by Rowena Mohr
It’s funny, you know. I had been planning on having the same conversation with Jet myself – because I knew that if the KGB found out about us I was in serious trouble. But hearing it come from Jet first was, I have to admit, strangely hurtful.
Jet must have seen the look on my face, because he gave my arm a squeeze and said, ‘It’s okay. I’m still going to see you on Saturday night, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’ll text you.’ He turned to go.
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I just came to tell you that I won’t be able to do your sound for the fete after all. Mr McGregor thinks I’ve got too much to do already, so he’s found this other guy – Danny Baldassarro—’
‘Oh. Sweet.’ He looked towards his friends at the table and then down at the ground. ‘No biggie then.’
If I’d been hoping that Jet was going to be devastated at my news – that he’d instinctively understand how much it had meant to me and go storming off to Mr McGregor’s office to demand that I be reinstated – I was obviously going to be disappointed. At the very least, I’d imagined having to reassure him that even though Danny was a novice, he would be more than competent – having, of course, been trained by me. But all that happened was that Jet grunted absentmindedly – like he had far more important things to think about – and gave me his cool and casual two-fingered wave as he disappeared around the corner back to his friends.
You would think that even at that early stage I might have been asking about a few fairly basic things. Like, why had Jet Lucas chosen me in the first place? Or why, having chosen me, was he so desperate to keep our relationship a secret? But the promise of more Saturday nights like that first one was enough to make me totally oblivious to any little warning signals – or blindingly obvious thunderbolts – and I refused to even consider the possibility that something was not quite right.
Those Saturday nights with Jet were magical and wonderful – probably more so because they were secret. They were my Cinderella nights, the nights where I stood centre-stage with all the lights trained on me. On Saturday nights I felt beautiful, desirable. Being locked away in that room with Jet was like living in the pages of a fairytale – and, for once, I was the main character.
And Jet made me feel like I was a real songwriter. He said he loved my songs and asked me to play them over and over again. I even played ‘My Life Before You’ for him again, because I wanted someone to hear it, to know what it meant to me. I never really explained what the song was about – Jet kept calling it a love song, which of course it was.
We wrote other songs together, too. Songs about falling in love and having your heart broken, songs about falling out of love and breaking someone else’s heart. They were good songs – but they weren’t ‘My Life Before You’. How could they be? I had never had my heart broken. Not in that way. Not yet.
I know what you’re thinking: ‘What about sex?’ Well, the idea of it – the possibility of it – was always there, but it just never happened. I’m not sure why.
At first, there was so much music to play and write that the night was gone before we knew it. And it seemed to me that this was perfectly okay. We were taking it slowly, getting to know each other. I thought that was what happened in a ‘mature’ relationship. Sometimes, though, I couldn’t help but wonder if Jet actually liked me in that way. Even when we were kissing, I would occasionally get the impression that his attention was elsewhere, that he was just going through the motions.
And then other times, after we’d been writing all night, when we were both drunk on love songs, he would tell me that he thought he was falling in love with me.
It was almost as if there were two Jets – the charming, eager, romantic Jet and the other Jet who always seemed to have better things to do than spend time with me. The truth is, I didn’t care. When I was with him, I was so consumed by his attention I couldn’t breathe – and sometimes I felt so grateful I wanted to cry. I would have put up with anything to keep that feeling alive.
The cruellest blow of all fell on Monday mornings, when it was as if the weekend had never happened. I hardly ever saw him at school. When I did he would sort of ignore me. Not completely, not in a ‘Who the hell are you?’ sort of way, but more like ‘Oh, hi. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before? What’s your name again?’ Which, I will admit, hurt just a little bit.
Let’s face it, when someone like me starts seeing someone like Jet Lucas, you pretty much want to take out a double page advertisement in the national newspaper and throw in a couple of prime-time TV spots during So You Think You Can Dance – with maybe a bit of skywriting for good measure. Meko was the only one who knew about us, and as she refused to indulge my lovesick musings and occasional lapses into paranoia, sometimes I thought I would go quietly crazy without anyone at all to confide in.
