Songs About a Girl Page 2

  * * *

  “You said yes. TELL ME YOU SAID YES.”

  I had told Melissa about the message. She was taking it … badly.

  “Well, it’s not quite as simple as that, M—”

  “Not quite as simple? As what?! What?”

  Melissa clenched her gloved hands, her frantic breath turning into steam in the frozen air. It was another chilly winter morning, very nearly November, and the trees on the roadside were tinged frosty white.

  “I’m just … I’m not ready for something like this.”

  Melissa stepped in front of me.

  “Yo, time out. Time. Out.” She peered into my eyes. “This is, let’s face it, the most exciting thing that has happened to any human being, ever. Agreed?”

  “Well, I—”

  “AND FURTHERMORE,” she said, pressing a finger into my forehead, “it is happening to my best friend, which makes it my duty to ensure she doesn’t mess it up.”

  I scratched the back of my head.

  “I’m not sure it would have happened anyway, to be honest…”

  “Hey, listen. When the second hottest member of the world’s hottest band asks you to go on tour with them and hang out with them and stare at their lovely faces all day, you always say yes. No-brainer.”

  “He didn’t ask me to go on tour with them, Mel. It was just one concert.”

  “Oh, just one concert? Just one concert with Olly Samson from Fire&Lights? Unless you message him back and say you’ve changed your mind, I will never, ever, ever talk to you again.”

  I sighed, pulling my coat tight around my body.

  “And anyway,” continued Melissa, “photography is totally your thing. It’s your superpower. Aren’t you bored of shooting flowers and insects all day?”

  We stopped at the crossing, and I stared over the road at the school buildings, squat and gray in the frosty mist. Aimee Watts was leaning against the outside wall of the sports hall, her entourage buzzing around her.

  “The truth is … I don’t think I’m good enough.”

  “You what?”

  “I’m not a good enough photographer. Not for this, anyway.”

  “That’s crazy!” snapped Melissa. “You’ve got to stop putting yourself down all the time.”

  I itched at a freckle on the back of my hand, and the traffic lights beeped at us.

  “Can we talk about something else now?”

  “I mean, look at me,” she continued, dragging me across the road by the coat sleeve. “I know what I’m good at.”

  “This is true.”

  “That computer programming thing we did yesterday afternoon was riDICulously easy. And everyone else was, like, erm, what the flip is HTML, and I was all like, hypertext markup language thanks very much.”

  “But you’re an expert,” I said as we passed through the school gates. “You spend every single evening on your computer, doing … well, whatever it is you do. Me, I’m not even a real photographer.”

  “You’re going to fix this, Charlie. I know it. You know it.”

  “There’s nothing to f—”

  “Ah-ah-ah.”

  She stopped, turned to face me, and landed a hand on each of my shoulders.

  “I’ll only say this once, and then next time I see you we’re going back to discussing who has the best hair out of Gabriel and Aiden. Even though it is obviously Aiden.”

  I stared at my feet.

  “OK.”

  “You are my best friend, and you are always good enough.”

  A few seconds of silence passed between us, and then she smiled, curiously, and waved a purple glove at me.

  “See you in assembly!”

  * * *

  “Simmer down, please,” said Mr. Bennett from the stage, as students shuffled in their chairs, chatting with friends and scuffing their feet against the wooden floor. He waited, casting an eye across the hall, and row by row, silence fell.

  He closed his file.

  “Before we get started, as you are all aware, it’s the Caversham High dance this Friday night.”

  The room filled with whoops and jeering, and Mr. Bennett waved a calming hand.

  “Yes, good—we’re all very excited, and the dance is always lots of fun. But … I would ask you to remember that, as the upper school, you are important role models for our younger students, and when it comes to your behavior on Friday evening, we expect you to set an example…”

  Melissa leaned into my ear.

  “I’ve worked out what I’m going to wear on Friday,” she said in a harsh whisper. “My sparkly blue top.”

  I gave her a thumbs-up, and she squeezed her chest together.

