Songs About a Girl Page 9

  Melissa leaped back onto the bed, smoothed down her manic hair, and affected a laid-back tone. “Come in.”

  The door creaked open and Melissa’s mum appeared, carrying two big, steaming mugs of hot chocolate. Her bouncy red curls were stacked high on top of her head, one or two ringlets hanging loose at the sides.

  “How’s the homework going?” she asked, passing us the drinks.

  “We’re smashing it,” lied Melissa.

  “Hmm,” replied Rosie, casting a suspicious eye over the closed textbooks piled on the bed. “I see you’ve tidied up in here, though.”

  She surveyed the room and, noticing a pink skirt peeking out of the wardrobe door, raised a skeptical eyebrow at Melissa.

  “When Charlie’s left, you’ll do it properly, OK?”

  Melissa nodded casually, the way she always did when Rosie nagged her, and suddenly, I wanted my mum. It hit me without warning, like a knife in the side.

  Rosie turned to me. “How are things with you, love?”

  “Um … fine,” I replied, wrapping both hands around my mug. It said “WORLD’S GREATEST DAD” on it. Rosie tucked a curl behind her ear and looked at me as if she understood that things weren’t really fine at all.

  “Well, if you need me, I’ll be downstairs, working on an article.” She reached for the door handle and threw a sideways glance at her daughter. “More homework, less chatter, please.”

  Melissa plucked a dripping marshmallow from her drink and popped it in her mouth.

  “You betcha, Ma.”

  When Rosie was gone, Melissa sat back against the headboard and swallowed the marshmallow. She gave me a concerned look.

  “You sure you’re all right?” she said, reminding me, fleetingly, of her mum. “You seem, I don’t know, distracted.”

  Our eyes met, and my fingers twitched in my lap. I thought about my mother, the ink-spattered pages of her notebook, and the stolen words in the song. I longed to tell Melissa, but the more I thought about it … the crazier it sounded.

  Even in my own head, it was embarrassing.

  “Just … lots going on right now,” I said, breaking eye contact. “Y’know—schoolwork. Aimee Watts.”

  “Oh, boooo. That waste of space.” She put on a snooty accent. “I won’t have her name spoken in my house.”

  I attempted a smile, and Melissa set down her mug.

  “If you were ever really sad,” she said, “d’you know what I’d do?”

  I sipped my drink.

  “Put on some Fire&Lights?”

  She grinned. “Well yes, obviously. But I mean, like, really sad. Like, if something awful had just happened and you thought the world was going to end … know what I’d do?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’d fill your bedroom with marshmallows.”

  I squinted at her. “What?”

  “Your entire room. I’d go out and spend all my money on marshmallows, and I’d fill up your bedroom from floor to ceiling, and then we’d just sit around for hours eating and laughing. It’s impossible to be sad when you’re eating marshmallows. That’s a scientific fact.”

  I looked back at Melissa, whose palms were upturned as if to say, No, really: that’s a fact, and a little light glowed inside me.

  “Right then, come on,” she said, drumming her hands on the bed. “You have to tell me the story of Saturday night again. What was Aiden wearing? Did you mention that before? You might have mentioned it.” She squinted, thinking. “I don’t care—tell me again.”

  I thought back to Saturday night, the noise and mayhem of the concert, the smoke and the fireworks, the wail of guitars and the deafening thrash of the drum kit. The girls in the crowd, reaching out to their idols.

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Useless, Charlie! You’re my insider; I want juicy details. Secrets.”

  “I have a question for you, actually.”

  Surprised, Melissa raised her chin at me. Then she sighed, and pointed at our history notes.

  “Is it about Hitler’s rise to power? Because I am CRAZY-BORED of all that.”

  “No, actually. It’s not.”

  “Then fire away.”

  I could feel myself frowning. “The new single … what do you think it’s about?”

  Melissa’s whole face opened, very slowly.

  “I knew it!” she said, pointing at me.

  “What?”