Nor was my fragile mental health improved by Friday nights with Danny Baldassarro.
Working with Danny was painful. He was so easygoing that every time I saw him I became filled with an overwhelming desire to hurt him – physically, mentally, whatever – just so he would stop being so damn nice all the time. He had the ability to make people like him instantly – which was really annoying. It wasn’t the way people liked Jet, for being gorgeous and cool and charming (when he could be bothered) – but some kind of wholesome non-threatening vibe that seemed to have an instantaneous effect on everyone who met him. Especially Dad.
Since we were borrowing Dad’s sound equipment, it made sense to have our little ‘showing the ropes’ sessions at home. Danny finally got to see the inside of our house on a Friday night about three weeks before the fete. I half-expected him to turn up with a basket of chocolate crackles, but he’d obviously developed slightly more sophisticated tastes in the last five years, because he arrived with a backpack containing a notebook, a Piggly Wiggly pen (which he claimed belonged to his sister) and a six-pack of Mexican beer!
And Dad didn’t say anything. In fact, his eyes lit up when he saw the beer and I don’t think it even occurred to him that Danny was legally too young to drink, let alone buy the stuff. Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was just Danny’s wholegrain charm, but Dad was suddenly all over him like fleas on a dog.
They sat down at the kitchen table, opened a couple of beers, and started doing that bloke thing – you know, talking about sport, cars or, in this case, music – as if that was all that mattered.
When you’re a guy, I’ve noticed, you can form a lifelong bond with another guy without actually knowing anything about them. As long as you like the same football team, your new mate could be a serial killer and you’d never suspect. And when the police were interviewing you later, you’d shake your head and say, ‘I just don’t understand it, Officer. He seemed like such a good bloke. I mean, he barracked for Hawthorn!’
Danny, I decided, was a sixteen-year-old clone of Dad, with better teeth and a lot less nose hair. Especially when he said how much he loved Ian Curtis and Joy Division. I swear Dad looked at him as though he was going to adopt him right then and there. Then Dad excused himself for a minute, and came back carrying his old guitar case. I hadn’t seen him even look at that guitar for years – but Danny Baldassarro is in our kitchen for five minutes, and suddenly he’s all musically inspired again?
I couldn’t believe it. It was almost as if Danny had been researching Dad in order to worm his way into his good books. How else could he possibly have known Dad’s favourite band?
Danny grabbed the guitar and started playing some songs he’d written – think The Church crossed with The Clash with just a dash of Elvis Costello thrown in – and Dad was giving him feedback and telling him how fabulous he was and saying he should form his own band. I suddenly felt completely invisible in my own house. I was at the stove making spag bol, and the two of them had no idea how close they came to wearing it instead of eating it!
Every Friday night the same thing would happen. Danny would come over and spend half an hour in the studio wi
th me learning how to mix levels. Then he and Dad would spend the rest of the evening in the kitchen jamming their way through the Eighties Manchester post-punk scene. On Friday nights I became part of the furniture. I could have set my hair on fire and neither of them would have noticed.
And that was my life. Ignored by my boyfriend all week, ignored by Danny and Dad on Friday nights. No wonder I went a bit loopy.
Chapter 11
I CAN’T BELIEVE HOW MUCH I wrote yesterday. It’s amazing what you can get done if you don’t have to go to school because the principal thinks you’re a homicidal maniac.
Maybe this exercise wasn’t such a bad idea of Jane’s. It is kind of good to write down everything that happened and try to make sense of it all. Not that I feel any more enlightened about the whole stupid situation than I did yesterday, but maybe something will come out of it. Maybe I’ll be able to work out why Dad keeps looking at me as though I’m some sort of malfunctioning android and he’s wondering what happened to the real Luie. I mean, I can understand he was a bit upset about the car – but at least I’d made sure the insurance was up-to-date.