  “It makes the most of my frankly meager breasts,” she added, and I had to cover my mouth so I wouldn’t laugh out loud.

  “… Now,” continued Mr. Bennett, “you may recall that during last term’s event we had complaints from the local community over students drinking on the playing fields, and the police were nearly involved…”

  Melissa leaned into me again.

  “Do you think Khaleed will like it?”

  “What?” I mouthed.

  “My blue top.”

  I smiled back at her and whispered: “Definitely. You’ll be the Kanye and Kim of Computer Club.”

  Melissa sniggered at this, and the sound vaulted high over our heads, stopping Mr. Bennett midsentence. He waited two seconds, then continued.

  “… So … let this be a reminder to you all of the school’s zero-tolerance policy concerning drugs and alcohol. And this Friday night is no exception. I hope that’s understood.”

  A commotion erupted a few rows behind us, and everyone turned round to find Aimee, Gemma, and a handful of Year Eleven boys sharing a joke. Mr. Bennett spoke above the noise.

  “Do you have something to add, Miss Watts?”

  The group went silent. Aimee shifted in her chair.

  “Nah,” she said with a sniff. “Just talking about how pumped we are for Friday, sir.”

  “I’m sure you were,” said Mr. Bennett, watching her beneath lowered brow as he opened his file. And then again, almost inaudibly: “I’m sure you were.”

  * * *

  The television murmured at us from the corner of the room. It was an advertisement for cat food, the kind where the cat is very glossy and gets its dinner on a little cushion. Dad was sitting in his armchair and I was sitting in mine, toying with my laptop. He was flicking through a pile of papers.

  “Forty-four point … what? Well, that doesn’t add up, clearly…” he muttered, irritably, over the festive jingle from the TV. A celebrity in a garish sweater was laughing at a Christmas tree.

  In the kitchen, the oven dinged. I went to investigate.

  “Dinner won’t be long,” I said moments later, walking back into the room with a tea towel. Dad looked up, distracted, and rubbed one eye behind his reading glasses.

  “Thanks, kiddo.”

  I slumped back into my chair. I had been staring at the same history homework for nearly half an hour now, and had only added about nine words.

  “How’s that essay coming?” asked Dad.

  I blinked in the glare from my laptop. “Um … not too bad.”

  He slid off his glasses and buffed the lenses with a shirt corner.

  “I remember final-year history. Bits of it, anyway. Mainly dictators and genocide, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I said with a half smile. “It’s pretty cheerful.”

  Dad replaced his glasses.

  “This is why I prefer math. You know where you are with equations.”

  “That’s kinda geeky, Dad.”

  “Well then, I must be a geek.” He gave me a wonky smile and nudged his glasses up his nose. “You’re doing all right in general, though … are you? At school?”

  I frowned.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, just … Year Eleven. It can be pretty tough, from what I remember.”

  I fidgeted in my seat.<
br />
  “I’m OK, Dad.”

  I returned to my essay, but I could sense him still watching me from his armchair. I read the title three or four times, pointlessly changed a couple of words, and then closed the file.

  Opening my photography coursework folder, I scanned through some shots I’d taken the previous week, down by the canal. I’d been using some graphics software to intensify the colors, trying to inject some life into the concrete office blocks and the flat, featureless skyline, but I was fighting a losing battle. The canal was one of the nicer parts of town, but even so, Reading was not an exciting place to look at. It was all one shade. A grubby, brownish-gray, the gray of multistory parking garages.

  “Looking forward to your birthday?” said Dad, setting down his papers. I shrugged with one shoulder.

  “I guess. I don’t know. I don’t want to make a huge deal out of it.”

  “Sixteen … It’s a big year. My girl’s growing up.” His eyes flickered, almost instinctively, toward a photo of me on the mantelpiece as a newborn baby. The old silver frame was tarnished and chipped. “You’re sure you don’t want a party?”

  I didn’t want a party. I wanted to go for pizza with Melissa and stay up all night watching bad movies and eating marshmallows.

