight against her at the shoulder, hip, thigh and knee.
Bob closes her eyes behind her sunglasses and listens absently to the tap of Mikey's fingers on his keypad and the seven different conversations that Frank, Gerard and Ray are managing to have at one time. No one tries to draw Bob out, and they don't ask her how she's doing, and Bob's really glad she didn't have to kill any of them.
She shifts lower in her seat and leans her head on Ray's shoulder.
If you ever feel the need to say something to the effect of “the human is a social animal” in Chinese, here it is, as approved by my Chinese instructor a couple weeks back: 人就是一個宥社會性的動物。 Traditional characters, because I think they’re prettier and more meaningful (though they do take longer the write longhand).
I’m really glad Bob didn’t have to kill any of them, too.
*
Back at the hotel, Bob avoids Brian until he finally comes into her and Gerard's room and kicks Gerard out.
"You thought I'd agree to that?"
Bob shakes her head. "I know you better than that."
Brian blinks. "Then why are you--"
"You hung up on me."
Brian winces, then sits down on the end of Gerard's bed. "I'm sorry."
He doesn't say anything else, and Bob appreciates the lack of excuses or rationalizations. Brian fucked up, simple as that, and they both know it. Normally Bob would have more to say about that, but Brian had sounded ragged when she called him. She figures that he probably had about twenty crisis balls in the air at the time and Bob was one too many things to deal with when he thought he'd covered his bases for the shoot.
She gets it, and she'll get over it, but that doesn't mean she's not pissed or that he shouldn't own the blame.
Bob shrugs and nods simultaneously, then goes to her bag and starts getting her shit ready for the morning. They have an ass-early bus call and she prefers to have everything organized beforehand so that she can stumble out of bed and just go.
"Ray said--they're worried you're going to bail. Because of this."
Bob doesn't look up from what she's doing. "If that shoot had gone the other way, I'd probably already be gone."
She's not lying. For years Bob has fought an uphill battle to be more than just a pair of tits in a dick-heavy scene. In some ways the grade's been even steeper since she joined My Chem. Bob loves the band, loves being in it, but she'll walk before letting herself be reduced to a piece of ass.
Brian makes a choked noise. "Jesus, Bob."
She lifts her head and meets his eyes squarely. "But it didn't, and I'm here."
Brian nods. "It won't happen again."
"Good."
.End
I… yeah. I think this is the point where I fell just irrevocably in love. Because well. I adore all of the members of MCR, and almost all of them have taken their turns at being my favorite over time. But if you pressed me hard, I’d have to admit that I kind of suspect Bob has settled in for the long haul, and girl!Bob as idyll writes her is a stellar example of why. But Brian! Brian is practically in a category all his own, you see - a category of pure, concentrated, possibly unimaginable awesome.
The relationship that Bob and Brian have in this fic… I’m not sure I have words for how much I love it. I remember reading James Joyce in high school and being told that he believed that men and women could never have a true platonic relationship because sex would inevitably get in the way somehow. I’m pretty sure that was one of many screaming fights I got into with some of the (many) idiots (if only they were unwashed miscreants, that would have been a huge improvement) at my high school, because man, I hate that idea. Which speaks to why I love Bob and Brian’s friendship in this so very much - deep platonic bonds between men and women, particularly unrelated men and women, are much rarer than I think they should be in fiction (all fiction, professionally published or not), so to see it done well is such a joy.
*
idyll 2007-12-31 06:49 am
I.
Being a female sound tech in the scene fucking sucks at first. No, really, it does. For a lot of reasons.
Bob discovers very quickly that most people are douchebags. Guys will take one look at her and reach for their zippers, women will call her a slut and a whore because she's always hanging out with men, and the worst of the lot will pretend they never did any of that and then come up to Bob with big fake smiles when they want something from her.
II.
Dating within the scene is a messy thing for Bob. A lot of guys have a hard time dealing with the fact that Bob's job, and really her life, involves being around a lot of other men. There's jealousy, possessiveness, and other shitty behavior.
For a while Bob decides to date women. She figures it's easier and smarter, a way to keep herself out of the mess of sex drama in the scene, but doesn't anticipate that a) there's a fucking stunning lack of bi or gay women in said scene, and b) she actually doesn't like pussy.
Pity. Because damn, talk about hot.
Though, in my experience dating women doesn’t actually seem to keep the drama level down any more than dating men does, anyway. As Bob notes in part I, everyone has the potential to be shitty or melodramatic, regardless of gender or sex. Luckily, that’s also true about the good stuff. :)
III.
It gets better after a while. Or, no, it stays the same, but Bob spends some time coming to terms with herself after the whole failure at being anything but straight. She loves what she does, she wants to keep doing it, and so she gets the fuck over the part of her that is overcompensating for her years as a slightly chubby outcast.
Harder to do than it sounds, I gotta say. And really, it sounds pretty damn hard.
Bob switches out her short skirts, low-cut tops and shit-kicker boots for band t-shirts, black cargo pants, and flat-heeled Docs. The t-shirts are form fitting, the pants hug her ass and the boots have a set of lyrics written on them in silver marker by the lyricist of a promising band that broke up before she even met him. She thinks it's a nice safe middle ground.
“Safe.” I think a lot about the difference between living for survival (safety) and living for maximization (enjoyment, development, “self-actualization,” whatever the fuck you want to call it). Seeing her scramble for safety here, and then how she starts to build, so steadily, so painstakingly, so competently, her own fortress makes the moments later in the fic where she realizes that she doesn’t need those walls anymore incredibly poignant.
Dating becomes a rare thing and even casual sex is infrequent. Bob knows that glaring men at her shoulder when she's running a board, or rumors of who she's fucked at some party, are just going to make things more difficult for her in the long run.
IV.
If it's a sacrifice then it doesn't feel like one, not when it works. She gets more gigs, avoids the sleaze, and figures out that even the douchebags (of either gender) have more to them than just their doucheness. More importantly, Bob makes a name for herself that has nothing to do with shock that she runs a board and has, like, tits.
I have to admit that I was hella relieved to read here that she figures out that even the douchebags are more than just their douchiness. One of the thing that impresses me about this fic is the way we get to watch Bob mature and develop throughout, while still staying firmly herself. Flawed, three-dimensional, and so very human.
V.
Even once Bob earns respect in the scene, learns how to find the decent people among the throngs of assholes, she never forgets that she is one of the few women in a room at any given time.