Monday morning after the Federal Police came round was the worst. (They’re the ones they send out to investigate terrorist attacks, apparently. Even fake ones.) I had to explain again all about why the car was parked where it was, why the petrol cap was missing, and why Mr McGregor had a towel on his head. When they’d gone, Dad was staring at me as if he’d never really seen me before. Which is so unfair, because usually he doesn’t take any notice of me at all.
That sounds horrible, but I don’t really mean it that way. I just mean that Dad, Nina and me are all so busy – going to work or school or dance classes, making dinner or paying the bills – that we’re like a bunch of atoms whizzing around in space. Occasionally we’ll collide by accident at breakfast or dinner, but the rest of the time we’re off in our own little orbits.
So it feels like Dad is seeing me for the first time since … who knows? And – I can’t believe I’m going to say this – it’s not just as if he doesn’t know who I am, it’s as if he’s actually scared of me. Yesterday we were in the supermarket and he picked up a box of Frootubes and was just about to put it in the trolley, when without thinking I snapped, ‘We don’t buy that kind of cereal, Dad. It’s full of sugar and has no nutritional value at all. Put it back.’ I swear he couldn’t get that box back on the shelf fast enough – as if maybe he thought I was going to go nuts and start detonating things right there in the cereal aisle.
And every time I see that look on his face – that ‘Heaven help me, I raised a psychopath’ look – I end up asking myself, ‘What could I have done differently?’ Which is exactly what Jane told me not to do. But maybe I’m just refusing to face up to the facts. Maybe I’m completely delusional and the whole thing happened because of my selfishness and stupidity. I seriously don’t know.
But if I stop beating myself up long enough to think about it logically, I can see that nothing would have happened at all if Jet Lucas had just ignored me as usual, instead of suddenly deciding that I was the most desirable female on the planet. I was so intoxicated and confused by him – by his hot and cold act – that I couldn’t think straight.
A couple of weeks before the fete, I organised for Jet to meet Danny and me in the library so I could do the official handover thing. The meeting was, let’s be honest, as much for the benefit of the KGB as for Jet and Danny, but it was also a kind of test to see whether Jet would finally publicly acknowledge me – or at least express some kind of regret that I wasn’t going to be working with him on his concert. Ha!
As Danny and I waited for Jet to show up, it was hard to say who was more nervous. I assumed – wrongly as it turns out – that Danny was as in awe of Jet’s godlike being as I was and that was the reason he had volunteered in the first place. It didn’t occur to me that he might have a whole other agenda.
A ripple of girly gasps and whispers radiating across from the automatic doors alerted us to Jet’s approach. And then there he was, head down and shoulders hunched, hair cascading across his profile like an emo James Dean as he slouched across the heavy-duty industrial carpet towards us. He was so beautiful. I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but my insides did a little flip-flop at the sheer gorgeousness of him. But at the same time, I was waiting for Jet to look up, to look at me, and maybe, just this once, show me that he didn’t care if everyone was watching.
He sat down opposite Danny and me and pulled some sheets of paper out of his pocket.
‘Hi, Jet,’ I said. His eyes flicked towards me for a millisecond and then back to the paper.
‘Hi,’ he mumbled.
I felt like kicking him under the table. That’d make him look at me. ‘This is Danny Baldassarro. He’ll be operating the sound desk at your concert.’
As I said it out loud, I realised for the first time that it was actually true. Danny would be the one up there on the stage with Jet, not me. I was suddenly furious – with Jet for not sticking up for me, with myself for caring so much, with the KGB, and with Danny. I couldn’t trust myself to say anything else. Jet obviously wasn’t going to add to the conversation – he was too busy staring morosely at his shoes – so it was up to a slightly bewildered Danny to fill the silence.
‘Hey, Jet. I’m really looking forward to working with you. I’m a big fan of yours, you know – I think your stuff’s great.’
