Love and Other Drama-Ramas!

by Sarah Webb

  “I said I’d go to a movie with Bailey tonight. There’s this horror thing he wants to see.”

  I stare at her. Hasn’t she been listening to a word I’ve said? “Mills, you hate scary movies more than I do.”

  “Don’t say a word to Bailey — I told him I was a big fan. And besides, I can’t cancel now. Bailey goes mad if I try to rearrange things at the last minute.”

  “Fine,” I say in a clipped voice, and then start marching toward the train station.

  Mills runs after me and grabs my arm. “Slow down, Amy. What’s wrong?”

  “If you don’t know, then I’m not telling you.”

  “Don’t be like that. I’m sorry, but I promised Bailey . . .” She trails off.

  “As I said, it’s fine. Look, I just realized I forgot my classics homework, and Miss Sketchberry will have a fit. You go on — no point in both of us being late.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you, but—” Mills hates being late for school; she has her heart set on being Head Girl.

  “See you later.” I walk back toward my house, blinking back angry tears. I don’t go all the way home but wait at the corner of my street to put enough distance between us to ensure we’re on different trains. Bailey normally catches that train too, and right now I don’t think I could bear to watch another episode of The Mills and Bailey Show.

  That evening I’m surprised to find Mills on my doorstep just before seven.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask her, a little crossly. “Thought you were going to the movies with love’s young dream.”

  “I thought I’d go out with my best bud instead. I rang Clover this afternoon, and she said it was ‘Coolio, babes.’”

  “Then she’ll also have told you that I intend to park my bum on the sofa all night.” I’d had a lousy day at school since Seth wasn’t in — sometimes he stays off to go to the hospital with Polly — and I’d spent most of the time trying to avoid Mills and Bailey. I rang Clover earlier and told her I wasn’t in the mood for going out.

  But Mills is having none of it. “I told her we were both definitely on for it. Said I’d talk you round. So you’d better get changed. Our Clover taxi will be here any second.”

  “Weren’t you listening?” I cross my arms grumpily. “I’m not going, and there’s nothing you can do to change my mind.”

  “Actually there is” — she smiles smugly —“you’ve left me with no alternative: I’m calling Mouse. All for one and one for all — remember?”

  I squeal despite my bad mood. “No! That’s so unfair. I haven’t called Mouse on you in years.”

  “Ha! I’m calling Mouse and that’s that. Throw on your new skinny jeans — they look fab.”

  I glare at her, but she’s won and she knows it.

  “Go on, Ames,” she cajoles. “You know you secretly want to. You’re just being stubborn.”

  “You’re unbelievable, Mills, you know that?”

  She just smiles and mouths “Mouse” at me.

  Calling Mouse is so underhanded, I think as I stomp up the stairs. When we were little, Mills had this videotape called The Three Mouseketeers, and we both adored it. One day we were snuggled up on the sofa in Mills’s house eating bowls of ice cream, with Mills’s duvet pulled over our legs. The Three Mouseketeers had just finished. “All for one and one for all,” Mills said, swinging her empty spoon in the air like a sword the way the little mice did.

  “Friends forever,” I said, waving my own spoon and quoting the mice: “‘Whatever is asked in the name of Mouse must be obeyed. ’Cause we are the Mouseketeers.’”

  And then we swore an oath of friendship — just like the mice. And for years we used to call “Mouse” on each other. I can’t believe she used it on me today — although she is right: I am dying to find out what Clover has in store for us. I can feel my bad mood lifting already.

  * * *

  “We’re running a bit late, so hold on to your hats,” Clover says as she speeds away from my house at twenty past seven. She’s a pretty nifty driver, fast but safe. She’d rock that celebrity lap competition on Top Gear — whup Simon Cowell, for instance, into the tarmac. Last year Gramps gave her a track session for her birthday, and she loved it — she roared around Mondello Park like a pro.

  Mills chatters away in the car, telling Clover about Bailey. She really is oblivious sometimes; she’s clearly forgotten all about our earlier conversation. At least she’s here, I guess. Now and then, Clover catches my eye in the rearview mirror and gives me a gentle smile.

  “Clover, does Brains ever go quiet?” Mills asks. “Like he’s thinking about something?” (Brains is Clover’s boyfriend. He’s in a band called the Golden Lions and is super cool.)

