I Was Born for This

by Alice Oseman

  ‘Ah.’

  There’s a pause.

  I stare at him across the booth, trying to suss him out.

  ‘I haven’t met many people like you who like The Ark,’ I say, taking a sip of J2O.

  He looks back at me. ‘No?’

  ‘Nah.’ I narrow my eyes. ‘How’d you get into them?’

  ‘Oh wow, I don’t know. Found them on YouTube?’ He taps his near-empty glass with one finger. ‘Can’t remember now.’

  ‘I’m surprised,’ I say. ‘The Ark don’t really seem like your style.’

  ‘Well, I like all kinds of music.’

  ‘True,’ I say. ‘You’re not really super involved in the fandom, though, are you?’

  ‘Well … no, I guess not. I really like their music, though.’ He takes a swig of beer and looks away from me.

  There’s a pause.

  ‘Looking forward to seeing them this week?’ I ask.

  He nods. It’s not nearly as enthusiastic as it should be. ‘Yeah, definitely.’

  I put my elbow on the table and lean on one hand. ‘What songs are you looking forward to?’

  He laughs. ‘What is this, a questionnaire?’

  I smile. ‘Just being friendly, my guy. We haven’t talked much today.’

  ‘All right. Well, “Joan of Arc”, obviously. “Magic 18” and “A Place Like This” are two of my favourites.’

  ‘Hm.’ ‘Magic 18’ and ‘A Place Like This’ are also two of The Ark’s biggest hits. Most people know those songs off the radio. ‘I’m kind of hoping they play “The 2nd Person”, you know, off the Kill It EP? Or anything from the Kill It EP. I know it came out, like, three years ago, but, you know. There’s always hope.’

  Mac stares at me and nods. ‘Yeah, definitely.’ He looks dead behind the eyes. He has no idea what the Kill It EP is.

  And that’s the moment that I realise.

  That’s the moment I realise he doesn’t actually like The Ark.

  He’s been faking it this whole time just to get Juliet to like him.

  I smile at him. ‘You really like Juliet, don’t you?’

  He sits up in his seat like a zombie rising from the grave. ‘What?!’

  ‘Dude,’ I say, then narrow my eyes. ‘Come on, my man. Come on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Juliet.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You shouldn’t pretend to have interests just to impress a girl. She’ll find out the truth eventually. Not worth it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t have to lie to me!’ I lean forward. ‘I’m Angel. I’m cool. You can trust me. You don’t have to force yourself to like The Ark if you don’t. I’m not gonna judge you. I’d rather you were just honest with me.’

  He stares at me for a long moment.

  And then he says, ‘Please don’t tell her.’

  By eleven o’clock, everyone apart from me is drunk.

  Can’t say I didn’t expect it. We’re a group of young people, aged from fifteen to twenty-nine according to the people I’ve spoken to tonight, and we’re at a pub. Cue drinking.

  Time to get out of here.

  I escape the group of people I’ve found myself in with a hearty, ‘Gotta pee, be right back,’ and start hunting around for Mac and Juliet. They’ll probably want to go home by now. Since I forced him to admit he’s not an Ark fan, Mac seems to be having the worst time in the world. I keep spotting him in the crowd. He looks grumpy as fuck. And I’ve barely seen Juliet – just a few quick glints of ginger hair here and there.

  I wander around Spoon’s, pushing through the crowds of what has now become groups of girls and lads getting ready for a night out, or old drunk men drowning their sorrows in beer and football. I circle the whole of the first floor, then have a look upstairs as well, but can’t see Mac or Juliet anywhere.

  I stand in the entranceway and call Juliet while the Spoon’s bouncer stares at me like I’m doing something highly suspicious. But Juliet doesn’t pick up.

  I leave a voicemail.

  ‘Hey, it’s Angel. Just wondered where you guys are and whether you wanted to go home yet, or … yeah! Call me back pleeeease.’

  Two minutes later, I don’t get a call back, but I do get a Facebook message.

  Juliet Schwartz

  Hi sorry!!!! We left a bit early. We felt like checking out a couple of other nearby bars!! Hope that’s okay!! You were chatting to some other people so we didn’t wanna interrupt!! Nan will let you in if you wanna go back to mine, or you can come join us?