  She extended her pointing arm until she was bopping me on the nose. “YOU LOVE FIRE&LIGHTS.”

  I batted her away, but she kept bopping me and laughing.

  “No … no.” We were both laughing now. “I don’t necessarily love Fire&Lights.”

  “You’re totally into them.”

  “No, I…” I grabbed both of Melissa’s hands. “I just wondered, that’s all.”

  Melissa freed herself, leaned back against the wall, and scratched her head. “Um … well … I’m not really sure.”

  I crossed my arms.

  “There’s something you don’t know about Fire&Lights?”

  “I KNOW,” she replied, eyes wide.

  I cleared my throat and pressed a thumb into the duvet. “So, really. You don’t have any ideas?”

  I looked up. Melissa’s brow was furrowed.

  “I dunno, it’s probably about … well, it’s just about some girl, isn’t it?” she said, picking up her phone.

  As she scrolled the screen, singing to herself, I stared out of the window, over the skeletal, frosted trees, and into my own bedroom across the garden. Melissa’s words throbbed insistently in my mind.

  It’s just about some girl.

  * * *

  Back at home that evening, I found myself sitting on my bed, the curtains drawn, doing something I never thought I’d do.

  I was watching a Fire&Lights music video on repeat.

  The video for “Dance with You” was shot on the lip of a cliff, somewhere warm, probably in the Mediterranean, while a blazing red sun sank over the ocean. The camera swooped and dived above the boys as they sang, cutting between the sun-drenched cliff side and a winding mountain road, the band flying past in a sleek, open-top sports car, Gabriel at the wheel.

  The song already had millions of hits.

  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

  There could be no mistaking it now. The official lyrics were posted in the blurb, and they were exactly as I’d heard them the first time. Something—something—was going on. And I had to find out what it was.

  “‘Dance with You’ was the third single to be released from Songs About a Girl, the debut album by British all-male pop group Fire&Lights…”

  The Wikipedia page for “Dance with You” told me that the track was written by a songwriting partnership called the Speedway Collective. Clicking through to their page, I found a short entry listing all the songwriters involved, copied and pasted the names, and then fed them, one by one, into Google. This dug up little of interest: a couple of LinkedIn accounts, which didn’t tell me much, and an interview with one of the writers in a music magazine. I read the whole thing, but it was mostly about technology and music software. I gazed in silence at my computer screen. It felt like a dead end.

  My phone chirped at me from my desk. A reply from Olly.

  Yep, all’s good thanks. Been a hectic week so far!! How are you? O xx

  I looked up at the Fire&Lights video I’d been playing on a loop.

  Busy :) I typed back. Think those pix are nearly ready … shall i send them over? xx

  Yep, sounds great, just dropbox them to me xx P.S. Yuki says hi :)

  After editing late into the night on Sunday, I had pulled together an album of twenty photos from Reading Arena. I was certain I could do better given another chance, but even so, I was pretty proud of the shots.

  If Olly liked them, I knew exactly what I was going to d
o next.

  Ok, great, will send them over in a s

  I stopped typing as I noticed the comments section under “Dance with You” refreshing with new posts. Fire&Lights videos buzzed constantly with chatter, mostly girls bickering about who was the hottest member of the band, or the occasional troll writing “this group sux” or “ur all idiots.” The comment at the top of the page was written by a user called gabrielsfuturewife.

  omg this song is so about me

  I stared at the comment, an itchy heat flushing my face. Was that what I had become? Some sad teenage girl sitting in her bedroom convinced her favorite pop stars were singing about her? Maybe I should change my name to gabrielsfuturewife, I thought.

  Ping. A message from Melissa.

  Still on the hitler chapter. This is so depressing

  A short pause.

  Also, I DO NOT LIKE HIS MUSTACHE

  I don’t think you’re supposed to like his mustache

  There was a longer pause. My message seemed to have stumped her.

  Not sure I’m cut out for year 11 history. It’s too brutal

  I sent her an emoji of a little mustachioed man, and she replied, randomly, with an octopus and a cheeseburger.