She gets her own drinks from the bar, even if someone else insists on paying, and doesn't leave them unattended. She cuts herself off before she makes it beyond buzzed and always says no to anything harder except weed that she herself has purchased and rolled. She makes her own way to parties, bars and venues as often as possible so that she doesn't have to rely on someone else to get her home or spend the night in some stranger's apartment. She's wary of gestures of friendship for as long as it takes to examine the situation closely for hidden agendas.
And she's always armed. Just in case.
Yes. Just, yes.
VI.
It's not any better or worse once Bob starts touring. It's just different.
.End
*
idyll 2007-12-31 06:48 am
It's so fucking ridiculous. Bob knows it even as she keeps playing through the heat and the pain. She should get up and have someone get a doctor or something. Because, really, it hurts. A lot. She knows there's something seriously bad happening to her skin, and she knows she's being stupid, but she doesn't stop playing.
Part of it is just Bob's personality; she's always been a little Type A when it comes to her work. But a lot of it, she knows, is because she feels like she has something to prove. Over the years, Bob's learned to be careful of showing weakness in a scene of men who can seemingly smell it in the air and will attribute it to her being a woman as a matter of course. She's always worked harder, been more focused, than her male counterparts because it was the only way she could get people to see past her gender.
Ahahahaha, who knew being in a woman in a rock band would be so much like being a woman in academia. Christ.
It's a hard habit to break, even now that she's surrounded by guys who always have her back, who respected her long before she started drumming for them, and who would probably wrestle her away from her kit if they knew what was happening right now.
So Bob plays, not only because they've got just one shot at this but because there are still too many guys at Warped shows who scream nasty shit up at Bob, still too many girls in autograph lines who don't realize that any one of them could do exactly what Bob is doing.
Okay, so maybe we veer a bit heavy-handed here, but well. It doesn’t make it any less true.
Another thing I really like about this fic is the awareness Bob shows of what it means to be a role model. It’s a fine balance between acknowledging the facts of how representation works, no matter how unfair and sometimes even counterproductive it can be, and living your own life. Bob is not just a paragon of feminist womanhood, either as a character in this fic, or in her own life. She is so much more than that, and the way she actively interacts with these pressures that so often remain only assumed and unremarked is part of it.
.End
Fic: Not a Pretty Girl: Joining My Chem (Girl!Bob) PG
14 Days. 14 Fic(let)s. 1 'Verse. Please bear with me when it comes to housekeeping for this 'verse. This project is intense and once the 14 days are up I swear I will set up a post with all of the links in one place, and in some order. Until then...yeah, I don't even know what to tell you. *hands* Also, I did not manage to make any topics line up with the themes for each day. *more hands*
*
Title: Not a Pretty Girl - Joining My Chem
Fandom: Bandom: MCR
Characters: Girl!Bob
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1668
Summary: It's not the ideal time or situation to slide into My Chem. In fact, Bob thinks it might be the worst time ever.
*
Bob's been asked before, mostly in her early days on the scene when a tall, stacked, almost-blonde (but in actuality ginger-haired; the lighting in clubs and college parties was never all that great) female drummer was just the gimmick one all-male band or another wanted to cash in on. She always said no, barely even had to give it any thought. She considered a couple of offers from all-girl bands a few times, but things always seemed to fall apart before they even got off the ground.
Huh. I think this gives Patrick and Bob very similar hair colors? Maybe I should do a bit of research on the subject (oh, what a sacrifice).
After a while, Bob tightened her focus to sound and stopped talking about drumming, and eventually there came a point when hardly anyone around her even knew she played.
But Bob's known Brian for years. He's a good friend and she trusts him in a way she trusts only a few of the men she's constantly surrounded by.
It occurs to me here that she emphasizes his male-ness here, but really, Bob doesn’t seem to trust very many women, either. Perhaps she doesn’t distrust them in exactly the same way, but at least based on the content of this fic, Brian’s her best friend of either gender.
So somewhere along the way she told him she played, which...maybe wouldn't have made a difference to anything. Except that she's always been so fucking comfortable with Brian and she let it slip, let it show. It was just one time--one damn time--in New York. She turned to him and she knew it was already on her face, but she gave it words, too: "I wish I could do that."
And the thing about Brian is that he's really worthy of Bob's trust. He didn't tell anyone about the drumming, or about the naked, greedy want she showed him in New York. Hell, he never even mentioned it to Bob again.
Bob's maybe gotten a little too complacent with Brian's silence on the matter, which is why she's completely unprepared for the phone call that Brian opens with, "Matt's out."
Bob...isn't entirely surprised by that particular turn of events. It's been obvious that something had to give in My Chem, and Bob sure as shit didn't think it'd be Toro. "Fuck, man. I'm sorry. That's--yeah. Sorry."
I love how there’s a whole long complicated backstory embedded in those two short little paragraphs.
After a really long silence that seems expectant in some way, Brian says, "Bryar," with a wealth of meaning in the word.
Right then Bob knows that Brian's told My Chem everything. Because, see, the other thing about Brian is that he's a shrewd and clever motherfucker, which Bob has always known and appreciated from afar, but which she doesn't so much like up close and personal.
*laugh* He so, so is. I’m pretty sure she and he wouldn’t be half such good friends if he weren’t, though - and, you know, whatever her conscious thoughts are on the subject right now, it’s clear that on some deeper level she does like it. Because he’s even when he’s working his considerable mojo in her direction, it’s only because he is 100% right about it being a good thing for everyone involved, most definitely including her.
I’m struck all over again by how effortlessly they understand each other. So much of this fic is, for me, about the value of people.
Bob's too stunned to think of anything to say but Brian pushes the conversation along. "They want you to come out for an audition."
"Jesus fuck, Schechter!" Bob snaps. Because, seriously. Seriously. She was not expecting this and it's not fair. At all.
Brian makes an impatient sound, the verbal equivalent of rolling his eyes and tossing up his hands. "I know you, Bryar, and you want it. What's with the attitude?" She makes a noise, uncertain and choked, and Brian sighs. "Bryar. Bob. They want you. Come do the fucking audition."
I’m trying to imagine someone being told that My Chemical Romance wants them and actually refusing. It’s pretty hard. Not impossible, because I fully acknowledge that other people do not share my tastes, but well. I also think My Chem is probably smart enough to want people who are almost certain to want them back, you know?
Mutual desire is such a gorgeous thing.
Bob isn't great with words on a good day, is better behind a board or kit when it comes to expressing herself. Times like this it's even harder for her to articulate what's in her head. The best she can manage to say is, "There are reasons I've always said no."
