Songs About a Girl Read online

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  “Today we’ll be talking about your futures,” announced Mr. Crouch, shutting the classroom door behind him. Crossing to the whiteboard, he wiped it clean with three strokes and adjusted his glasses. From the back of the room, somebody threw a tiny projectile at him, and it dinged off his shoulder. He didn’t notice.

  “You might not realize it yet, but decisions you make now will affect the rest of your lives,” he continued, turning to face us. “And while it doesn’t seem like a big d—Jamie, put your phone away, please. Thank you. And while it doesn’t seem like a big deal now, one day soon, I promise it will.”

  Somebody made the sound of a small, sad trumpet being played, and a ripple of laughter passed through the room.

  “Year Eleven, please.”

  A sharp knock at the door silenced the class. Shadowy figures could be seen hovering behind the frosted glass.

  “Come in…?”

  The door opened to reveal Aimee and Gemma, flanked by the school secretary. Mr. Crouch thanked her with a nod, and she left, closing the door behind her.

  “Sit down, girls,” said Mr. Crouch, as Aimee and Gemma slunk into the room, eyeing the rest of us with a combination of pride and hostility. Aimee weaved toward the back, passing my desk even though it wasn’t on the way, and slumped down in her usual seat between Jamie Wheeler and Sam Croft, at least one of whom was her boyfriend.

  “Now then, Miss Watts, we’ve just been talking about our futures. Perhaps you might care to share what you have in mind for yours?”

  Aimee ran her tongue across her teeth. “Prime minister.”

  Mr. Crouch scratched the back of his balding head and exhaled wearily.

  “Aimee, now is not the time. I can send you right back to Mr. Bennett if need be.”

  She glanced idly at the floor. “All right, then. What if I wanna be a techno DJ?”

  Mr. Crouch nudged his spectacles up his nose, put his hands on his hips, and thought for a moment. “Well, do you?”

  “I dunno, whatever.”

  I remembered the way Aimee had looked at me on Friday night, after our encounter by the drinks table. Panic began to crackle under my skin.

  “Well, it’s good to follow a dream, but you need decent grades under your belt first. This is precisely why you should be knuckling down this year, not horsing around, causing mayhem.”

  “I don’t cause mayhem,” said Aimee petulantly.

  There was a scuffling at the back of the room, and a pencil clattered onto the floor. Mr. Crouch’s face tightened.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “record labels don’t care about exams, sir. They just care how much you know about fat beats.”

  Mr. Crouch puffed his cheeks out.

  “And how much do you know about ‘fat beats’?” He made quote signs with his fingers.

  “Tons, obviously,” said Aimee with a smirk.

  “You see, in the entertainment business,” said Mr. Crouch, pacing across the front of the class, “people are looking for tenacity, ambition … and talent. You have to be fearless if you want to make it.” He clapped his hands together. “But anyway, who else? Do we have an aspiring restaurateur in the room, perhaps? Any budding neuroscientists?”

  “I’m gonna work in McDonald’s, sir.”

  That was Jamie Wheeler.

  “Your mum works in McDonald’s.”

  And that was Sam Croft.

  “Come on now, Year Eleven, settle down. You really are too old to be making silly jokes about this. Let’s have a sensible answer, please…”

  “You should ask that Charlie Bloom.”

  The class went silent when Aimee said my name.

  “Sorry, Aimee?”

  “You should ask that Charlie Bloom what she wants to be when she grows up, ’cause she’s proper clever.”

  A prickly heat rose inside me as Mr. Crouch turned to look in my direction. “Um … well, why not. Charlie? Any career plans? What’s your passion?”

  I chewed on my thumbnail. “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Yes, you do,” answered Aimee from behind me. “You’re always creeping around with that stupid camera, taking pictures of us.”

  This set free another ripple of laughter, which Mr. Crouch waved away. I sank down into my chair.

  “Well, at least Charlie’s doing something constructive with her time, Miss Watts. I daresay she has higher career expectations than you do.”

