by Alex Dyson
Caleb stood rooted to the spot as his mum walked past.
‘Mum …’
He wasn’t sure if she didn’t hear him, or just ignored him. But Caleb was sure that the door closing behind his usually quiet mother carried the hint of a slam, the wood slapping into its frame and the loud click of a deadbolt articulating disappointment more than words ever could.
Back in his bedroom, Caleb opened Facebook and immediately remembered why he didn’t go on Facebook. All of the posts on his newsfeed (that weren’t ads for music equipment or touring bands) reminded him how boring his life was.
Photos from beaches.
Photos from parties.
Smiles.
They were all foreign concepts to him.
He clicked on his notifications.
Rachel Clifford shared a post you made.
That was followed by, David Anderson and 6 other people liked your post.
That was followed by, Jack Froggatt invited you to play Mafia Wars.
Caleb frowned. He clicked on the first notification.
Rachel had indeed shared the song. The words Really cool tune sat above the SoundCloud link for BVTTON. Beneath the post were seventeen likes and three comments. Good find, Rach, said Odette Simmons. Chilled, I like it, said Karen Nguyen. And finally, their Uncle Dennis wrote a comment saying Hello Rachel. This song ruels. c u at Christmas, followed by a hand-waving emoji. Caleb cringed. Boomers and being awkward online – name a more iconic duo.
Despite his mortification that these people had heard the audible manifestation of his unrequited love for an unattainable girl, Caleb couldn’t help but feel the slightest hint of pride. They liked it. Even Uncle Dennis liked it. These were uncharted waters.
He clicked on the seventeen likes on the post and scanned the names. Mercifully, not one of them was from Ella Westlake herself. He exhaled. Hopefully this meant she hadn’t seen it. Caleb sent a quick prayer to the sky that this was the case, clicked the task bar, then hit the delete button.
‘Do you really want to delete this post?’ asked Facebook.
Caleb did, so he clicked the delete BVTTON button.
Crisis narrowly averted.
Relaxing for the first time in what felt like hours, Caleb pressed play on his Friday Wind-down Spotify playlist and lay on his bed. He closed his eyes, but his mind was still racing.
He would have to wait until Monday Maths before he could read Ella’s face to try to find out whether she had seen the post. If not, he was safe. If so, he might have to say something. But what? That would be the worst Maths class ever. No, it would be even worse if they were doing an algebra pop quiz as well. He’d be better at a pop-music pop quiz. He did do okay when he played Trivial Pursuit that one time with their family friends on the Gold Coast. They flew up there and his dad told him not to worry about flying, because it was very unlikely you would die – it was easier to die from cancer than from a plane crash. Since Dad got it, would he get cancer as well? And how would Ella react if they got married and he died? Hopefully not as badly as his mum, and maybe he could move out with Rachel one day, and they’d have an L-shaped couch because those were the best … then, finally, after this stream of consciousness, Caleb fell asleep.
CHAPTER 4
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You look like you’re thinking about something.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are! I can tell.’
Caleb knew Miralee Kahn smelled a rat. It was Monday afternoon Music and he’d just come from Maths, where Ella Westlake had either pretended to do her work and occasionally talk and laugh with her friends because she was trying to act cool and hide the fact she’d seen his song on Facebook, OR she’d been like that because she was studious and popular, thereby being generally cool without having to act.
It was hard to tell.
‘Is it school?’ Miralee persisted. ‘Is it ME?’
‘It’s not you! It’s nothing –’
‘Well if it’s not me, then what is it?’
Damn she was good. Caleb had to do something. Like a drop-tail lizard – chop off a limb to save the body. He never really told Miralee much about his own problems – he was always the listener, and he liked it that way – so maybe she’d appreciate it.
‘Okay. Well, look,’ he said, leaning in close. ‘I kind of, sorta, maybe … like someone.’ Caleb delivered the final part of the sentence with all the enthusiasm of a squashed turnip.
Miralee pounced. ‘OMG, WHO IS IT! Do I know her? Or him? Or it? I mean, I don’t want to label you, it could be a pillowslip –’
‘Miralee –’
‘Sorry, it’s just you do watch a lot of those Japanese cartoons –’
Caleb scoffed. ‘It’s a her.’
