Songs About a Girl Read online

  “D’you wanna, like, dance?” Suddenly, Tim Stallworthy was standing in front of me, unwrapping a miniature Snickers. He was bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

  “What … now?” I said. Tim popped the chocolate into his mouth.

  “Um, yeah,” he said, chewing. “Sure.”

  I liked Tim. He was in my French class, and we were sometimes paired together for speaking exercises. He’d do funny voices for the characters in the textbooks, which always made me laugh.

  “OK,” I said, and, unsure whether to hold hands, we wandered together into the crowd.

  Slow-dancing was weird. Nobody really knew how to do it right, and the whole time it was going on you were very, very aware that you were either kissing or not kissing. If you were kissing, that at least stopped you from thinking about the dancing, which was a good thing, but if you weren’t kissing, you were mainly thinking about whether you were about to kiss, and that could be even more stressful than the kissing itself.

  Tim was a nice guy, but I didn’t want to kiss him. Which meant, just in case he wanted to kiss me, my safest bet was to rest my head on his shoulder, not say anything, and just ride it out until the song came to an end.

  The music dragged on and we turned in our little circle, feet brushing, Tim’s hands moving occasionally on my back. Now and again he would angle his head toward me, and I would close my eyes tight, hoping he wasn’t about to make a move. His breath smelled of fruit punch and peanuts.

  When I opened my eyes, I noticed a cluster of teachers in the far corner of the hall, watching the dancers and sharing a joke. They were supposed to be monitoring the proceedings, but as there hadn’t been any puking, fights, or fallings-out yet, they seemed in a pretty relaxed mood. Gemma Hockley was standing with them, which seemed odd because by rights she should have been on the dance floor, fending off boys. Gemma was tall and gorgeous, all big eyes and cleavage, and had looked about twenty-one ever since the beginning of Year Ten. She was flirting with the younger teachers, Mr. Swift and Mr. Burnham, touching their arms and laughing into her drink.

  Every so often, as Tim and I spun slowly round, she would glance in my direction.

  At least, I had assumed it was my direction. Then I realized that Gemma was actually looking beyond me, toward the drinks table, which for the first time that evening was unattended. Everyone was coupled up, or bunched around the edges of the dance floor, and no one was watching the lone figure by the punch bowls, carrying two black plastic bags and exchanging furtive glances with Gemma. Blond hair tied back in a severe ponytail, eyes ringed thickly in blue eyeliner.

  Unscrewing whatever was concealed in the first bag, Aimee poured the clear liquid generously into each bowl in turn, her face tight with concentration. She repeated this with the second bottle, and when the final few drops were gone, she looked over her shoulder to alert Gemma—and instead she found me.

  Our eyes met, and her face froze.

  Tim was still edging me around in circles, and within seconds my back was turned again. In the middle distance I could see Melissa kissing Khaleed, her hands clamped on his shoulders, his arms hanging dead straight by his sides.

  Soon, a finger prodded me hard in the back.

  “What the—?”

  I broke apart from Tim. Aimee fixed me with a strange, hard smile.

  “Hey, Charlie,” she said, eyes bolted to mine. Tim stepped between us.

  “We were dancing,” he said, annoyed. Aimee looked at him like she’d just found him floating in her drink.

  “And?”

  Tim opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Aimee turned to me.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she said. “OK?”

  “I didn’t see anything, Aimee. I don’t care.”

  Calmly, she tilted her head to the side.

  “Yeah? You’d better not.”

  Around us, the music began to change. The R&B was fading out, something ravey was pumping through the speakers, and Aimee was backing away from me, the lights dipping and diving around her. Just before she disappeared into the dark, she threw me a look that I felt beneath my fingernails.

  “Stick a fork in me, I’m done.”

  Melissa was back by my side, breathless, her hair plastered across her forehead. Behind her I could see Khaleed, standing by himself in the middle of the room, wiping his mouth on his hand.

  “Well, that…” she said thoughtfully, running her tongue around her mouth, “… was absolutely disgusting. But I liked it.”