On Brian's end of the line she hears the tell-tale click of a lighter and an inhalation as he lights a cigarette. That's a damn good idea, so Bob fumbles for her own pack and lights up, too.
God. They’re so cute. Is it bad that I think co-dependent cigarette smoking is cute?
Brian does her the kindness of waiting until she's had several nerve-calming hits before he says, "None of those reasons apply here."
And, okay, he has a point. My Chem would probably, like, slaughter a busload of children before trying to cash in on her gender, which is an extreme and unnecessary example, because she doesn't think it would actually even occur to them to do that. She also doubts they'd ask her to give up her steel-toes and band tees, drop the twenty extra pounds that she's been carrying around forever, get inked and/or pierced to better fit the scene, go by Roberta/Bobbie/Something-More-Feminine-Than-Bob, or play up her impressive cleavage.
She does think they'd ask her to wear make-up, but only as part their stage act and not because they'd want her to look more girly and pretty. Even then, if she said no they'd probably be fine with it.
This right here is My Chem in a nutshell. Especially the “it wouldn’t even occur to them” part.
The simple truth of the matter is that My Chem are really fucking decent guys, which isn't something Bob says lightly. She's had too many bad experiences over the years to be anything but guarded with most men she comes into casual contact with. Hell, she's wary and careful of the ones she actually knows and likes.
Bob's so close to saying yes, but. "It's been years since I've played for real." She puts out her half-smoked cigarette and shakes another out of the pack. "I'm not good enough--"
"They know you, they like you, and you fit with them. That's what they care about, more than anything else."
Again, smart, smart boys.
Bob's maybe on the verge of hysterical laughter, though she manages to hold it back. She doesn't think anyone can blame her. It's not every day that someone gets their dream job offered to them and finds themselves with more reservations than anything else. "I've got tits, Brian. If I come on board, it could bite them in the ass big time."
"I don't think I've ever heard you say something so motherfucking stupid, Bryar, and I've seen you drunk."
:D
Bob glares. "Look, it could go bad. That's all I'm saying."
I kind of love the she glares even though he can’t see her. Of course, I’m certain he knows that she’s glaring, so I guess it works out.
"And what I'm saying--and you already know this--is that these guys do shit their own way and fuck everything else." Brian pauses for a moment, then continues in a voice that's far too innocent for a guy who's been on his own since he was a teenager and has seen pretty much everything. "Besides, it's not like it hasn't worked in recent memory--"
Hee! Because if you don’t give your friends shit, they might think you don’t love them any more.
Bob hisses through her teeth and crushes her still unlit cigarette to useless pieces in her hand. "I swear to God, Schechter--" She brushes the remnants of the cig into the ashtray. "--if you fucking so much as say the name Samantha Maloney I will hunt you down and put my foot up your ass."
/o\ I have to admit here that I had to go look up who Samantha Maloney is. And then I had to do it again while writing this up, because I had forgotten. I fail! Admittedly, I wasn’t really up on post-hardcore in high school, and I pretty much ignored the current music world for approximately a decade afterwards, so it’s not that surprising, I guess. And I’m not sure I would’ve been that likely to pick Hole and Mötley Crüe to pay attention to, even if I’d surfaced. Still. I’m trying to fix her existence in my mind. Samantha Maloney.
"This antipathy you've got for her makes no sense," Brian says, amused like only someone who really knows, and has purposely pushed, Bob's buttons can be. "You know that, right? She should be, like, your hero or something."
Bob knows both those things. She's sure Maloney is probably a pretty awesome person and, like, shits rainbows or whatever. It's just that Maloney--the exceptionally hot and talented female drummer--was exactly who all those guy bands brought up years ago when they approached her. The comparisons chafed, especially because Bob always came out on the losing end on the hotness scale, thereby leading to her being told all the ways in which she had to make herself better-prettier-different-more.
Dual trains of thought again. On one hand, I’m thinking “Is Samantha Maloney really that hot?” I mean, obviously she’s inherently hot because awesomely talented people just are, but I kinda want to think here that Bob is at least as hot. But maybe I’m biased. ;)
On the other hand, I’m thinking, how stupid do these guys in bands have to be, to up and make the comparison at all, much less actually discuss hotness as a factor that way. Ugh. Maybe “hotness” (in the “other people are superficially attracted to you” sense of the word) is simply a truth about the music industry (the story of Pete Wentz asking Ryan Ross what the members of Panic looked like before signing them springs to mind), but still. Ugh.
"We'll fly you out," Brian says, persuasive and sure at once, like he can sense that she's given in to the inevitable. Which he probably can, because he's perceptive like that.
Bob pulls out another cigarette and lights it. She exhales unevenly and closes her eyes against the curl of smoke coming back at her from the cherry. "Okay, fine, but if it goes badly and my soul get crushed, I'm fucking blaming you and you're going to make it up to me, you fucker."
"Fucking drama queen," Brian snorts. "See how you fit right in? Your flight's the day after tomorrow. I emailed you the itinerary and I'll pick you up."
Brian, Brian, I love you. Please tell me you’re into women, because I’ve already had to suffer the disappointment of Bob being straight!
*
When Bob gets there, Gerard is shaky as fuck but clearer-eyed than Bob's ever seen him in all the years they've known each other. Mikey and Ray are both less tense than they've been in a while, and Frank doesn't look at all like the guy who started walking off stage after shows like he was eighty years old and tired.
Bob plays I'm Not Okay for them because Brian's email to her contained a few additional details that the bastard hadn't bothered mentioning, like the goddamn video My Chem is about to film. She'd hoped to have another song ready but she'd needed to actually, like, sleep in the previous day and a half.
She does decently. It's not as good as she would have liked but it's better than she feared. The guys trade looks, speaking to each other in a silent language Bob's used to witnessing and has a passing and vague understanding of, but isn't fluent in.
Oh, but she will be. :D
Brian's smug grin and fiercely bright eyes, on the other hand, are easy to read given all the practice Bob's had.
She knows what's coming and she's torn between elation and terror. It's not the ideal time or situation to slide into My Chem. In fact, Bob thinks it might be the worst time ever. She's seen her fair share of bands implode and fall apart and she isn't quite sure that it won't happen to My Chem in, like, five minutes.
But Bob's seen them play, and she knows the guys themselves; if anyone can make it through this and come out better, it's this band, with their too-earnest and charismatic frontman who believes everything he says and makes you want to believe it too, and the band who stuck around and kept going when they maybe shouldn't have.