  There was an instant commotion in the room, a chorus of oooohs and hands drumming on tables, and a mild flash of panic passed across Mr. Crouch’s face. He shouldn’t have said that, and he knew it.

  “A-anyway,” he stuttered, running the back of his hand across his brow, “enough of that. Let’s, um, let’s move on to today’s lesson, shall we? Where did we get to last week…?”

  Mumbling, Mr. Crouch turned to write some notes on the board.

  A thick, heavy silence fell among my classmates, and I heard a chair scrape back across the tiles. Sensing movement behind my head, I kept my eyes to the front and tried to concentrate on my workbook, but the words were no more than blurry, meaningless scribbles on the page. Soon, I could feel the whole class watching me, and Aimee’s breath on the back of my neck.

  Then her voice, scratchy and low, too quiet for anyone but me to hear, whispered:

  “I know it was you.”

  11

  * * *

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  Songs About a Girl

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  We reckon it’s EVEN BETTER than “Have You Seen My Girl” and “Hollywood Movie Star”—and we didn’t think that was POSSIBLE!! :)

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  Not long now before the album comes out—we’re counting the days. What about you guys? How excited are you about SONGS ABOUT A GIRL?? Leave us a comment, people!! xxx

  xox FIRE&LIGHTS FOREVER xox The best Fire&Lights fan blog on the web!!

  * * *

  It was pandemonium in the school cafeteria. One of the Year Eight girls was standing on a chair, playing Fire&Lights songs at full blast on her phone, while around her people were dancing between tables and singing at the tops of their voices.

  “The new Fire&Lights single is a-may-ZING,” Melissa was saying as she examined the contents of her sandwich. “Did they play it at the concert?”

  I’d been watching the main entrance since we arrived, waiting for Aimee to appear. My food sat next to me, untouched.

  “I don’t remember,” I replied distantly. Melissa bounced up and down in her seat.

  “I can’t believe you were actually backstage. It’s so epic.”

  I touched a finger to my mouth.

  “Sssh, Melissa … keep it down.”

  She glanced around the cafeteria, then leaned in toward me. “I still don’t understand why you wouldn’t want people to know. It’s, like, the best gossip of all time ever.”

  I bunched up my shoulders to keep out the cold.

  The best gossip of all time ever.

  “Promise you haven’t told anyone…?” I said, and Melissa rolled her eyes.

  “Obviously not. My lips are sealed.”

  Across the room, the Year Eight girls were clambering onto tabletops, shrieking with laughter as they helped each other up. A bored member of the kitchen staff watched them from behind the food counter.

  “Holly, get up here!”

  “I can’t … ow! Quick, grab my hand…”

  The girls stamped their feet, singing tunelessly at each other, and I peered past them into the corridor. I could see Mr. Swift approaching from the main building, appearing and disappea
ring as he strode past the windows.

  “So, come on. What’s up?”

  Melissa was waving at me.

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve been miles away all day. What’s going on?”

  I tugged at the back of my hat.

  “It’s … I don’t know.” I threw her a nervous look. “It’s Aimee Watts.”

  Melissa pulled a face and took a big bite from her sandwich. “Aimee Watts?” She chewed for a while. “What about her?”

  “She thinks I ratted on her.”

  “Huh?”

  “At the dance, I saw her spiking the punch. She thinks it was me who turned her in.”

  Melissa stopped chewing. “Oh.” She put down her sandwich. “Oh.”

  The look on Melissa’s face told me I was right to be worried. Aimee had been expelled from several schools before coming to Caversham High, and rumors about what she’d done often circulated the halls in gleeful whispers. Some had to have been made up, they were so ridiculous.

  I turned away from Melissa, toward the window, and shielded my eyes against the blazing winter sun.

  In the courtyard, a huddle of Year Elevens was chatting and laughing, rubbing their hands together for warmth, breath escaping their mouths in chilly white clouds. Jamie and Sam were punting a tattered soccer ball against the wall; it released a dull, flabby slap with every kick. Then, just outside the circle, being talked at by a friend, I saw Aimee. Her friend was standing right next to her, but Aimee wasn’t listening. She wasn’t even facing her.

  She was staring into the building, eyes like glass, watching me.

  “Down from there, immediately!” came a commanding voice from the main entrance. It was Mr. Swift, his face a little red, pointing at the dancing Year Eight girls and waving them down. The music stopped abruptly and, cowed into a nervous silence, the girls staggered down from their tables and fussed at each other on the ground. Mr. Swift paced over to them and, with his back turned to us, reproached them in a low, firm voice.

  When Melissa spoke, her voice sounded thin and reedy. “Maybe she’ll let it go…”

  I wasn’t looking out of the window anymore, but I could feel Aimee’s eyes all over me. Crawling up my neck.

  “I want this to be over. I think I should go talk to her.”

  Melissa nearly choked on her sandwich. “What? What do you mean?”

  “I can’t just ignore it, can I? I need to talk to her.”

  “Her dad’s been in prison,” said Melissa, trying to catch my eye. “You don’t know what she might…”

  Cafeteria noise clattered and clanged all around us. Plates being stacked, staff collapsing tables with sharp, metallic thwacks. The sickly gurgle of water heaters.

  I looked out of the window again, but Aimee was gone.

  “Let’s have you all outside in five minutes, please,” said Mr. Swift to the few remaining diners, as he exited the cafeteria with a smattering of sheepish Year Eights in tow. We sat in silence for a while, the room emptying around us.

  Melissa grabbed my sleeve.

  “Hey, why don’t we listen to the new Fire&Lights song? Might cheer you up.” She presented me with a rhubarb yogurt. “You can share my dessert?”

  She pointed her spoon at me. When I failed to respond, she reached forward and hung it on the end of my nose.

  I laughed, and the spoon dropped off with a clang.

  “Sure,” I said with a sigh.

  Melissa rifled through her bag and pulled out a pair of earphones, knotted like spaghetti. Untangling them, she popped in an earpiece and passed the other end to me.

  “Fire&Lights fix everything, as you well know.”

  I cast Melissa a skeptical look, but a smile crept onto my face. She wiggled a finger at my ear.

  “Quick, it’s starting!”

  I slid the earpiece in, and the music began to build.

  “Olly sings the first bit,” Melissa explained, opening her yogurt. “Just you wait. His voice sounds soooo dreamy in this song…”

  As the track unfolded—an echoey guitar part curling around a steady, thumping bass drum—I thought back to Saturday night. Had they played this song at the concert? I couldn’t be sure. The show had been such a blur, and from the wings, you couldn’t always hear the words above the pounding of drums.

  Either way, Melissa was right: Olly’s voice, pure and uplifting, sounded amazing as it soared above the track. But that wasn’t what caught my attention.

  There was something else.

  Something extraordinary.

  It passed in an instant, and I sat back in my chair, hairs raised on the back of my neck. I must have heard it wrong. That happened all the time, didn’t it? People misheard lyrics all the time.

  But … not like this.

  Take me home

  ’Cause I’ve been dreaming of a girl I know

  The night draws in, and with a shiver on my skin

  I still remember everything

  What I’d heard—or, at least, what I thought I’d heard—was more than a little familiar. The opening lines of the song—they could almost have come from my mother’s notebook. I remembered her exact words:

  Take me home

  I’ve been dreaming of a girl I know

  The sweetest thing, you know she makes me wanna sing

  I still remember everything

  I shook my head, like I could shake off the entire idea.

  The disaster with Aimee was clouding my brain, and I wasn’t thinking straight. I was hearing things. Making connections that didn’t exist.

  But when the second verse hit, another stream of familiar words rang out through Melissa’s earpiece.