  I scanned the dance floor for Aimee, but she’d been swallowed by the crowd.

  “I brought you some more punch.”

  Melissa was holding up two fresh cups, filled to the brim.

  “Oh.” I peered into the gloopy orangeness. “Thanks.”

  She took an enthusiastic gulp, and her eyebrows shot up her face.

  “Whoa, did they bring out new punch?! This stuff is, like … whoooa.”

  Over Melissa’s shoulder, I could see students swarming around the drinks table, grabbing sweets and chips and refilling each other’s drinks. Word was beginning to spread, and people were knocking back the spiked cocktails like water, their eyes widening, faces wincing, then diving back in for more.

  As I watched it all unfold, punch bowls draining, oblivious teachers chatting across the hall, and Aimee sitting on a pile of crash mats with her friends, swinging her legs and seeing off drink after drink, I knew one thing for certain.

  This wasn’t going to end well.

  * * *

  “Man, I am glad that’s over.”

  We had come home early from the dance. When Melissa had grown tired of hanging off Khaleed and the music went a bit clubby, we’d decided to go back to my house and mess around on YouTube for a while. This was fine by me, as I didn’t particularly relish the idea of spending the rest of the evening trying to avoid Aimee, and besides, people were starting to get drunk from the vodka punch, and the atmosphere was beginning to sour.

  “Come on,” chirped Melissa. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  Melissa and I were lying side by side on my bed, laptop playing music at our feet, a mound of multicolored jelly beans sitting in a bowl between us. Melissa was picking out all the yellow ones and lining them up along her tummy.

  “I mean, you could have definitely got a cheeky kiss off Tim Stallworthy,” she continued, adding another bean to her collection.

  “I don’t want a cheeky kiss off Tim Stallworthy.”

  “But he was watching you all night!”

  I turned my head toward her. “I don’t fancy him.”

  Melissa sat up a little, causing her jelly beans to quiver precariously.

  “So what? Do you think I fancy Khaleed? Of course not!”

  “You said he had nice ears.”

  “Of course I don’t fancy him, doofus, but I did the right thing, didn’t I? I took things to the next level. We’re teenagers, Charlie. This is what we do.”

  I tossed a jelly bean into the air and caught it in my mouth.

  “I think I’ll just be kissing the boys I actually like, thanks very much.”

  “OK, fine, whatever,” said Melissa, wobbling her head at me. “Just because you happen to be in possession of a deep and magnetic beauty…”

  I dug an elbow into her side.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Ooh, wait!” Melissa gathered up her beans, shoveled them into her mouth, and grabbed my computer. “I just remembered what happened today,” she said, chewing, and tapping furiously on the keys.

  “What?” I replied, sitting up next to her.

  “Fire&Lights posted tons of new photos on Instagram, from the tour. Look.”

  The band’s Instagram page appeared on my laptop, and Melissa clicked on the first image. It showed the four boys lined up in a row, their arms draped along each other’s shoulders, while above their heads, a banner read: “Fire&Lights are coming to YOUR town. On tour now!!”

  I pretended not to be interested, but
my eyes wouldn’t shift from the screen.

  “HOW. HOT. IS. THAT.”

  It was almost impossible, in my head, to connect the pop stars in the picture with the boys I would be meeting at Reading Arena the next day. They weren’t real. Not even Olly, who just over a year ago was no different from any other teenager at my school.

  “Ohmygosh … Aiden Roberts, you are the light of my life.” Melissa was on the second photo now, a shot of Aiden onstage, strumming a guitar, a mile-wide grin on his face. “I would marry him so hard.”

  Click. The next shot was of Gabriel, also at a live concert, his hand punching the air. His bare forearm was dappled in purple light.

  “Gabriel’s been growing his hair out,” said Melissa, considering the picture, “and I think that’s a good thing. What do you think?”

  I picked at my fingernails.

  “I like the bald look, myself.”

  “Huh?” said Melissa, squinting at the screen.