‘Yeah … great … thanks.’ Jet was doing his super-cool monosyllabic halfwit act. Another sticky silence descended over the table. Danny looked to me for help.
‘Danny’s still learning,’ I said. My voice could have cut concrete. ‘But I’m going to take him through everything he needs to know—’
‘Here’s the running order,’ Jet interrupted, pushing the paper he’d been fiddling with across the table towards Danny. ‘Um … Luisa’ll fill you in on everything else.’
He stood and, still without making eye contact with either of us, slouched off towards the library exit, another chorus of adoring sighs trailing in his wake.
Danny turned to me. ‘Wow, he’s got charisma written all over him! What do you girls see in that guy?’
I was still seething inside and didn’t bother to answer such a stupid question. Danny probably thought he was being witty, but he had no idea how close he came to being brained with my History book.
Seeing the filthy look I gave him, he added hastily, ‘Not you, of course. I’m sure you’ve got better taste than that.’
‘You know what?’ I said. ‘I’ve got an essay on the causes of World War II due next week. I’ll see you later.’ I gathered up my books to go, but Danny jumped up to block my way, tripping over the leg of the desk as he did so.
‘Actually, Luisa, I … I wanted to ask you something.’ He’d turned slightly pink beneath his olive skin and there were little beads of sweat on his upper lip.
‘What?’ I snapped, completely blind to what was coming.
‘I wanted to ask you if … if maybe … if you’d like to see a movie – or a band – with me sometime?’ He rattled off the question so quickly it took me a second to comprehend what he’d said. And when I did, I was so surprised, so horrified, that I practically yelled out my answer.
‘NO!’
‘Oh, okay.’ He looked around the library at all the staring faces. ‘There’s no need to be rude about it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, desperately wishing we were having this conversation somewhere else. Actually, that’s not true. I was wishing we weren’t having this conversation at all. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. You surprised me, that’s—’
‘It’s okay. I understand.’ Danny was trying so hard to act as if he didn’t care, to be manly and cool – and so not succeeding – that I suddenly felt a bit sorry for him. For the teensiest second, I wanted to give him a hug, just to see his lop-sided smile again. I didn’t, of course, and Danny turned to go.
‘Danny, wait.’ I grabbed him and dragged him i
n between the shelves. ‘You don’t understand. It’s not that I don’t … like you. I’m seeing someone else.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really! No need to act so surprised.’
‘I didn’t – I – I didn’t know. Sorry. I wouldn’t have asked … if I’d known …’
By this point both of us were so mortified that if an earthquake had caused the shelves to topple over and bury us beneath a cascade of books about the life cycle of the tsetse fly, we’d have been eternally grateful.
I was in a bad mood for the rest of that week – mostly because it had finally dawned in my pea-sized brain that my ‘relationship’ with Jet was seriously abnormal.
We never had any contact outside his bedroom. We never went out to dinner, or the movies, or even for a walk along the beach on a Saturday afternoon. In fact, we only ever hooked up on Saturday nights. If I hadn’t spotted him at school occasionally, I might have thought he was a vampire.
Not only that, but Danny had also decided to pretend the embarrassing scene in the library had never happened, so that even though I’d rejected him, we could still be BFFs. Everywhere I went, it seemed, so did he. On Friday nights, there he was – sitting at our kitchen table asking me if I wanted to join in his jam sessions with Dad. At school he’d hang around Meko and me at lunchtime talking about music or the fete or whether I was going to write my English essay on The Crucible or Great Expectations. He especially loved raving on about Dad and what an awesome musician and songwriter he was and how much he admired him.
I did notice, though, that Danny never wanted to talk about anything personal, at least not about himself. He never once talked about his family – he’d much rather talk about mine. Well, not about you. I guess he knew about you – everyone probably did – but he never went there.
What made it worse was that I couldn’t even complain to Meko about him, since I didn’t seem able to talk about Danny without somehow ending up back at Jet. For instance: