Page 43 of Shame Me
Although I wasn’t going to walk across the roof where the rest of the band was headed, I did want to stand and move a bit. I took several sips of the water while the gaffer taped down a loose cord. When she stood, she made eye contact with me and, for just a second, I thought maybe I had an ally. “You look alittle stressed out. David’s right. You should relax. You guys are getting your big break.”
“Yeah, I know—but I feel like he only cares about the guys.”
“Don’t take it so hard, kiddo. You look pretty, and that’s what your fans will care about.”
I could practically feel my face turning red—not with embarrassment but anger—and I just shook my head, deciding to join the guys after all. But, by the time I got there, they were done viewing the playback and the director wasn’t interested in asking if I wanted to watch.
And I wasn’t about to beg for it.
“Let’s do it one more time, guys, and then we’ll break until around noon.”
This time, I didn’t think about playing—I just banged my drums, probably with more ferocity than I should have, but it was more socially acceptable than punching a few of the people here. Although I’d spent much of my short life feeling like I was invisible, that had been my choice when I was younger. With Ava, sometimes it was simply that she overshadowed me, and I’d accepted that…until I could no longer tolerate it.
Right now, I felt like I had to play nice to support the band…and the way I could do it was to keep my mouth shut and take it all out on my poor drum kit.
But in the middle of the song, David said, “Cut. Cut!” When we all stopped playing, he looked straight at me. “Why are you playing like a maniac again?”
Once more, the heat crawled up my neck, but I’d had enough. Standing up, I said, “This is how I play, and I refuse to play it whatever nonsense way you’re expecting me to. If you don’t like it, you can get one of your fucking crew to play it instead.”
The hush on the roof on that warm summer morning was almost palpable. I expected David to dish it right back to me.
But he didn’t.
“Oh. Feisty, are we?”
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Again, before I could respond, he said, “Okay. We’ll do it your way.”
He talked a good game—but I also saw the way he raised his eyebrows at the Director of Photography.
Still, I felt like I’d won a mini victory that day. I learned that no one else was going to stand up for me, so I’d have to stick up for myself.
Although it would bea few days before we could see the completed video, I was hopeful. They’d captured our entire concert the next night and then packed up, with David assuring us that we’d have an “amazing first video.” When they’d filmed our concert, I tried to pretend they weren’t there, playing like I normally would—but it was hard not to forget how David had condescended to me, treating me like a second-class citizen.
The label had hired a local photographer to take promo shots—and we were under the impression that one of them might also be used in the CD jacket. The label told us that we’d be given clothing to wear there. Relaying the information, Zack said, “They want us to look edgy and sexy.”
When we showed up at the photographer’s studio in south Denver, I was pleasantly surprised to see that Tanya was our makeup and hair person again. Once more, she spent a little time with the guys, just making sure their faces were matte and unblotchy, and then she gave me the rest of her attention. And it was welcome after the filming of our video.
As she was finishing up my hair, the guys congregated around the makeup table. They looked fantastic—leatherjackets, ripped jeans, plain, solid color t-shirts. Braden wore sneakers while Cy and Zack wore boots—all black, of course. Whoever had picked out the clothes had nailed it, and I could hardly wait to see what I’d be wearing.
The photographer’s assistant, Ian, showed up in that corner of the warehouse-like studio and looked us all over. The man was thin and tall, constantly pressing his hands together as if in silent prayer. He asked Tanya, “How much longer?”
“Actually, we’re all done.” She turned my chair so I could look in the mirror. “That is, if Dani’s happy.”
Smiling, I felt like I could have hugged Tanya for thinking ofmeand not worrying what someone else thought. Again, the makeup was way heavier than anything I would have applied myself, but I didn’t look awful. “Yep. I’m good. Thanks, Tanya.”
“All right,” Ian said. “Then let’s get you dressed.” He started walking toward the rooms where the guys had gone to change, and I hopped out of the chair, almost running to catch up with him. “You can choose between these two outfits,” he said, holding out two hangers: one held a red cropped top that would bare my belly. The other was a lacy black push-up bra with a black leather jacket. And that was all the choice there was—which wasn’t a choice, as far as I was concerned. Draped over a chair was a leather miniskirt, fishnet stockings (which Ian said I didn’t need to wear unless I wanted to. Gee, thanks!), and high heels.
What the fuck.
Before I could object, he was out the door, leaving me in that stark room with a black stool, table, and two outfits laid out on the counter.
For a bit, I toyed with the idea that maybe looking a little sexy might be okay. After all, I would have been a liar if I’d said I’d never lusted after the guys in the bands I loved. It wasn’t justthe music or the lyrics. It was because of the music and the lyrics that I’d felt like I understood who they were underneath it all.
But, of course, I didn’t. It was just a sense, and, as I considered it more, I realized just how foolish it was. I didn’t know the people in bands except for what they shared with the world, and that could have been a carefully curated image.
Flipping that idea around on myself, I knew I wouldn’t like being objectified in that way—like the time the guys and I had had a conversation about women in music videos being treated like nothing more than meat. Did I have a double standard?