  I read the message, and my stomach sort of drops.

  They just left without me.

  Juliet just left with Mac. Without me.

  I mean, okay.

  Guess it was sort of my fault. I was talking to other people. Didn’t really talk to Juliet at all this evening.

  Angel Rahimi

  Ah, no worries!! I’m not really into the drinking scene so I’ll just go back to yours :) Have fun!

  I consider turning round and saying goodbye to the people I’ve met in real life this evening – Pops and TJ and all the others – but … no. They’re all drunk. And I’m tired. I just want to leave now.

  When I sit down alone on the tube, I reread the message from Juliet. She hasn’t seen the message from me at all. I thought she was starting to see through Mac and his lies. I thought she wanted to spend time with me.

  Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I shouldn’t have talked to Bliss for so long. Maybe I’m just disappointing in real life.

  When the tube leaves Leicester Square and my internet connection goes, I put my headphones in and listen to The Ark and try to just stop thinking about everything, anything. I had a good night. I spoke to people. I had a good night. Hard to think that way, maybe, when you’re sitting alone on a London tube train at half eleven on a Tuesday. I wonder why I feel sad. All that talk about the future and careers and stuff? Why would that make me sad? I just don’t like thinking about it. So what. Who cares. Don’t need to think about it. Everyone seems like they have it together except me. Silly. I’m fine. I have it together. I’m going to uni. Just me being negative. Just negative. I can stop. Need to stop listening to a sad song. Change track. This one’s better. This one will make me feel better. My boys always make me feel better.

  When I see them on Thursday, everything will be better.

  I’m brought out of my thoughts by a light tap on my arm.

  I glance up, ripping my headphones from my ears. Who the hell is talking to me at half eleven at night on the London Underground?

  An old woman is sitting next to me.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ she says, ‘it’s all God’s plan, and He knows what He’s doing.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, smiling. ‘Did I look sad?’

  ‘You look like it’s the end of the world, my love,’ she says.

  I like to think God does have a plan for everyone. But I also think there’s too much shit in the world for all these plans to be perfect ones. Or maybe God doesn’t have time to write a plan for everyone. And some of us are just trying our best and getting it a bit wrong.

  ‘Definitely not that serious,’ I say.

  ‘Serious is relative,’ she says. ‘That is for the Lord to decide.’

  She points upwards, and I sort of follow her hand and look up at the ceiling, but just find myself looking at the faulty, flashing light bar of the tube carriage.

  Our bathroom light won’t stop flashing. Could be worse, I guess. I mostly thought we’d get back and find that someone had broken in and stolen everything we own, or there would be a fire and we’d get back and there wouldn’t even be an apartment any more. I was so worried about it that I bought a very expensive and very large theftproof/fireproof safe before we went. As soon as we walk through the door, I run straight towards the safe and open it. Everything’s still there, though. My journals, my guitar, my main laptop, my childhood teddy bear, and the knife that Grandad gave me when I was sixteen.

  That’s what I g
rab first. The knife.

  It’s a family heirloom. It was passed down from my great-grandfather to Grandad, and then to me. Grandad gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday. He didn’t say it was an heirloom that had been passed down only through the men of the family, but I’m pretty sure that’s why he gave it to me. Kind of a sexist concept, but still. It meant a lot.

  ‘To remind you of who you are,’ he said with a smile, ‘and where you’re from.’

  It’d be useless as an actual weapon, since it’s completely blunt – you can run your finger along the edge and not even get a scratch. But it does make me feel safer when I’ve got it with me. Like I’ve got a little piece of home with me wherever I go.

  Rowan obviously thinks it’s ridiculous and wishes I would just put it in a drawer and never take it anywhere. When I walk out of my bedroom with the knife in my hands, he gives me an eye-roll from the hallway.

  I search thoroughly round the place to check no one’s been in here. We’ve got this pretty spacious three-storey apartment – five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a big open-plan living room/kitchen, a gym room that only Rowan uses, a cinema room that only I use, and an office that no one uses. All high up in London. We bought it as soon as we all turned eighteen. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here, though. All my Blu-Rays are still scattered over the cinema room floor. Whiplash is open on top of the Blu-Ray player.