Yeah, and because they were smart enough to choose Bob!
When they get around to asking after the shoot, which doesn't involve anyone suggesting that she wear a school girl outfit, there is no way Bob can say no, her doubts aside. It's My Chem. It's drumming for My Chem. It's pretty much Bob's mostly-secret hope and dream.
Even if she's wrong about everything, Bob figures it's nothing she can't come back from. She'll be out some time, a bit of her savings, but not much else.
"Yeah, okay," she answers them. Then she grins because, holy shit! "Fuck yeah."
Fuck yeah. If I smoked, I think I’d feel the need for a celebratory cigarette right about now.
.End
14valentines Day 1 - Body Image
*
Part Two
Author: idyll
Fandom: Bandom: MCR
Commentator: athenejen
*
I’ll say this up front: I chose this fic purely because the idea of having an excuse to read it over again (for the nth time) delighted me so thoroughly, I just couldn’t resist.
I’m going to progress in the order that I first rest them - the published order (with one exception). If you haven’t read it before, I suspect you’ll get a lot more out of both the fic and this commentary if you go and read it all first and then come back here and read. It was written as a series of ficlets for 14valentines; you can either read it in published order or in chronological order - my second time through I did the latter and it was just as fantastic, and I don’t say that lightly. Usually I’m kind of a stickler for published order - I still wince whenever I see Narnia box sets these days - but really, I think either works well in this case. *wry smile* And I’ve gotten a lot more understanding about other people’s preferences as I’ve gotten older, anyway.
I’m also going to leave intact most of the author’s notes, as they give provide a great sense of the process of writing this, which was clearly an experience in and of itself.
*
Ficlet: Not a Pretty Girl - The Photo Shoot (Girl!Bob) PG13
Title: Not a Pretty Girl - The Photo Shoot
Fandom: Bandom: MCR
Character: Girl!Bob
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 2044
A/N: This is a snippet of something larger that I'm desperately trying to wrangle into order and develop a story line for.
Summary: The make up woman tells Bob, "Your boys are going to love it!"
Bob really fucking hopes not, otherwise she'll have to kill them. Slowly.
*
"Wear the fucking outfit, Bob. They ran the entire concept by me and I approved it."
Bob stares at the skimpy skirt and corset hanging on the wardrobe rack. "Brian--"
And of course he fucking hangs up on her. Of course. Bob curses, kicks the fucking four-inch heeled boots, then curses some more before actually getting dressed. The stylist has to help her because Bob doesn't wear thigh high stockings much less fucking corsets.
She's not sure what they do to her hair and face, but she accidentally catches sight of herself in the mirror and sees slicked back hair, whore red lipstick and matching eye shadow. After that she closes her eyes anytime she's in sight line of a mirror because if she actually looks at herself for any length of time she might fucking cry.
The stylist, hair person, and make up woman all say she looks "hot" and the only thing Bob can think is that she wants to skewer someone's goddamn nuts with the stilettos. And by someone she means Brian.
The make up woman tells Bob, "Your boys are going to love it!"
Bob really fucking hopes not, otherwise she'll have to kill them. Slowly.
Every time I come to this section, I have two main trains of thought that kind of collide in my head and try to run over the same track: one involves a mini-rant about what hotness really is and how the media and normal people (and ill-defined group, I fully admit, but my brain has developed certain kinds of shorthand in order to talk to itself, okay) seem to believe that it’s mostly about living up to other people’s expectations, when really, it’s about your own sense of hotness and projecting that, and given how totally freaked-out and uncomfortable and unable to walk Bob is here, it’s pretty fucking unlikely that she’s projecting “I am hot.”
The other one then jumps in and says yeah, but she’s incandescently and justifiably angry as fuck, and in this intense, active way, and if that isn’t really fucking hot, then what is?
*
The stylist helps her out to the shooting area because Bob literally cannot walk more than two steps in the boots. As it is, she thinks she managed to twist her ankle on her first step and she's not looking forward to getting the damn things off.
The stylist is eight inches shorter than Bob in stocking feet, and Bob towers over her like a giant freak of nature in her too-high heels, with her whore lips, and her breasts which have been pushed into the shape of a shelf that can easily accommodate two six packs without trouble. Bob won't even think about the skirt, which she thinks is flashing her panties with every step, it's that short.
Bob is stiff and uncomfortable and halfway wishing she'd never joined this fucking band when she finally gets to the others, who are dressed in pants and flat shoes and shirts that cover their fucking chests. The stylist lets her go and Bob flails her arms around a bit until she's as balanced as she can be.
Bob stays where she is, mostly because she doesn't have a choice, but also because she's sort of at a loss. She wants to be anywhere but here. She wants to sit down, take these ridiculous boots off, and then stomp back to the dressing area and change into her own clothes. She wants to be behind a board, on a bus with a half dozen techs, or back in that skeavy ass club she got her first regular gig at.
She doesn't know when the guys catch sight of her, but suddenly Ray is at her side, telling her to, "Okay, shit, calm down." He touches her hand, quick and easy, and Bob realizes that somewhere along the way she curled her hands into fists without realizing it. "Breathe, Bob."
She can't. The corset is tight and restricting, cinched to within an inch of its and her life. She does unclench her fists, though, because she's a fucking professional and she will not haul off and hit someone just for the fuck of it. She won't. Even if she really wants to.
She takes a shallow breath, the most she can manage, and Ray nods encouragingly. Bob looks away and sees Frank scrambling across the set to Mikey and Gerard, who are sitting on the floor and sharing a set of ear buds, their backs to the rest of the room.
Frank tugs the buds off their ears and when they start to bitch he says, "Shut up, we have a fucking problem." He shoves at their shoulders until they turn around. Gerard and Mikey share a few common facial expressions that give them away as brothers, but until this moment Bob never knew that stone-cold horror is one of them.
How much do I love this moment of levity here? So, so much.
Also, this is probably the time to warn you that this right here is the first, but definitely not the last, time I completely and totally fail to restrain myself from gushing about how much I love all of the characters in this fic. Because I really really do. And the reaction of the rest of MCR here is a perfect example of why.
It’s how they understand immediately that something is really fucking wrong, and how each of them, in these little personal ways, does their best to do the right thing by Bob. Without, I might add, making her into any kind of victim to be saved. Just a friend being shit on, and who needs their support. And well, their best is pretty fucking awesome.
The photographer moves to the center of the set and announces they're ready to start.
