Cherry Bomb [h.s]

2

"Did you see that crowd?" Amber asks as we return to our tiny shared dressing room. She sets her bass guitar down, then runs her fingers through her long brown hair that goes all the way down past her ass.

"I think that's the highest turnout we've had so far." Willow agrees in her thick British accent, plopping down on the couch.

"I think we might just be coming up in the world, ladies!" I tell them. I throw my bleached white blonde hair into a messy ponytail, the faded pink tips brushing the back of my neck, and loosen up my black corset a bit to cool down.

I take my guitar off and set it down on its stand, then sit next to Willow on the couch, which smells like old cigarettes. I watch as she fiddles with her drumsticks, using one of them to scratch her head of curly black hair.

"I think they really liked our new song. Some of them were even singing along by the end." She says, her cheery personality bringing all of us up like it always did.

"Should we celebrate?" Amber asks mischievously, holding up a freshly rolled joint.

"Hell yeah!" I reply, "I've been needing to get high all night."

Before we can light it up, there's a knock on the door.

"Shit," I whisper-shout as I get up quickly and Amber shoves the joint down her shirt. Frankie threatened to bar us from performing if we got caught again. He almost never followed through on his threats, but we didn't want to risk it.

I open the door to see Frankie standing there, his bushy brows furrowed and his mustache downturned.

"What is it?" I ask lightly, hoping that'll make him ease up with whatever he's mad at us about this time.

"Johnny Marx was here tonight." He says, assuming we'll understand.

We all take a pause at that name.

"The Johnny Marx? Here? Tonight?" I couldn't believe it.

Johnny had a reputation of scoping out small bands in random towns, and I can't even count how many times I had called his office, or his agent. I even managed to accidentally call his mother once while trying to find his personal number.

If Johnny Marx liked us, that basically guaranteed instant worldwide fame and success.

"Why didn't you tell us he was going to be here?!" Willow asks, nervously tapping her foot without realizing it.

"Because I didn't know," Frankie shrugs, "He just showed up."

"So, what did he say?" I ask. I'm hopeful that maybe the look on Frankie's face is because he'll be losing his most popular performers.

"He told me that he thought you were really talented and had a lot of spirit," he says.

I practically jump with joy at this, but I don't want to get too optimistic.

"That's good," Amber says cheerfully.

"But that you were too amateur to be successful," he drops the bomb on us.

Suddenly, all I see is red.

"Too ametuer?" I shout, "We've been doing this shit since we were 14! We have more experience than half the bands he signs on to his label!"

"Okay, Spencer, calm down." Amber puts her hand on my shoulder in an attempt to comfort me.

"No!" I shrug her off, "No, we need to get him back here and show him what these ametuers are capable of!"