  How could someone have broken in and taken that photo while we were actually in the flat? Months ago? We have an alarm, we have secure windows and doors. Remind me to pay someone to install CCTV as soon as possible.

  I try to put it all out of my mind and I have a shower. I wash all the hairspray out of my hair, still there from last night’s performance. I wash off all the aeroplane sweat and the crusty remnants of foundation from my face. I brush my teeth and clean my ears and rub the sleep out of my eyes. I inject my weekly testosterone into my thigh and stick on a plaster that has Dennis the Menace on it – a present from Grandad. I wrap myself in a fluffy towel and sit down on the edge of the bath for a few minutes. The bathroom light keeps going off every few seconds, leaving me in the dark.

  Turns out it’s only 6.30 p.m. by the time I’m out of the shower, which I at first think is a good thing – an entire evening to do what I want, aka sleep – but then Lister says, ‘Guess I’ll invite some people round, then.’

  I’ve changed into pyjamas and am making a cup of tea, Rowan has not moved from the sofa he collapsed onto half an hour ago, and Lister has taken all his clothes off bar his boxers, laid down on the rug, and is eating a packet of Monster Munch.

  ‘Fuck off,’ I mumble. ‘You’re not inviting people round.’

  ‘Bliss is coming round, though.’

  ‘That’s different. Bliss is Rowan’s girlfriend.’

  ‘It’ll only be a few people.’

  I bring my cup of tea over to the sofas and sit down. ‘I thought you wanted to rest?’

  Lister rolls over towards me. ‘This is resting.’

  ‘You just wanna get drunk.’

  Lister blinks. ‘Well, yeah, pretty much.’

  Before we got famous, Lister showed little sign of being into the party lifestyle, beyond being mildly disruptive at school. But as soon as we started making money Lister’s love for the finer things reared its head. He started throwing lavish parties. Buying expensive cars and designer clothes. Hooking up with people left, right and centre. And drinking lots and lots of alcohol.

  ‘Just do it by yourself,’ I say.

  ‘Jimmyyyyyy.’ Lister starts stroking my leg. ‘Why are you so grumpy all the time?’

  ‘Can’t you throw parties when I’m not here?’

  ‘Why do you hate parties so much?’

  Because I am a neurotic, highly anxious and unsociable boy with very serious trust issues and a low tolerance for personal space invasion. And I have had a really awful day.

  ‘I just do.’

  ‘I’ll hire security.’

  ‘You’d better.’

  Lister stares at me for a moment, and then turns to Rowan. ‘Any objections, Rowan?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Rowan, but doesn’t say anything else.

  ‘Right, then. I’m calling everyone.’

  The number of people who know where our apartment is causes me a very large amount of concern daily. We don’t get people knocking at our door, thankfully – one of the benefits of living in a posh apartment block with decent security – but most gossip magazines and blogs know. A strong percentage of fans know. And a lot of celebrities know, mainly because of Lister’s parties.

  Lister Bird knows everyone. Literally. Lister knows musicians and singers and rappers and bands. Lister knows producers and models and actors and the aristocracy. Not that he particularly goes seeking it. Everyone just wants to be friends with Lister Bird.

  They want to be friends with me too, but it’s not like I’m gonna let that happen, am I?

  ‘Everyone’, as Lister usually refers to it, turns out to be around fifty people. Our apartment goes from haven to club in approximately two hours. Lister gets the Bluetooth speakers working and puts on a playlist. By 7.30 p.m., Lister is buzzing people in every five minutes, and by 9 p.m., our apartment is unrecognisable. The first time this happened, I had someone fit a lock on my bedroom door the next day.

  ‘You should have told him no,’ says Rowan. We’re sitting on a sofa in the living room again, but there are about thirty other people in here too, drinking and laughing.

  ‘I did,’ I say.

  Rowan sighs, and then looks at me. ‘We could just go and sit in my room, if you want? Play some Splatoon?’

  I shake my head. ‘People will wonder where we are.’