Gerard shakes his head. "No. We've got a fucking problem." He shoves his hands in the pockets of his wardrobe pants. "Shit, I don't have--"
"I've got mine," Ray says and holds up his Sidekick.
Mikey looks from Bob to Ray. "Call Brian."
"I already did." Bob's voice sounds weak and faint, which just pisses her off. "He said to get it done."
"Yeah, no," Frank says, staring right into Bob's eyes with a fierce look. "Ray, tell him to--"
"Brian, get your ass over here now," Ray says into his phone, then hangs up.
I love how they’re all on the same page here. A good friend of mine, veteran to many a rock band before settling down with a spouse and two kids in the suburbs, once told me that being in a band was like being in a dysfunctional relationship with every single other member of the band. Except, you know, even more dysfunctional, because you’re all doing it at once. A couple of years later I joined a band for a while… and yeah. It really, really is. Really. But in the astonishingly good ways as well as in the occasionally difficult ones.
Gerard says something to the photographer, and then the guys gather around Bob. They stand close but are careful not to touch her or look anywhere but at her face.
It's nice, sweet even, but Bob doesn't need nice or sweet. She's not that kind of girl, all right? "Guys, let's just do this and get it over with."
Frank rolls his eyes. "No."
"Brian told me--"
"Shut the fuck up, Bryar," Gerard says flatly.
They stand just like that for about twenty minutes. Bob almost falls at one point--fucking boots, goddamn corset--and steadies herself by fumbling out a hand and grabbing a fistful of Frank's hair.
Frank pouts and says, "The fucking indignities, man."
Bob stares at him and considers punching him, because, seriously. "I think I've got the market on indignities cornered, you tiny little bitch."
I am also totally envious of the way they’re all so comfortable with each other. The natural cadence of the affectionate insults in this whole fic really works for me.
And for some reason that sets everyone off, so that when Brian does finally show up they're laughing hysterically. It's sort of agony for Bob on account of the corset, and she bends at the hips, clinging to Frank's hair and Ray's shoulder to keep from falling down.
Bob's mostly hidden by the others because of the way she's leaning over, so Brian doesn't see her right away. He looks pissed off, from what Bob can tell from her view, but his face goes slack when Ray tugs her into a full upright position.
"Tell me you didn't actually approve this," Mikey says.
Brian opens his mouth, closes it, then shakes his head. "Wait right here."
Brian and the photographer are too far away to hear, but Brian's face is set like stone, and the photographer turns purple at one point, and eventually the stylist is pulled into the mix.
When Brian comes back over, his first words are, "No, I didn't fucking sign off on this." He looks at Bob. "I wouldn't have."
She shrugs and looks away. The movement almost topples her, but Gerard puts a hand at her waist and keeps her on her feet.
*
Bob goes back to the dressing room, is re-dressed in tight, low riding black dress-pants that match the guys', and an equally tight black button down shirt that's undone enough to show off the top of a red lace bra. They give her a set of industrial boots with stacked heels, and if Bob maybe tears up in relief, well, no one can prove anything.
They redo her make up to something that's only two steps above what she does for herself on an average day. Her eyes pop, and her cheeks look contoured, and her lips are shiny and neutral. Her hair is tussled out of the slicked down style that went with the corset--and later Bob is going to have fucking nightmares about whatever concept they were trying to go for because, god, she has to live with the guys and she never needed thoughts like this in her goddamn head--and curled subtly so that it's not as pin-straight as usual.
When she gets back to the set the guys look at her and then grin, like their world makes sense again. Bob breathes.
This line always gives me echoes of the scene in the movie 10 Things I Hate About You when Kat Stratford (Julia Stiles) first meets Patrick Verona (Heath Ledger). He accosts her after soccer practice, and in the process of her putting him in his place magnificently, they have this exchange:
Patrick: Hey there girly. How you doin'?
Kat Stratford: Sweating like a pig actually, and yourself?
Patrick: Now there's a way to get a guy's attention.
Kat Stratford: My mission in life. But obviously I struck your fancy, so you see it worked. The world makes sense again.
Hmm. It’s probably not as effective without Julia Stiles’ perfect sarcastic delivery. And the context is completely different, of course. But it makes me smile, anyway.
*
After the shoot Bob is back in her own clothes: black cargo pants, her eight-year old Docs with the faded remnants of silver permanent marker dotting them, and a worn t-shirt. She shoves her sunglasses on her face and wishes she'd brought a hoodie with her because she's still feeling exposed and tarted up even now that everything but her arms is covered.
Docs. The mention of her Docs makes me heart clench up. Damn it, Dr. Martens, why the hell did you let your quality plummet and then discontinue my favorite steel-toed boots? Why why why why why?
Brian keeps trying to catch her eye but Bob pretends that she doesn't notice. He tries to talk to her when they're waiting for the van to pick them up outside the shoot location, but someone always gets between them. Bob's not sure that's a coincidence; on the rare occasions when Bob and Brian fight, it's ugly. They don't yell and scream, but it's all low blows and shanks in soft spots. The band witnessed it once and Bob doesn't think they're all that eager for a second viewing.
Smart, smart boys.
Bob stands with her arms crossed and her hands splayed over as much of her upper arms as she can manage. She's exhausted, her head is pounding, her jaw aches from clenching it earlier, and she needs about five ibuprofen and an hour in a hot shower.
Frank hangs off of one of her shoulders and shares a cigarette with her, holding it to her mouth when it's her turn. His other hand is wrapped comfortably around the side of her neck, and every so often he scratches his nails at her hairline, or tugs at her ear.
Before they get into the van, Gerard strips his hoodie off and gives it to her. It smells like unwashed Gerard, stale old smoke, and bitter post-show adrenaline. Bob slumps in her seat, the hood tugged over her head, her hands shoved into the pockets. Mikey tucks his right knee over Bob's left thigh and leaves it there while he focuses on his Sidekick. On her other side, Ray is pressed tight against her at the shoulder, hip, thigh and knee.
Bob closes her eyes behind her sunglasses and listens absently to the tap of Mikey's fingers on his keypad and the seven different conversations that Frank, Gerard and Ray are managing to have at one time. No one tries to draw Bob out, and they don't ask her how she's doing, and Bob's really glad she didn't have to kill any of them.
She shifts lower in her seat and leans her head on Ray's shoulder.
If you ever feel the need to say something to the effect of “the human is a social animal” in Chinese, here it is, as approved by my Chinese instructor a couple weeks back: 人就是一個宥社會性的動物。 Traditional characters, because I think they’re prettier and more meaningful (though they do take longer the write longhand).