  I call her name

  I keep her picture in a silver frame

  So she will know, that if I ever come home

  She will never be alone

  That verse, those lyrics, they weren’t just similar to Mum’s poem, they were virtually identical. As if they’d been lifted straight from the pages of her notebook.

  I felt a rising pressure inside me, like someone was inflating a balloon behind my rib cage. The music crashed over me like a flood, and I shut my eyes, my breathing unsteady, the driving drumbeat thudding in my chest.

  I wanna dance with you, girl, till the sun goes down

  I wanna feel every rush that you feel

  I wanna hear every sound when your heart cries out

  So sing it with me tonight

  When the final chord had faded away, I sat rooted to my chair, pulse racing, eyes fixed on the floor. I thought about asking Melissa to replay the song, so I could listen harder, just to be sure. Just to be sure I wasn’t losing my mind.

  Because—and I knew this was impossible, and completely crazy—but somehow, the song was about me.

  12

  I couldn’t concentrate on anything else for the rest of the day.

  In class, on the sodden playing fields, on the walk home with Melissa, all I could hear were those words. Words that were supposed to be mine, and mine alone, hidden from the world in a cardboard box beneath my bed.

  Take me home

  ’Cause I’ve been dreaming of a girl I know …

  I call her name

  I keep her picture in a silver frame …

  As we wandered along the main road, questions circled my brain. Did anyone else know about this? Did it mean anything if they did? How could words written by my mother and kept locked up in our house since her death, turn up thirteen years later in a famous pop song?

  It was almost like someone had stolen her thoughts.

  “… Some people think Aiden’s a bit too quiet, but I like quiet boys, you know?” Melissa was chattering happily as she walked along next to me. “That’s why I chose Khaleed for my first kiss. He doesn’t really talk much. Actually, I don’t know if I’ve ever heard him talk. Maybe he’s on a silent protest…”

  There’d be a rational explanation, of course. Everything had a rational explanation.

  I was get
ting carried away.

  “… There was this kid once, d’you remember, at primary school? He didn’t talk for, like, three whole years. We all figured he didn’t have a tongue or something. Turned out he was just Portuguese…”

  In any case, everyone knew boy bands didn’t write their own music. So where had the lyrics come from? Some random songwriter?

  “… Can you imagine if I stopped talking for three years? That would be so weird…”

  Plus there were only a limited number of words in the English language. Most likely, the whole thing was nothing more than a coincidence.

  “… I suppose if I stopped talking for a while then I might get other things done, like my German verb tables. But then, if I couldn’t speak, how would I chat with the cat or order pizz—Are you all right?” Melissa had stopped right in front of me.

  “What?”

  She was eyeing me from beneath her hood, which was dotted with raindrops. On the road, cars hissed through shimmering puddles.

  “Everything OK? You seem a bit … bleh.”

  Despite the cold, my cheeks were flushed.

  “I’m … fine,” I replied with a shake of my head.

  Melissa considered me for a moment, like a curious doctor, then took me by the hand. “I know exactly what you need.”

  * * *

  “Hot chocolate coming up in five!” called Melissa’s mum from the kitchen, as the kettle began to boil. Melissa and I were sitting cross-legged on her bed, the door to her room ajar, twiddling on our phones.

  “Yay!” chirped Melissa, sitting up straight. Then she shot off the bed, poked her head through the gap in the door, and shouted: “Can we have marshmallows?”

  “You drive a hard bargain, young lady,” Rosie called back, and there was a distant clink as she opened the cutlery drawer. “That bedroom better be tidy when I come up there…”

  With a gasp, Melissa slammed the door, scanned the room, and started throwing clothes into drawers and kicking piles of notes under the desk. I watched her for a while, balling up her tops and stuffing them into the back of her wardrobe.

  “D’you want a hand?”

  “Nope,” replied Melissa, her breath short, “I’m a master at this.” She whipped a collection of colored pencils into her desk drawer, chucked a handful of dirty laundry into the basket and, just as she was hanging her dressing gown on its hook, there was a knock on the other side of the door.