  ‘Oh, who cares?’

  I wish I didn’t care.

  ‘When’s Bliss coming?’ I ask.

  Rowan sinks back into the cushions. ‘Should be here soon, I think.’ He pauses. ‘I told her not to come, what with all these people around. But you know what she’s like.’ He puts on a voice. “You already invited me round, and if Lister can fucking invite fifty fucking people round your fucking house, I can fucking come round whenever I fucking like!”

  I laugh. ‘I miss Bliss.’

  ‘Me too.’

  I keep seeing people walk past and sneak a look at us. A lot more than normal.

  ‘I think I might call her, actually,’ says Rowan. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and stands up. ‘She said she’d be here half an hour ago.’

  He walks away from me and starts talking to Bliss, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. His expression quickly drops and gets annoyed, as it often does when talking to his girlfriend.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ says Bliss, when we let her in at the door an hour later. She is wearing an oversized All Time Low T-shirt and ripped black jeans. ‘Where’s Bird? I’m gonna kick his ass.’

  Rowan met Bliss Lai at a charity event when we were all sixteen. She was a youth volunteer; we were special guests. She had absolutely no idea who we were, and she was, in our opinion, much more entertaining than we were – ushering us round the TV studio like we were misbehaving cattle, playing Rock Paper Scissors with us for the last packet of Wotsits in our dressing room, sneakily dancing behind us while we were on sound check.

  Bliss Lai actually deserves to be famous.

  But Rowan and Bliss don’t want that. And I sort of agree with them. If people knew Rowan had a girlfriend – that would be it. Fandom insanity, media insanity, and Bliss would become internationally famous literally overnight. Thankfully, Bliss doesn’t seem to give a shit about fame. One time we snuck her into a TV awards show and she accidentally spoke to David Tennant, without having any idea who he was. David thought she wanted a selfie, when in fact she was just trying to find the nearest toilet.

  ‘Wait, don’t tell me,’ says Bliss, holding up a hand. ‘He’s already throwing up in the bathroom. Or he’s already found someone to have sex with.’

  Rowan sighs. ‘Hopefully neither o
f those.’

  Bliss turns to me and pats me gently on the cheeks. ‘Jimmy! How are you? I’ve fucking missed you. Are you eating properly?’

  Another thing to add about Bliss: she is the only person who is more heavily parental than Rowan.

  ‘I’m okay, and I … eat food sometimes?’

  ‘Well, that’ll have to be good enough, I suppose.’ She claps her hands together. ‘Now, there’d better be some fucking Capri-Suns somewhere around here.’

  Rowan, Bliss and I hang around the kitchen for a bit, staying in a little huddle so that not too many people try to talk to us. People keep coming up to us, though, but no one I know particularly well, only people I’ve seen from afar at events, maybe been introduced to once, seen pictures of on the internet or on TV or on magazine covers. Rowan introduces Bliss to everyone as a publicity assistant – her usual cover. Everyone always believes it.

  Rowan and Bliss were a perfect couple at the beginning. Rowan liked Bliss’s total disregard for the power of fame – she didn’t see him as any better than her. Bliss liked Rowan’s maturity and intelligence – he was like a wise old man trapped in a sixteen-year-old’s body. When they were together they both seemed to stop worrying about everything else in their lives – Rowan was no longer an overworked band boy and Bliss was no longer a struggling student. They were just together.

  Unsurprisingly, that didn’t last long. Relationships can only get so far on the infatuation wave.

  Nowadays, things are far rockier. I don’t know whether it’s the pressure of being mostly long distance and rarely seeing each other, or whether they’re just bored with each other, but whatever it is whenever they see each other things usually end in an argument. Which is what’s happening right now.

  ‘Why would you be hanging around people like that, though?’ Rowan shakes his head. ‘What if they found out who you were?’

  Bliss apparently spent her evening at an Ark fandom event, or something, simply because she was curious, which is a very Bliss thing to do.

  ‘How would they find out?’ Bliss rolls her eyes. ‘Come on. I’m not stupid. I was just intrigued to see what these people are like. Some of them were actually kind of cool, I met this really cool girl called—’