I’m really glad Bob didn’t have to kill any of them, too.
*
Back at the hotel, Bob avoids Brian until he finally comes into her and Gerard's room and kicks Gerard out.
"You thought I'd agree to that?"
Bob shakes her head. "I know you better than that."
Brian blinks. "Then why are you--"
"You hung up on me."
Brian winces, then sits down on the end of Gerard's bed. "I'm sorry."
He doesn't say anything else, and Bob appreciates the lack of excuses or rationalizations. Brian fucked up, simple as that, and they both know it. Normally Bob would have more to say about that, but Brian had sounded ragged when she called him. She figures that he probably had about twenty crisis balls in the air at the time and Bob was one too many things to deal with when he thought he'd covered his bases for the shoot.
She gets it, and she'll get over it, but that doesn't mean she's not pissed or that he shouldn't own the blame.
Bob shrugs and nods simultaneously, then goes to her bag and starts getting her shit ready for the morning. They have an ass-early bus call and she prefers to have everything organized beforehand so that she can stumble out of bed and just go.
"Ray said--they're worried you're going to bail. Because of this."
Bob doesn't look up from what she's doing. "If that shoot had gone the other way, I'd probably already be gone."
She's not lying. For years Bob has fought an uphill battle to be more than just a pair of tits in a dick-heavy scene. In some ways the grade's been even steeper since she joined My Chem. Bob loves the band, loves being in it, but she'll walk before letting herself be reduced to a piece of ass.
Brian makes a choked noise. "Jesus, Bob."
She lifts her head and meets his eyes squarely. "But it didn't, and I'm here."
Brian nods. "It won't happen again."
"Good."
.End
I… yeah. I think this is the point where I fell just irrevocably in love. Because well. I adore all of the members of MCR, and almost all of them have taken their turns at being my favorite over time. But if you pressed me hard, I’d have to admit that I kind of suspect Bob has settled in for the long haul, and girl!Bob as idyll writes her is a stellar example of why. But Brian! Brian is practically in a category all his own, you see - a category of pure, concentrated, possibly unimaginable awesome.
The relationship that Bob and Brian have in this fic… I’m not sure I have words for how much I love it. I remember reading James Joyce in high school and being told that he believed that men and women could never have a true platonic relationship because sex would inevitably get in the way somehow. I’m pretty sure that was one of many screaming fights I got into with some of the (many) idiots (if only they were unwashed miscreants, that would have been a huge improvement) at my high school, because man, I hate that idea. Which speaks to why I love Bob and Brian’s friendship in this so very much - deep platonic bonds between men and women, particularly unrelated men and women, are much rarer than I think they should be in fiction (all fiction, professionally published or not), so to see it done well is such a joy.
*
idyll 2007-12-31 06:49 am
I.
Being a female sound tech in the scene fucking sucks at first. No, really, it does. For a lot of reasons.
Bob discovers very quickly that most people are douchebags. Guys will take one look at her and reach for their zippers, women will call her a slut and a whore because she's always hanging out with men, and the worst of the lot will pretend they never did any of that and then come up to Bob with big fake smiles when they want something from her.
II.
Dating within the scene is a messy thing for Bob. A lot of guys have a hard time dealing with the fact that Bob's job, and really her life, involves being around a lot of other men. There's jealousy, possessiveness, and other shitty behavior.
For a while Bob decides to date women. She figures it's easier and smarter, a way to keep herself out of the mess of sex drama in the scene, but doesn't anticipate that a) there's a fucking stunning lack of bi or gay women in said scene, and b) she actually doesn't like pussy.
Pity. Because damn, talk about hot.
Though, in my experience dating women doesn’t actually seem to keep the drama level down any more than dating men does, anyway. As Bob notes in part I, everyone has the potential to be shitty or melodramatic, regardless of gender or sex. Luckily, that’s also true about the good stuff. :)
III.
It gets better after a while. Or, no, it stays the same, but Bob spends some time coming to terms with herself after the whole failure at being anything but straight. She loves what she does, she wants to keep doing it, and so she gets the fuck over the part of her that is overcompensating for her years as a slightly chubby outcast.
Harder to do than it sounds, I gotta say. And really, it sounds pretty damn hard.
Bob switches out her short skirts, low-cut tops and shit-kicker boots for band t-shirts, black cargo pants, and flat-heeled Docs. The t-shirts are form fitting, the pants hug her ass and the boots have a set of lyrics written on them in silver marker by the lyricist of a promising band that broke up before she even met him. She thinks it's a nice safe middle ground.
“Safe.” I think a lot about the difference between living for survival (safety) and living for maximization (enjoyment, development, “self-actualization,” whatever the fuck you want to call it). Seeing her scramble for safety here, and then how she starts to build, so steadily, so painstakingly, so competently, her own fortress makes the moments later in the fic where she realizes that she doesn’t need those walls anymore incredibly poignant.
Dating becomes a rare thing and even casual sex is infrequent. Bob knows that glaring men at her shoulder when she's running a board, or rumors of who she's fucked at some party, are just going to make things more difficult for her in the long run.
IV.
If it's a sacrifice then it doesn't feel like one, not when it works. She gets more gigs, avoids the sleaze, and figures out that even the douchebags (of either gender) have more to them than just their doucheness. More importantly, Bob makes a name for herself that has nothing to do with shock that she runs a board and has, like, tits.
I have to admit that I was hella relieved to read here that she figures out that even the douchebags are more than just their douchiness. One of the thing that impresses me about this fic is the way we get to watch Bob mature and develop throughout, while still staying firmly herself. Flawed, three-dimensional, and so very human.
V.
Even once Bob earns respect in the scene, learns how to find the decent people among the throngs of assholes, she never forgets that she is one of the few women in a room at any given time.
She gets her own drinks from the bar, even if someone else insists on paying, and doesn't leave them unattended. She cuts herself off before she makes it beyond buzzed and always says no to anything harder except weed that she herself has purchased and rolled. She makes her own way to parties, bars and venues as often as possible so that she doesn't have to rely on someone else to get her home or spend the night in some stranger's apartment. She's wary of gestures of friendship for as long as it takes to examine the situation closely for hidden agendas.
And she's always armed. Just in case.
Yes. Just, yes.
VI.
It's not any better or worse once Bob starts touring. It's just different.
.End
*
idyll 2007-12-31 06:48 am
It's so fucking ridiculous. Bob knows it even as she keeps playing through the heat and the pain. She should get up and have someone get a doctor or something. Because, really, it hurts. A lot. She knows there's something seriously bad happening to her skin, and she knows she's being stupid, but she doesn't stop playing.