  Upload complete, said my computer.

  The pictures were ready to send.

  On Saturday night, Fire&Lights was performing in Brighton. If the boys liked what I’d done with this batch of photos, I’d decided to invite myself back again. I would tell Dad I was off to a friend’s birthday party in town that day, and since Brighton was just a couple of hours from Reading on the train, provided I left for home when the concert began, I’d make it back in time for curfew.

  While I was there, I’d find some answers. Surely, if I asked enough people, something was bound to come up…?

  Returning to my laptop, I scrolled back up the YouTube page for “Dance with You” and, for the twentieth time that night, hit refresh on the player.

  * * *

  Two days passed, and I heard nothing from Olly.

  Doubt crept into my thoughts. Sure, the band was busy, they always were, but why hadn’t he messaged, even just to say he’d received the files? What if I was wrong about the pictures, and Olly hated them? What if I’d been right the first time? I wasn’t a real photographer, I was just a kid with a secondhand camera, playing at being a grown-up. And now I’d been found out.

  To make matters worse, Aimee was watching me at break times. She would brush past me in the hallway, linger by my desk in class. She’d walk home in the same direction as me, but on the other side of the road, never making eye contact. Just walking.

  I couldn’t avoid her forever. I had to talk to her, and I had to do it alone.

  * * *

  “Didn’t your mum ever tell you it’s rude to stare?”

  Aimee was loitering behind the sports hall, chewing gum. Gemma was with her, along with Jamie Wheeler and Sam Croft, and two other girls I didn’t know.

  “Oh, wait,” Aimee added, her head cocked. “I forgot.”

  Sam and Jamie both sniggered. I forced my mother from my mind.

  “I want to talk about the dance,” I said, my voice strong and steady. Aimee didn’t reply; she just reached behind her head, casually, and fiddled with her headband.

  I stepped forward, and her friends bristled.

  “I know you think it was me, bu—”

  “Actually,” she said, leaning back against the wall, “I don’t think it was you.” She smiled: a flat, joyless smile. “I know it was you.”

  The sounds of the schoolyard played out all around us. Feet scuffling on tarmac, phone message tones. A soccer ball hitting a chain-link fence.

  “It’s got nothing to do with me. Why would I bother telling anyone?”

  Calmly, with almost a yawn, Aimee said: “I don’t care why you told them.”

  My chest thumped. I gritted my teeth.

  “Here’s the thing, Charlie,” she continued in a chummy, oily tone. “Thanks to you, Bennett’s got me on triple after-schools until Christmas.” Her nostrils flared. “My dad went mental.”

  Jamie whispered something to Sam, who eyed me silently, head to toe, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

  I folded my arms. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Nothing,” said Aimee, picking out dirt from beneath her fingernail. “One day, though, I’ll pay you back.”

  She locked her gaze on mine. That same hard, glassy stare from the cafeteria.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what I said. I’ll pay you back.” She paused. “You just won’t know when it’s coming.”

  We watched each other for a while, my heartbeat stuttering in my chest, her mascaraed eyes unblinking. A plane passed overhead.

  “This is useless,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t know why I bothered…”

  They’re just words, I told myself. They don’t mean anything. But as I turned to walk away, there was a dead weight in my stomach, gritty like wet sand.

  “Charlie?”

  I turned back round. Aimee was sniffing the end of an unlit cigarette and rummaging in her pocket for a lighter. She looked up, that same joyless smile on her face, and parked the cigarette in her mouth.

  “See you around, yeah?”

  * * *

  Later that evening, I sat on my bed, surrounded by math textbooks and geometry equipment, drawing a series of halfhearted triangles in my workbook. I could hear Dad flicking between channels downstairs: “… despite its modest size, the long-tailed field mouse will … much stronger season for the lads, and training’s been … Scotland Yard confirmed that Mr. Mullins had been found guilty of tax fraud, seven years prior to the incident…”

  I could picture the scene. A pile of work files on the arm of Dad’s chair, his spectacles resting on top. Glass of red wine on the table.