  “I said: I’d prefer it if he was bald.”

  Melissa turned to me, realized what I’d said, and stuck out her tongue. I swallowed a snort.

  “Very funny,” she said, a smile creeping onto her face. “You are oh so hilarious.”

  We sat there for a few minutes, music playing, while Melissa scrolled idly through the Fire&Lights picture feed. I had Facebook open on my phone but was keeping one eye on the laptop.

  “So you really think someone spiked the punch tonight?” mused Melissa with a yawn.

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  “How do you know?”

  I’d considered telling Melissa about seeing Aimee with the vodka, but the way I saw it, the fewer people that knew about that, the better.

  “I don’t know, just a hunch.”

  Melissa grinned.

  “A punch hunch.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Ohmygod! Check it out … he looks soooo good in this one.” Melissa plucked another jelly bean from the bowl and, her eyes still glued to the computer, pushed it very slowly into her mouth. “Oliver … Alexander … Samson. Hell yes.”

  In the picture, Olly was kneeling at the corner of the stage, singing into a microphone, his free hand stretching out into the crowd. From below, fans reached up to touch him.

  “Speaking of Olly, how psyched are you for tomorrow?”

  I realized I was still staring at the photo, and broke away.

  “Um … what?”

  Melissa opened her arms wide, and I ducked out of the way.

  “Super-psyched?” Then, even wider. “MEGA-PSYCHED?”

  “I honestly don’t know the difference between those two things.”

  “Right, well, either way”—Melissa reached out and slid our empty mugs off the windowsill—“I would like to propose a birthday toast.”

  She sniffed the mugs, passed one to me, then picked up the sweet bowl and filled them both with jelly beans. She puffed up her chest.

  “To Charlie Bloom, my favorite person in the whole entire world, and her life-changing adventure with Fire&Lights.”

  We clinked our mugs together.

  “This, my friend, could be the beginning of something epic…”

  6

  It was barely four o’clock, and already there were hundreds of girls gathered outside the arena. They were holding homemade banners and giggling at each other, huddled together for warmth. A few of them were watching me as I made my way along the line on the wrong side of the barrier.

  I kept my eyes to the ground.

  “Excuse me, miss.”

  The bouncer in front of me was huge and dressed in all black. He was holding up a thick palm to block my path.

  “You can’t come back here.”

  I tried to peer past him toward the main gate, but he took a sidestep and blocked my view.

  “I’m wi…”

  I trailed off as I realized the girls at the front of the queue were all listening to me.

  “I’m with the band,” I tried again, this time with a lowered voice, feeling ridiculous just saying it. “I’m meeting Olly Samson.”

  The bouncer looked like he didn’t believe me, but then I’m not sure I would have believed me either.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Charlie Bloom.”

  Eyeing me the whole time, the man mumbled into a walkie-talkie on his shoulder and then stood with his legs wide apart, not saying anything. We both waited in the freezing cold for what felt like ages.

  “So … should I—?”

  A loud buzzer cut me off, and the gate creaked open. It was too dark to see what was beyond the door, but the bouncer indicated I should walk through, so I did. I could hear some of the queuing fans whispering about me as I disappeared.

  “… Oh my God, that is so unfair. Who is she anyway…?”

  The gate closed automatically behind me, an outside lamp flickered on, and there he was, lit by a single beam of light.

  Olly Samson. Pop star.

  A little gasp fell from my mouth.

  “How’s it going?” he asked, moving forward to hug me. I wasn’t expecting this, so I froze, suddenly aware of his strong, warm hands against my back.

  “I’m good,” I said, as he pulled away again. Despite the cold, he was wearing only a tight V-neck T-shirt and dark slim-fit jeans. I thought about the boy I had met beside the lockers two years before, the slight, skinny sixteen-year-old with the dream of becoming a singer. Standing in front of me now he looked sort of like how I remembered him—handsome, with a kind face—but more polished, somehow, as if they had turned up the intensity in his colors, given his hair extra shine. Made his skin glow. And Melissa had been right about their exercise regime. I could see the fabric of Olly’s T-shirt straining against his chest.