‘Is it Ella Westlake?’
Caleb’s jaw dropped. ‘What?!’
She was too good. He should have known – when Miralee wasn’t talking IRL, she was talking via socials. She was on everything – Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, TikTok, Instagram, Tumblr, Smeltr, Pro-dox, YakChat, Fleasack and even Puppr, which apparently was like Tinder, but for meeting dogs you wanted to pat.
She sat back in her chair, triumphant. ‘I knew it!’ she exclaimed, pumping her fist. Celia Pavey turned around and looked at them suspiciously.
Caleb would have been impressed if he wasn’t so shattered. ‘Did you see the –’
‘Yes!’ she answered before he could finish. ‘I saw the way you looked at her that day we went to the museum. I was going to ask you about it, but I got distracted by those Egyptian mummy-box things – what are those called? Anyway, one of them looked just like Dana, and I had to text her a photo, and then she replied that …’
As Miralee descended into another conversation marathon, Caleb counted his lucky stars. Yes, Miralee knew his secret, but she didn’t know about the song. She was unaware that Westlake made his chest ache.
‘… but they only found that out from the Rosetta Stone,’ she finished.
Caleb grunted agreeably.
‘Anyway – going back to the original conversation – you should totally tell her.’
Caleb wished she’d stayed on Egypt. ‘That’s literally the worst idea you’ve ever had.’
‘Go on! Throw it all out there. Make a grand romantic gesture or something! You never know!’
‘I do know, and the answer is no good.’
‘Fine. It’s your life.’ It sounded like she’d given up. Caleb was relieved. And it wasn’t long until she was off on another tangent. ‘Anyway, would it be okay if I got a lift home after school? My dad is away this week, in Singapore again, although last time it was actually Hong Kong …’
Caleb’s best mate was still talking as the two of them reached the auditorium after school.
‘… but I just don’t really know, maybe the kombucha is making me feel gross? I’ve heard such good things about it, but –’ Miralee’s spiel was finally interrupted when Nathaniel appeared.
‘Hey, Nathaniel! I’m getting a lift with you guys!’ Miralee squeaked in Nat’s direction.
‘Cool,’ said Nat.
‘Oh damn, one sec, I should really grab my thingamajig.’
‘Wait, your what?’ Caleb started, but Miralee had already zipped into the auditorium, leaving him and Nat alone.
Excellent.
‘So how’s it going, Bee-Vee-utton?’ Nat sneered. ‘Did you see Ella today?’
Caleb stared back blankly. He had ignored Nat’s attempts to rile him up about the song all weekend, and with Miralee returning any minute, he had to douse this fire before it got out of control.
‘Listen, Champ –’
Nat shot him a look.
‘Fine, Nathaniel. How much will it cost me for you to keep your mouth shut about the song?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m negotiating. How much do you want?’
Nat’s eyes lit up. ‘One thousand dollars!’
&n
bsp; Caleb laughed. ‘As if I have that.’
‘Okay – twenty dollars.’
‘Fine, here’s my offer – I’ll give you ten dollars when we get home, and another ten in three months when you haven’t told anyone.’
‘Deal!’ Nat pumped both fists on either side of his body.
Caleb was happy too, as he’d just saved himself nine hundred and eighty dollars, but did his fist-pumping internally.
‘Hey! Sorry about that,’ Miralee said, reappearing at their sides with her oversized instrument case.
‘What the hell is that?’ Nat said, stopping his fist-pumping.
‘Oh, this is my double bass. I need to practise again tonight. Reckon it’ll fit in the car?’
The brothers evaluated the situation. Nat, never one for subtlety, ogled the huge black case, staring at it with wide eyes. Caleb, on the other hand, got a glimpse of the size, but looked away immediately out of respect for Miralee.2
‘Yeah, it should,’ Caleb said tentatively as Rachel’s tiny Nissan rolled up the driveway. Just as Caleb was trying to picture how Miralee’s massive instrument would fit, a shout rang out: ‘SHOTGUN!’
Nathaniel’s call landed him the front seat, because everyone knows you can’t break the shotgun code. That left Caleb and Miralee squished in the back, separated by – after much cramming and jamming – an impenetrable barrier of double bass. The neck of the instrument poked through the gap in the front seats between Rachel and Nat, almost touching the windscreen.