  We hadn’t spoken much since the night of the concert.

  Hey charlie!!

  A Facebook notification hit my phone. When I saw the name, a rush of relief passed through me.

  Hey olly … you good? Did you get my photos?

  Yep, got em, sorry i’ve been slow messaging u back. We just flew out to Dublin for a TV interview, it’s been a bit crazy!

  Downstairs, a studio audience applauded.

  Anyway, we’ve all been checking out your pics today, and they look incredible!! I passed them on to our media team—they should be on the site by now

  A smile spread across my face, and I closed my workbook.

  Awesome, thanks. Just taking a look …

  I loaded up the Fire&Lights website, and as the home page appeared—a photo of the boys standing on a rooftop at night, city skyline blazing behind them—a cluster of hot nerves gathered in my belly. Clicking through to the fan page, I held my breath, unsure whether to feel excited or scared.

  Found em yet?;)

  The banner at the top of the page read FIRE&LIGHTS: FAN HQ, and underneath were rows and rows of images of the boys, mostly backstage at gigs or on the tour bus. No photo shoots or staged pictures, just simple, candid shots of life on the road.

  And there, about ten rows down, were the photos from Reading Arena.

  My. Photos.

  Oh my god … i see them

  There was the picture of Yuki, launching peanuts into his mouth during makeup; Olly, lying on a sofa with his feet up, smiling at his bandmates; Gabriel, dancing with a fan at the after-party. And finally, perhaps my favorite image of the night: a simple shot of Aiden’s guitar, propped up in the corner of the empty dressing room, a pile of his trademark wristbands nestled beside it.

  Have you read the comments? wrote Olly. The fans are loving it!

  He was right. Underneath each photo was a long stream of comments, every single one of them positive.

  love love LOVE this shot!

  sooooo cute <3 <3

  mega cool photo woo-hooooooo

  best pic EVER of gabriel!! xxxxx

  I scr
olled up and down the screen, my chest thumping. As promised, they hadn’t published my name, but here was my work—my photography—being enjoyed by more people than I could ever, ever have imagined. I dropped back against the headboard, my cheeks tingling. It felt amazing.

  I typed out a reply to Olly.

  Wow … i can’t believe my pix got used. Thank you so much

  No need to thank me, charlie. You deserve it

  I allowed myself a little squeak and sent a message to Melissa.

  My shots got used on the F&L site

  WHAT. THE. ACTUAL

  I glanced out my window. Across the garden, I could see Melissa sitting at her computer, mug of hot chocolate steaming beside her.

  On the fan page, about halfway down. Starts with a pic of yuki eating peanuts

  Oh my gosh, I’m looking right now …

  Melissa’s head flitted from side to side as she took in the pictures, her finger trailing across the screen. She picked up her phone again, typing madly.

  Charlie charlie charlie. So proud of u. SO PROUD. I may cry

  A pause.

  I am crying

  Melissa turned, noticed me watching her, and padded over to the window. We grinned at each other across the divide, and then she wiped her eyes and gave me a big, goofy thumbs-up.

  The phone rang in the hallway. I could hear Dad’s chair creaking as he stood up, and the television being muted. I began another message to Olly.

  Olly, i was thinking …

  Beep-and-click: Dad picking up the receiver. His tone was hard, irritable. A cold caller.

  … i’m free on saturday if you could use me at the brighton gig…??

  For thirty long seconds, I received no reply. I reread my message, finger tapping the screen. Was I asking too much? Was this only ever meant to be a onetime thing?

  Definitely! came Olly’s reply. We’d love that :)

  A relieved laugh tumbled out of me, and my phone blipped again.

  Maybe you could come down even earlier, get some pics of us with the fans, press, etc…??

  Great idea. :)

  Tell you what, continued Olly, as I beamed at the screen, I’ll get management to courier your wristband to you 2moro … that way you can arrive whenever you want, even if i’m busy. Sound good?