  “Thanks, Dad, but I’m fine.” His eyes dropped to the floor, and I felt a twist of guilt. “We’re going to the school dance.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, that’ll be fun, right?”

  Dad was waiting for a reply, but all I could think of was Becky Bates throwing up into a Dumpster.

  “It wouldn’t be Christmas without sausage rolls!” announced the TV over a plinky recording of “Winter Wonderland.” “And ours are half price until Ja—”

  Dad muted the sound.

  “Perhaps we should bring back Birthday Cinema Club, eh?”

  I glanced up at the small, two-person sofa on the far side of the room. When I was little, if my birthday fell on a weekday and Dad had to go to work, he would get up really early, make a big bowl of popcorn, and sneak up to my room to wake me. He’d carry me downstairs in the dark and then, with me yawning and still in my pajamas, we’d sit together on the sofa, eating hot, buttery popcorn and watching Toy Story while the sun came up. Usually I’d fall asleep and not wake again until the end credits, but it didn’t matter. As the film played out, I would stir, drowsily, and Dad would be tapping his slippered foot on the carpet and singing along to “You’ve Got a Friend in Me.”

  We hadn’t done it for years.

  “I’m a bit old for that, aren’t I?” I said, though I wasn’t sure whether I meant it. Dad’s eyes went wide for a moment, and then he picked up his papers and smoothed them down with one hand.

  “Yes … yes, of course. Course.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “We could do something on Saturday night, though? Get a meal in town?”

  Something blinked at me from my laptop screen. It was a speech bubble in the top corner, telling me I had a new Facebook message.

  Hey charlie

  It was Olly Samson. From Fire&Lights.

  “Charlie?”

  Dad was leaning across the arm of his chair, trying to win my attention. My gaze stumbled from him to Olly’s message and back again. My mouth was hanging open.

  “Anywhere you like,” Dad continued. “There’s that new Mexican place on the high street. I do enjoy a burrito…”

  I tried to keep my face blank, but my mind was a mess of questions. Why was Olly contacting me again? Hadn’t he read my reply? What was I supposed to say to him now?

  “Um, yeah. That’d be … great,” I agreed, returning to my laptop. Straightaway, I noticed something I had missed before: there was a little green light next to Olly’s name.

  He was still online.

  And while I was formulating an answer in my head—something that wouldn’t make me sound like a dork or a groupie—a second, longer message joined the first.

  And what it said didn’t make any sense. At all.

  4

  I stared, baffled, at Olly’s message.

  Really glad you changed your mind about coming to the concert!! This is gonna be awesome …

  I snapped my laptop shut and stood up from my chair. Dad was saying something to me as I walked from the room, but the words were lost as I headed up the stairs, taking two at a time, and slipped soundlessly into my bedroom.

  You there…? :) said the message on the screen.

  “Charlie?” called Dad from the living room. “Everything OK?”

  “Yep, sorry!” I shouted back down. I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, my fingers poised above the keys. “I just forgot something I need for … school…”

  I had to reply to Olly. I had to say something.

  Um, yeh, i’m here, I typed out hurriedly.

  My heart was thudding in my chest.

  Thirty seconds later, his response appeared.

  Was just saying, great news that you changed your mind. You’re gonna love it! I’ve told management you’re coming, got your pass sorted, your name’s on the VIP list … it’s official! :) (I asked if you could bring a friend along, but we’re already maxed out this weekend … really sorry about that!!)

  I scrolled back through my messages. I had only contacted Olly that one time, the night before, but my inbox told a different story. Earlier that afternoon, I’d messaged him again:

  Olly, i’ve changed my mind. Of course i’ll come on saturday!! Please send me details, xoxo charlie :) :) P.S. can i bring a friend??

  It was a message I hadn’t written.

  You don’t need to worry you know

  Olly again. I tapped out an answer.

  Worry about what?

  Everyone’s really friendly, he wrote back, and you’ll have loads of fun taking the pics. Plus, you know, Fire&Lights concerts are actually pretty cool :)

  In the kitchen, the oven beeped three times. Our pizza was about to burn.