Part of it is just Bob's personality; she's always been a little Type A when it comes to her work. But a lot of it, she knows, is because she feels like she has something to prove. Over the years, Bob's learned to be careful of showing weakness in a scene of men who can seemingly smell it in the air and will attribute it to her being a woman as a matter of course. She's always worked harder, been more focused, than her male counterparts because it was the only way she could get people to see past her gender.
Ahahahaha, who knew being in a woman in a rock band would be so much like being a woman in academia. Christ.
It's a hard habit to break, even now that she's surrounded by guys who always have her back, who respected her long before she started drumming for them, and who would probably wrestle her away from her kit if they knew what was happening right now.
So Bob plays, not only because they've got just one shot at this but because there are still too many guys at Warped shows who scream nasty shit up at Bob, still too many girls in autograph lines who don't realize that any one of them could do exactly what Bob is doing.
Okay, so maybe we veer a bit heavy-handed here, but well. It doesn’t make it any less true.
Another thing I really like about this fic is the awareness Bob shows of what it means to be a role model. It’s a fine balance between acknowledging the facts of how representation works, no matter how unfair and sometimes even counterproductive it can be, and living your own life. Bob is not just a paragon of feminist womanhood, either as a character in this fic, or in her own life. She is so much more than that, and the way she actively interacts with these pressures that so often remain only assumed and unremarked is part of it.
.End
Fic: Not a Pretty Girl: Joining My Chem (Girl!Bob) PG
14 Days. 14 Fic(let)s. 1 'Verse. Please bear with me when it comes to housekeeping for this 'verse. This project is intense and once the 14 days are up I swear I will set up a post with all of the links in one place, and in some order. Until then...yeah, I don't even know what to tell you. *hands* Also, I did not manage to make any topics line up with the themes for each day. *more hands*
*
Title: Not a Pretty Girl - Joining My Chem
Fandom: Bandom: MCR
Characters: Girl!Bob
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1668
Summary: It's not the ideal time or situation to slide into My Chem. In fact, Bob thinks it might be the worst time ever.
*
Bob's been asked before, mostly in her early days on the scene when a tall, stacked, almost-blonde (but in actuality ginger-haired; the lighting in clubs and college parties was never all that great) female drummer was just the gimmick one all-male band or another wanted to cash in on. She always said no, barely even had to give it any thought. She considered a couple of offers from all-girl bands a few times, but things always seemed to fall apart before they even got off the ground.
Huh. I think this gives Patrick and Bob very similar hair colors? Maybe I should do a bit of research on the subject (oh, what a sacrifice).
After a while, Bob tightened her focus to sound and stopped talking about drumming, and eventually there came a point when hardly anyone around her even knew she played.
But Bob's known Brian for years. He's a good friend and she trusts him in a way she trusts only a few of the men she's constantly surrounded by.
It occurs to me here that she emphasizes his male-ness here, but really, Bob doesn’t seem to trust very many women, either. Perhaps she doesn’t distrust them in exactly the same way, but at least based on the content of this fic, Brian’s her best friend of either gender.
So somewhere along the way she told him she played, which...maybe wouldn't have made a difference to anything. Except that she's always been so fucking comfortable with Brian and she let it slip, let it show. It was just one time--one damn time--in New York. She turned to him and she knew it was already on her face, but she gave it words, too: "I wish I could do that."
And the thing about Brian is that he's really worthy of Bob's trust. He didn't tell anyone about the drumming, or about the naked, greedy want she showed him in New York. Hell, he never even mentioned it to Bob again.
Bob's maybe gotten a little too complacent with Brian's silence on the matter, which is why she's completely unprepared for the phone call that Brian opens with, "Matt's out."
Bob...isn't entirely surprised by that particular turn of events. It's been obvious that something had to give in My Chem, and Bob sure as shit didn't think it'd be Toro. "Fuck, man. I'm sorry. That's--yeah. Sorry."
I love how there’s a whole long complicated backstory embedded in those two short little paragraphs.
After a really long silence that seems expectant in some way, Brian says, "Bryar," with a wealth of meaning in the word.
Right then Bob knows that Brian's told My Chem everything. Because, see, the other thing about Brian is that he's a shrewd and clever motherfucker, which Bob has always known and appreciated from afar, but which she doesn't so much like up close and personal.
*laugh* He so, so is. I’m pretty sure she and he wouldn’t be half such good friends if he weren’t, though - and, you know, whatever her conscious thoughts are on the subject right now, it’s clear that on some deeper level she does like it. Because he’s even when he’s working his considerable mojo in her direction, it’s only because he is 100% right about it being a good thing for everyone involved, most definitely including her.
I’m struck all over again by how effortlessly they understand each other. So much of this fic is, for me, about the value of people.
Bob's too stunned to think of anything to say but Brian pushes the conversation along. "They want you to come out for an audition."
"Jesus fuck, Schechter!" Bob snaps. Because, seriously. Seriously. She was not expecting this and it's not fair. At all.
Brian makes an impatient sound, the verbal equivalent of rolling his eyes and tossing up his hands. "I know you, Bryar, and you want it. What's with the attitude?" She makes a noise, uncertain and choked, and Brian sighs. "Bryar. Bob. They want you. Come do the fucking audition."
I’m trying to imagine someone being told that My Chemical Romance wants them and actually refusing. It’s pretty hard. Not impossible, because I fully acknowledge that other people do not share my tastes, but well. I also think My Chem is probably smart enough to want people who are almost certain to want them back, you know?
Mutual desire is such a gorgeous thing.
Bob isn't great with words on a good day, is better behind a board or kit when it comes to expressing herself. Times like this it's even harder for her to articulate what's in her head. The best she can manage to say is, "There are reasons I've always said no."
On Brian's end of the line she hears the tell-tale click of a lighter and an inhalation as he lights a cigarette. That's a damn good idea, so Bob fumbles for her own pack and lights up, too.
God. They’re so cute. Is it bad that I think co-dependent cigarette smoking is cute?
Brian does her the kindness of waiting until she's had several nerve-calming hits before he says, "None of those reasons apply here."
And, okay, he has a point. My Chem would probably, like, slaughter a busload of children before trying to cash in on her gender, which is an extreme and unnecessary example, because she doesn't think it would actually even occur to them to do that. She also doubts they'd ask her to give up her steel-toes and band tees, drop the twenty extra pounds that she's been carrying around forever, get inked and/or pierced to better fit the scene, go by Roberta/Bobbie/Something-More-Feminine-Than-Bob, or play up her impressive cleavage.