‘So how was school, gang?’ Rachel asked.
Nathaniel was engrossed in his phone and ignored the question, so Rachel’s eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror, catching Caleb’s eye (the one that wasn’t hidden by the musical obstruction).
‘Fine,’ he said.
‘And what about you, Miralee?’
If it was conversation Rachel wanted, it’s what she got, as Miralee took off on a sprawling explanation of her day, starting from the moment she woke up and not leaving out any detail. Caleb listened from his squashed corner, hoping Rachel now appreciated that his awkward non-answers were not so bad.
‘… and we finally nailed the Verdi song we’ve been working on for ages, it’s really hard to play, so that was exciting –’
‘Oh, speaking of songs!’ Rachel interjected. ‘I wasn’t the only one who liked that song you shared, Caleb. It got Grace in good at the place she’s interning.’
Caleb, momentarily distracted by a woman out the window with a weird jogging style, took a second to twig. ‘Wait, what?’
‘My friend Grace Shaw, the girl I’m moving out with – she liked that song too.’
Caleb was frozen to the back seat.
Nathaniel, usually oblivious to all conversation that didn’t involve him, seemed suddenly interested. ‘What song?’ he asked, looking up from his phone.
‘Oh, well, whoever shared it, my friend Grace liked it and submitted it at her work. It got her a bunch of props, apparently.’
Nathaniel, who could smell one drop of Caleb’s annoyance in 1.4 million parts of water, lifted himself over the neck of the double bass to look directly at Caleb’s furiously reddening face.
Caleb’s eyes screamed at his little brother.
Nat looked torn. Caleb could tell he desperately wanted everyone to find out it was Caleb’s track, but the prospect of twenty dollars was holding him back …
‘Who sang that song again? I forget,’ he said, with terrible acting skills.
‘It was like B.V.T. something, wasn’t it?’ asked Rachel.
‘Oh, is that how you pronounce it?’ Nat said, looking into the back seat with glee.
‘Nathaniel, stop it,’ Caleb bleated meekly.
Rachel continued her guesses. ‘Could be bee vee ton. Could be Butto–’ She caught Caleb’s eye in the rear-vision mirror.
Dear god no.
Rachel slammed on the brakes, lurching everyone forward, and while the human passengers were wearing seatbelts, the double bass was not. It hit the windscreen with a crunch.
‘Oh my god, is the windscreen okay?’ Miralee gasped. ‘I’m so sorry, it’s such a silly instrument.’
Rachel didn’t seem to care. She spun around and glared at Caleb. ‘Wait – is this – true?’
Caleb was going to kill Nat.
‘Caleb! Are you BVTTON? Did you make that song?’ Rachel yelled.
Caleb sighed. He had to be honest. But maybe he could contain this to the car. ‘Um … yes? But I really don’t want anyone else to hear it, so maybe if you could ask your friend to –’
‘Shhh,’ Rachel said, cutting him off and fiddling with the radio dial. Miralee peeked over the double bass case at Caleb and mouthed, ‘What’s going on?’ while Nat just sat back and laughed, clearly pleased with himself.
‘Shit, I hope we haven’t missed it,’ said Rachel as noise suddenly filled the car.
‘Missed what?’ Caleb said in a daze.
‘The song, dummy! Your song, apparently! My friend Grace is interning on the drive show at Phresh FM. Luke Dubz is going to play it on the radio today!’
Caleb’s world began spiralling. He tried to say words good, but couldn’t say them good. Everything was getting jumbled in his mouth. Some sentences didn’t even make it there, instead getting stuck down in his stomach, where they played badminton with the butterflies that had taken up residence. Even someone like Caleb, who streamed most of their music, knew Phresh FM was the biggest radio station in the country. His brain was toast.
It was lucky that Miralee spoke. ‘Sooooo – is someone going to tell me what’s going on here?’
Flustered, Rachel finally found the right station. ‘Everyone, shut up! Here it is!’ She turned up the volume and a voice suddenly permeated the car.