  Of course, I typed, the smell of bubbling cheese wafting up the stairs. I bet it’s amazing

  Can’t wait to see what you come up with, he replied, adding: I gotta go … will send details tomorrow—management have some kind of confidentiality thingy you have to sign. I’ll be in touch xx

  And then his little green light disappeared.

  I tugged at the rim of my hat and glared at his final message. A confidentiality contract? That sounded serious. They would almost certainly want my father’s signature, and I would almost certainly have to forge it.

  For now, though, there was something far more pressing on my mind. Someone was pretending to be me.

  And there was only one person that could be.

  * * *

  “I surely have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Melissa was hunched over the water fountain, jabbing at the tap. It dribbled feebly, and she bent down to catch the flow.

  “I think you do, Mel,” I replied, lowering my voice to a whisper. Behind us, people were jostling, shoving, and shouting on their way to second period. “You’re the only person who knew about Olly messaging me. The only person in the world. And I can read you like a book.”

  Melissa stood up, sniffed, and wiped an arm across her mouth.

  “So does this mean you’re going to the concert, then?”

  “Well, I don’t really have a choice now, do I? He’s told their management team I’m coming, he’s organized a VIP pass … plus I can’t exactly say I’ve changed my mind again, can I?”

  Melissa shrugged.

  “No, I s’pose not.”

  We joined the shuffling crowds, and the tide carried us along toward the science labs.

  “I can’t believe you hacked into my account!”

  “Well, this I will say,” replied Melissa smugly, hitching her schoolbag up her back. “If I was going to hack into your account, which obviously I didn’t, it wouldn’t be that difficult ’cause I’ve known your password for years.”

  I threw a sharp look a
t her.

  “What?”

  “KatherineCharlotte.”

  My stomach tightened. Katherine Charlotte. My mother’s name. It had been years since I’d heard it spoken out loud.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” asked Melissa, tutting as a lank-haired Year Seven bumped into her shoulder. I looked back at her through narrowed eyes.

  “How did you know that?”

  “Easy,” she replied with a grin. “I can read you like a book.”

  She beamed at me, and the period bell rang for a second time.

  “So listen,” she continued, “I was watching Pop Gossip today and that presenter with the funny hair said that since F&L got back from America they’ve been on an epic exercise regime, and Olly’s six-pack is looking hot as. Can you get me a photo?”

  We slowed down as we arrived outside Chemistry One.

  “I am not taking a photo of Olly Samson without his shirt on,” I replied. Melissa puffed up her cheeks and stuck out her bottom lip.

  “Spoilsport.”

  She peered through the window of the classroom, then checked the time on her phone.

  “Man, I cannot believe that in three days’ time you’re going to see Olly’s actual face,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “His REAL-LIFE FACE.”

  “He’s just a normal person like anyone else, Mel.”

  She gaped at me.

  “Olly Samson is not a normal person, Charlie. Olly Samson is a god among men. And you’re going to look at him with your real-life eyes, and he’s going to fall in love with you, and then I shall be maid of honor at the wedding.”

  I folded my arms and bit back a smile.

  “But anyway,” she said, her hand on the doorknob, “I’ve got Computer Club after school, so you won’t see me again for…” She checked her watch. “Seventeen hours and fifty-eight minutes. Will you miss me?”

  It was impossible to stay mad at Melissa. “More than you could ever know,” I said as she bounded off into the lab. A table of hard-looking girls in the corner jeered at her on the way in, but she didn’t notice. She just weaved her way through the tables and crashed into an empty seat in the front row.

  Outside the classroom, the corridor was still thrumming with people, and I blended back into the stream, lost in thought. Olly Samson is not a normal person, Charlie. Olly Samson is a god among men. Melissa was right, I guessed, but less than eighteen months ago, nobody outside Caversham High even knew who he was. He was just an average teenager in an average school, going to classes, worrying about grades, listening to music, and hanging out with his friends.