  “All the time,” Clover says. “Especially when he’s in the middle of writing a new song. I have to wave my hand in front of his eyes to snap him out of it.”

  “Bailey writes songs,” Mills says. “He’s amazing. Wait till I tell you about—”

  “Let’s throw on some tunes,” Clover says quickly. She puts on the Golden Lions CD that Brains had cut especially for her, cranks it up loud, and starts seat dancing. That shuts Mills up.

  Clover tucks her Mini into a parking lot in Temple Bar, and we walk through the cobbled back streets, up Crane Lane, and take a right, onto Dame Street. The evening traffic is heavy, buses and cars trundle by, and the metallic exhaust fumes catch at the back of my throat, making me cough. The street is jammed with people, and we have to step around a clump of American tourists staring at a map in the middle of the pavement. Mills insists on helping them locate “Kelly’s Book” aka the Book of Kells, while Clover and I jiggle around impatiently.

  Once outside the Olympia Theatre, Clover spreads her arms out and says, “Ta-da!”

  I stare at her. “The theater? Tell me it’s not Shakespeare, Clover. Miss Bingley took us to Hamlet last year, and it was a snoozefest.”

  “No kidding,” Mills adds. “I mean, ‘To be or not to be’? Seriously, who cares? I wouldn’t mind seeing Romeo and Juliet, though. So romantic.”

  Clover laughs. “It’s not Shakespeare, I promise. Look!” She points at the poster to the right of the door. The image of a big yellow sun looks familiar. Hang on — it’s a lion’s head, not a sun.

  “The Golden Lions!” I squeal. “Brains is playing here? It’s a huge venue.”

  “I know,” she says proudly. “Biggest capacity yet. Brains thinks they’ve reached a tipping point, whatever that means. They’re getting loads of radio play. And we have super-cool seats, courtesy of the man himself. But for goodness’ sake, don’t tell your mothers. That especially goes for you, Bean Machine. Sylvie would kill for your ticket. I know it’s cruel, but I just couldn’t face her embarrassing mummy dancing. And the screaming — my ears rang for days after the last Take That gig. She was worse than the teenyboppers. Ready, girls?”

  Mills is so excited, she’s squirming like there’s ice down her back. “Yes!” she shrieks.

  “Abso-doodle-lutely,” I say, giving Clover a huge hug. “As always, Clover Wildgust, you diamond rock!”

  Everywhere I look, there are excited fans in yellow T-shirts singing snatches of Golden Lions songs. I can’t believe Brains and his bandmates are becoming real rock stars. Mills and I weave our way through the crowd and follow Clover into the lobby of the theater, past the ticket collector, down a busy corridor, and through a doorway to the left, and then up lots and lots of red-carpeted stairs. Finally we head down another narrower corridor with old-fashioned red-and-black flocked wallpaper. A bank of doors stretches out in front of us. Clover pulls one open. Inside is our very own box overlooking the packed auditorium and just a few feet away from the stage. The music hits us, and Mills goes into shock. “Holy moly” is all she can say, over and over again, as she runs her hand over the red-velvet drapes and then stares down at the crowd and dark stage below us. The stage curtains are open, but there’s no sign of the band yet.

  As we take
our seats, the background music starts to fade out. The stage lights power up, illuminating the drum kit and the guitars sitting stiff and upright in their stands like toy soldiers, and the crowd cheers. Suddenly the Golden Lions, minus Brains, run onto the stage, waving at the audience. The whole Olympia Theatre explodes with excitement.

  Barra sits down behind his kit and spins his drumsticks in the air. “Yeah!” he hollers, and starts beating out a crazily fast drum loop with his muscular arms.

  Diablo, a black fedora pulled over his strawberry-blond hair, joins in on keyboards, and finally Felix comes in on lead guitar. Felix starts lunging forward and backward, lost in the music — and the crowd goes even wilder. Felix has true rock-god looks — piercing green eyes, sweeping eyelashes that could bat for Ireland, full lips (complete with tiny white scar near the cupid’s bow), and night-black hair that flops over his face. He’s wearing a black skull T-shirt, skinny jeans, and biker boots — and I can’t take my eyes off him.