‘… and they’ll be doing a west coast tour in early February. Now, as promised, it’s time for some new music here on Phresh FM. As you know, every Monday we introduce a PHRESH artist of the week, and I came across this track over the weekend and just HAD to play it for you. It’s from an artist known only as BVTTON. That’s BVTTON with a ‘V’ instead of a ‘U’ in case you’re searching for it. Makes it easier to google that way, I guess. Otherwise you just get a page full of sewing websites. HAHAHAHA, but no, seriously. No-one knows who he is, but this tune absolutely slaps, so here it is for you on your hooooome of new music, PHRESHHHH FM!’
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
Chords started. The bass pulsed through the speakers.
WESTLAKE, YOU MAKE MY CHEST ACHE
Rachel shrieked. Nat laughed. Miralee said, ‘What is this?’ Rachel said, ‘It’s Caleb!’ Miralee said, ‘Caleb who?’ Rachel said, ‘Caleb HIM!’ Miralee said, ‘What?’ Nat said, ‘AH-HA-HA-HA, Ella’s going to hear this!’ Rachel said, ‘No-one will know, shhh, I like this bit!’ Miralee yelled, ‘Wow, Caleb, this is you!’ Nat said, ‘Can we go yet?’ Miralee said, ‘I’ve gotta Snapchat this –’
And Caleb? Caleb just sat there. The whole situation was too abstract for words. His song. Was playing. On the radio. And everyone in the car could hear it. But it was far from contained. People in other cars could hear it. And people in trucks. And vans. And anyone in the country who had a radio, some of which might not even be in vehicles.
I don’t want to be cold to you
I just want to grow old with you …
The chorus blared through the speakers.
They couldn’t be playing it. Not yet. It wasn’t finished. Yes, he’d always dreamed of having one of his songs played on the radio. But not this one.
Please god, not this one.
‘This is so good, Caleb!’ Miralee said. ‘I KNEW your songs would be good. I can’t believe you’re showing everyone before you even showed me!’
‘It’s, um … not finished!’ was all he could muster.
‘What’s it called?’ she asked.
Caleb hesitated. He needed to think of a new name quickly. Unfortunately, Phresh FM’s Luke Dubz was quicker.
‘That was “Ella” by BVTTON on Phresh FM, your HOME of NEW MUSIC, and coming up we’ve got …’
Everyone turned and looked at Caleb.
‘Well,’ said Miralee. ‘I said make a grand gesture, but I wasn’t thinking this grand.’
2. This reaction summed up the boys’ personalities well, and would have been exactly the same if, instead of a musical instrument, they both saw a very large pair of breasts.
CHAPTER 5
Dinner is in the freezer. Love you xo
Caleb picked up the handwritten note from beneath the Thelma’s Plumbing fridge magnet and sighed.
It was nightshift week.
‘You hungry, superstar?’ Rachel asked.
Caleb shrugged. He wasn’t a fan of the new nickname, just as he wasn’t a fan of nightshift week. It was a Clifford family staple once a month when their mum was rostered on at the hospital. She’d start at 3pm and finish at 3am, meaning she was gone when they got home from school, and zonked out in bed when they got up for it. Because she wouldn’t be home to cook dinner, she filled the freezer with enough microwavable meals to last the week. Over the past year, the offerings had begun a slow but steady decline in both variety and quality. Caleb could take a wild guess as to why.
Rachel slipped past Caleb and opened the freezer, pulling out what could best be described as ‘meat, in a sauce, in a bag’.
‘I might put this in the sink to defrost … Oi Nat, you good for meat sauce bag tonight?’
‘Whatever,’ came the response from the couch. The TV was on, but it seemed to be just the soundtrack to Nathaniel looking at his phone.
‘Jeez, I can never find the colander,’ Rachel said, clanking through the cupboards. ‘Oi Butt-dial, can you find it for me?’
Caleb crouched down and started sifting through kitchenware in a trance. Everything was so normal. His brother slumped on the couch. His sister fussing. No lids matching up to containers. It was a carbon copy of everyday life, but Caleb’s entire reality had changed.
His song had been played. On the radio, only thirty minutes ago. And now everything looked the same, but everything was different. Like a plate of food you’d seen someone cough on, the change was invisible to the eye, but impossible to overlook. He needed to talk to someone. He needed someone who could make his thoughts stop racing. He needed someone who could make him feel better about having his feelings for Ella Westlake broadcast to the entire nation.