She does think they'd ask her to wear make-up, but only as part their stage act and not because they'd want her to look more girly and pretty. Even then, if she said no they'd probably be fine with it.
This right here is My Chem in a nutshell. Especially the “it wouldn’t even occur to them” part.
The simple truth of the matter is that My Chem are really fucking decent guys, which isn't something Bob says lightly. She's had too many bad experiences over the years to be anything but guarded with most men she comes into casual contact with. Hell, she's wary and careful of the ones she actually knows and likes.
Bob's so close to saying yes, but. "It's been years since I've played for real." She puts out her half-smoked cigarette and shakes another out of the pack. "I'm not good enough--"
"They know you, they like you, and you fit with them. That's what they care about, more than anything else."
Again, smart, smart boys.
Bob's maybe on the verge of hysterical laughter, though she manages to hold it back. She doesn't think anyone can blame her. It's not every day that someone gets their dream job offered to them and finds themselves with more reservations than anything else. "I've got tits, Brian. If I come on board, it could bite them in the ass big time."
"I don't think I've ever heard you say something so motherfucking stupid, Bryar, and I've seen you drunk."
:D
Bob glares. "Look, it could go bad. That's all I'm saying."
I kind of love the she glares even though he can’t see her. Of course, I’m certain he knows that she’s glaring, so I guess it works out.
"And what I'm saying--and you already know this--is that these guys do shit their own way and fuck everything else." Brian pauses for a moment, then continues in a voice that's far too innocent for a guy who's been on his own since he was a teenager and has seen pretty much everything. "Besides, it's not like it hasn't worked in recent memory--"
Hee! Because if you don’t give your friends shit, they might think you don’t love them any more.
Bob hisses through her teeth and crushes her still unlit cigarette to useless pieces in her hand. "I swear to God, Schechter--" She brushes the remnants of the cig into the ashtray. "--if you fucking so much as say the name Samantha Maloney I will hunt you down and put my foot up your ass."
/o\ I have to admit here that I had to go look up who Samantha Maloney is. And then I had to do it again while writing this up, because I had forgotten. I fail! Admittedly, I wasn’t really up on post-hardcore in high school, and I pretty much ignored the current music world for approximately a decade afterwards, so it’s not that surprising, I guess. And I’m not sure I would’ve been that likely to pick Hole and Mötley Crüe to pay attention to, even if I’d surfaced. Still. I’m trying to fix her existence in my mind. Samantha Maloney.
"This antipathy you've got for her makes no sense," Brian says, amused like only someone who really knows, and has purposely pushed, Bob's buttons can be. "You know that, right? She should be, like, your hero or something."
Bob knows both those things. She's sure Maloney is probably a pretty awesome person and, like, shits rainbows or whatever. It's just that Maloney--the exceptionally hot and talented female drummer--was exactly who all those guy bands brought up years ago when they approached her. The comparisons chafed, especially because Bob always came out on the losing end on the hotness scale, thereby leading to her being told all the ways in which she had to make herself better-prettier-different-more.
Dual trains of thought again. On one hand, I’m thinking “Is Samantha Maloney really that hot?” I mean, obviously she’s inherently hot because awesomely talented people just are, but I kinda want to think here that Bob is at least as hot. But maybe I’m biased. ;)
On the other hand, I’m thinking, how stupid do these guys in bands have to be, to up and make the comparison at all, much less actually discuss hotness as a factor that way. Ugh. Maybe “hotness” (in the “other people are superficially attracted to you” sense of the word) is simply a truth about the music industry (the story of Pete Wentz asking Ryan Ross what the members of Panic looked like before signing them springs to mind), but still. Ugh.
"We'll fly you out," Brian says, persuasive and sure at once, like he can sense that she's given in to the inevitable. Which he probably can, because he's perceptive like that.
Bob pulls out another cigarette and lights it. She exhales unevenly and closes her eyes against the curl of smoke coming back at her from the cherry. "Okay, fine, but if it goes badly and my soul get crushed, I'm fucking blaming you and you're going to make it up to me, you fucker."
"Fucking drama queen," Brian snorts. "See how you fit right in? Your flight's the day after tomorrow. I emailed you the itinerary and I'll pick you up."
Brian, Brian, I love you. Please tell me you’re into women, because I’ve already had to suffer the disappointment of Bob being straight!
*
When Bob gets there, Gerard is shaky as fuck but clearer-eyed than Bob's ever seen him in all the years they've known each other. Mikey and Ray are both less tense than they've been in a while, and Frank doesn't look at all like the guy who started walking off stage after shows like he was eighty years old and tired.
Bob plays I'm Not Okay for them because Brian's email to her contained a few additional details that the bastard hadn't bothered mentioning, like the goddamn video My Chem is about to film. She'd hoped to have another song ready but she'd needed to actually, like, sleep in the previous day and a half.
She does decently. It's not as good as she would have liked but it's better than she feared. The guys trade looks, speaking to each other in a silent language Bob's used to witnessing and has a passing and vague understanding of, but isn't fluent in.
Oh, but she will be. :D
Brian's smug grin and fiercely bright eyes, on the other hand, are easy to read given all the practice Bob's had.
She knows what's coming and she's torn between elation and terror. It's not the ideal time or situation to slide into My Chem. In fact, Bob thinks it might be the worst time ever. She's seen her fair share of bands implode and fall apart and she isn't quite sure that it won't happen to My Chem in, like, five minutes.
But Bob's seen them play, and she knows the guys themselves; if anyone can make it through this and come out better, it's this band, with their too-earnest and charismatic frontman who believes everything he says and makes you want to believe it too, and the band who stuck around and kept going when they maybe shouldn't have.
Yeah, and because they were smart enough to choose Bob!
When they get around to asking after the shoot, which doesn't involve anyone suggesting that she wear a school girl outfit, there is no way Bob can say no, her doubts aside. It's My Chem. It's drumming for My Chem. It's pretty much Bob's mostly-secret hope and dream.
Even if she's wrong about everything, Bob figures it's nothing she can't come back from. She'll be out some time, a bit of her savings, but not much else.
"Yeah, okay," she answers them. Then she grins because, holy shit! "Fuck yeah."
Fuck yeah. If I smoked, I think I’d feel the need for a celebratory cigarette right about now.
.End
14valentines Day 1 - Body Image
*
Part Two