  “Where’s Brains?” I ask Clover loudly over the music.

  She cups her hand around her mouth and whispers, “Patience, Grasshopper,” in my ear.

  And then there’s an earth-shattering roar from the back of the theater. Brains is standing on the edge of the upper-circle balcony in gold lamé trousers and a white shirt unbuttoned to his waist. “We are the Golden Lions!” he yells into his headset microphone. “Hear us roar!” Then he jumps off the edge of the balcony.

  I scream, and Clover grips my hand, hard. “Brains!” she shrieks.

  But he doesn’t fall. Instead he flies through the air, on what must be an invisible wire, toward the stage. He almost collides with Felix, who has to jump out of the way.

  “Lions! Lions! Lions!” the crowd thunders.

  Me and Mills and Clover join in: clapping our hands, stomping our feet, and chanting, “Brains! Brains! Brains!”

  Then Diablo plays the opening bars to “Caroline” — my favorite Golden Lions song. Even though they haven’t gotten a record deal yet, the song’s been all over the radio and everyone here seems to know it.

  Brains belts out the first line over the cheers and applause. “Where have you been all my life, baby? I’ve been searching for a girl like you. A girl I can hold, touch, love.”

  His eyes scan the boxes looking for Clover as he sings the next line. “A girl I can trust with my heart.” He thumps his chest with his fist. “My torn, abused heart. Are you that girl? Everyone . . .” He punches the air, and the whole theater joins in as one. “Car-o-line. Are you that girl? Car-o-line.”

  I smile. The song’s about Clover, but Brains couldn’t get her name to fit the music. He tried Clover-belle but said it made her sound like a pet donkey.

  Clover is beaming, her eyes locked on Brains’s face, tears rolling down her cheeks. Happy tears this time. I can’t imagine how it must feel to have a song written just for you — but it must feel pretty amazing. I squeeze her hand, and she squeezes back.

  “They’re going to be huge, Clover,” I yell. “Everyone loves them! This is just the start.”

  “I know.” She beams at me, her eyes watery with emotion. “Isn’t it exciting?”

  When the song ends, the roof nearly lifts with the applause.

  “What an atmosphere,” Mills says as the intro to the next song plays and the clapping dies down a little. “I love this place. And these boxes are super cool. I feel like a princess up here.” She looks across at one of the other boxes, and her face freezes.

  Staring back at us, his arm thrown around Annabelle Hamilton’s shoulders, is Bailey Otis. And from his startled expression and the way he quickly pulls his arm away from her, it’s clear he’s spotted us too.

  It’s car-crash viewing. Mills looks as if her world’s just stopped spinning. She crumples against me.

  “This one is for anyone who’s ever had their heart stomped on,” Brains says from the stage as I hold Mills up. “It’s called ‘Burning Love.’”

  “I have to . . . Out.” Mills staggers toward the door.

  “Is she OK?” Clover shouts over the music.

  “She’s too hot. She needs air. Back in a sec.”

  I follow Mills outside. She has slid down the wall, her arms hugging her legs and her head pressed against her kneecaps. She’s crying so hard, her back is heaving up and down. I crouch down beside her.

  “He did go a bit funny when I said I was spending the evening with you instead, but I didn’t expect . . .” she says through her tears. “What’s wrong with me? Am I not good enough? I shouldn’t have canceled on him. He hates it when I do that . . . But did it have to be Annabelle Hamilton?”

  “I’m so sorry, Mills. I don’t know what to say. It doesn’t make any sense. Bailey’s obviously not who we thought he was. Don’t let him spoil our night, though. Come back inside.”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t. It’s too humiliating.”

  I stay with her, stroking her head and listening to the muffled sound of “Burning Love” coming through the closed door. After a few minutes, the song ends and there’s more ecstatic applause.

  Mills sighs. “You go inside, Ames. You shouldn’t miss the whole gig because of me.”

  “There’ll be other gigs. I’m not going to leave you out here on your own.”

  “Thanks, Ames. I don’t deserve you.”

  I nudge her with my shoulder. “Yes, you do. You’re my best friend, Mills, and besties stick together, no matter what. All for one and one for all, remember?”

  She smiles and nods, but the smile doesn’t reach her heartbroken eyes.