  “Let’s get inside; it’s freezing out here.”

  Olly led me round the back of the venue to the stage door as fireflies danced in my stomach. Another huge bouncer was standing guard, and inside I could hear microphones being tested and the sound of drums.

  “Oh wait,” said Olly, taking something from his pocket and nodding at the bouncer, who clicked open the door. “You’ll need this.”

  Olly dangled a Fire&Lights wristband in front of me and, nudging back the cuff of my duffle coat, wrapped it around my wrist and secured it underneath. His fingers were warm against my cold skin.

  “You’re one of us now,” he joked, showing me to the door.

  And we walked inside.

  A huge team of people was buzzing around inside the building, talking into headsets, folding clothes, unraveling cables. We passed through long, narrow corridors, up and down stairs, through countless doors, and finally out into a large backstage area with tables covered in chips, drinks, and colorful bowls of fruit.

  “So this is it,” said Olly, picking up two Cokes and offering one to me. I accepted, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted it. “It gets pretty hectic round here before the show, but you’ll be fine if you stick with me.”

  He smiled and gestured toward a nearby sofa. We both sat down, and he ran a hand through his short, sandy-brown hair.

  “It’s awesome that you came.”

  Olly had this striking, blue-eyed gaze that I’d never noticed at school. I shifted on the sofa.

  “Thanks for asking me.”

  “Pleasure.”

  He popped open his drink, and my fireflies danced some more.

  “I just hope I can do a good job.”

  “Are you kidding? Your photos are great.”

  “I don’t know; my camera’s not the best … it’s secondhand.”

  Olly looked down at the camera case by my feet, and my face prickled with shame. Melissa told me once that, even though their album hadn’t been released yet, the boys from Fire&Lights were probably already millionaires from their sponsorship deals and sold-out world tour. And here I was with a battered old camera my dad bought on eBay.

  “Plus,” I said, “I make most of it up as I go along, to be honest.”r />
  Olly leaned in toward me.

  “You wanna know something?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. I nodded, and his blue eyes sparkled at me. “So do I.”

  He sat back against the arm of the sofa.

  “So how’s the old school? Big-Ears Bennett still in charge?”

  “Yep, he’s still there. Ears still pretty huge.”

  Olly laughed.

  “I shouldn’t call him that, really, he was such a nice guy. They all were. Supporting me in the live finals. The whole school voted for us—it was mad.”

  Olly took a swig of his Coke, and I looked at my feet. Crossed them, uncrossed them.

  “Everyone’s obsessed with you guys at Caversham,” I said.

  “Hey, I’m just lucky. Anyone could be in my shoes.”

  But you’re not just anyone, I thought. You’re Olly Samson, from Fire&Lights.

  “Yo, Olly. Got a question about your monitoring.”

  A short, stubbly man was standing above Olly, holding a metal box with an antenna sticking out of it. He was wearing black cargo shorts and a tour T-shirt for a band called Pulled Apart By Horses. His neck was plastered in tattoos.

  “Sorry, Charlie … won’t be a sec.”

  Olly started chatting with the man about something that sounded very technical, so I slipped my phone from my pocket and fired off a message to Melissa.

  I’m sitting on a sofa with olly samson :) xx

  Less than two seconds later, my phone pinged.

  OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO PEE MYSELF

  I stifled a laugh.

  Please don’t

  I cannot believe I’m listening to old person music at my stupid cousin’s wedding & ur chilling with celebs. PITY ME

  :(:(:(

  HAVE YOU TOLD HIM ABOUT ME YET

  I glanced at Olly, who was turning a knob on the metal box and cracking a joke. The man with the neck tattoos was laughing and shaking his head.

  It hasn’t come up

  Ping.

  If he asks, make sure u tell him I’ve kissed tons of boys so I know what I’m doing

  Ping.

  But at the same time make it clear I am no hussy

  I was halfway through writing back, when my screen lit up again.