  “We can still listen to the music,” I say. “And Clover said there’s an intermission. Maybe you’ll feel strong enough to watch the second half.”

  “Maybe.” She doesn’t sound convinced.

  “You OK, Mills?” Clover asks, walking out of the box at intermission. “Should I ring your mum?”

  “No, I’m feeling a bit better now.”

  “Are you sure? You look terrible. Your eyes are all red and blotchy.”

  I figure I should just tell Clover the truth — but Mills gets in there first. “Bailey,” she says, “was in one of the other boxes with a girl from school. He’s cheating on me with one of the D4s.”

  Clover says something very rude under her breath and then sighs. “Poor you. Sometimes boys can be evil. Would meeting the band help cheer you up? I have a special invitation from Mr. Showbiz himself to rendezvous backstage. What do you think?”

  Mills manages a smile. “Yes, please.”

  Clover grins. “Good. And we’ll do a quick pit stop in the ladies’ to cover up those old blotches. I never travel without my trusty makeup kit — just in case. This way, troops.”

  After visiting the loos, we walk down the corridor to the left of the stage. Clover has a word with the Billy Goats Gruff security man, who nods, stands aside, and opens the door for her.

  “Follow me, chiquitas,” Clover says.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting — trays of posh sandwiches, pink cupcakes, champagne in silver buckets — but I think I’ve been watching too many Hollywood movies. The backstage room is pretty plain — two sofas, some plastic chairs, and a table with some bottles of water, paper napkins, Pringles, and ham-and-cheese sandwiches. The room smells of stale cigarette smoke and sweat.

  Brains bounces over, throws his arms around Clover’s waist, and lifts her off the floor. “What did you think, babes?”

  Clover laughs. “Unhand me, beast, you’re all sticky.”

  He plonks her back down.

  “You were fan-dabby-dozy,” she goes on enthusiastically. “Best set ever. ‘Caroline’ was amazing. And ‘Burning Love,’ genius.” They start discussing the crowd’s reaction to the playlist, song by song.

  Mills is standing against the wall, looking glum. Siúcra. I want to do something to help her, but what? I’m so angry with Bailey for spoiling all this for her. What is he playing at?

  I touch Clover’s arm. “Can I talk to yo
u for a second? Sorry to interrupt, Brains. And loving it so far.”

  He smiles and tips his fingers to his head in a salute. “No worries, little lady. She’s all yours. And the second half will be even better. Sure as dogs have fleas.” He breaks into a deep, growly Johnny Cash accent. “We’ll be rockin’ this joint like it’s Folsom Prison.” If being good at accents is a basis for a relationship, then he and Clover are truly made for each other.

  “What’s up, jelly tot?” Clover asks as soon as Brains has wandered off toward the food.

  “I don’t want Mills to miss the second half, so I’m going to confront Bailey. See what I can do. At the very least it might stop him from kissing Annabelle in front of Mills. Wish me luck, and keep an eye on her for me.”

  She smiles. “You’re a good amigo, Bean Machine. I’ll be rooting for you.”

  I walk back to the main hallway and up the stairs to the boxes opposite ours. I find what I hope is the right door and stop outside it to take a deep breath, and then I pull it open before I chicken out. I peer in, expecting to see Bailey and Annabelle sucking face — but Bailey’s alone, playing with his mobile.

  He looks up as I walk in. “Amy.”

  “Bailey.”

  We stare at each other. He looks awkward and embarrassed. He keeps running his hands through his dark hair and moving his fringe across his face, as if protecting himself from my scowl.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he says eventually. “Or Mills. Is she OK?”

  “How can you be such a lying, cheating pig?” I say, anger rippling up and down my spine. “No, she’s not OK. She’s heartbroken! I can’t believe you’re flaunting Annabelle in her face like that. What are you doing with her, anyway? What’s going on?”

  He shrugs. “Annabelle’s dad got free tickets. She asked me this afternoon after Mills blew me off, and I said yes. I was pleased Mills didn’t want to see me tonight actually. It gave me space. Made me realize it was all getting a bit serious. A bit too intense. I really like Mills — she’s amazing — but she’s too . . . Oh, I don’t know . . . It’s hard to explain . . . Anyway, it wouldn’t work, not long term.”