Strum Me

by Daisy Allen

  Until she speaks.

  “Yeah, um, I just have one question: do you guys ever intend on doing anything but ripping off other musicians’ work?”

  There’s a smattering of murmurs and Sebastian spits out his water next to me.

  But it’s not the question that has my heart skipping a beat.

  It’s the voice.

  It’s hers.

  It could only ever be hers.

  Butter.

  Chapter Three

  Emily

  Eight Years Ago

  “Butter! BUTTER!! Wait up!”

  I’m already late for class, but I stop without turning around. I don’t need to know who the voice belongs to and what it wants.

  I stand there, shifting the weight of my school bag higher up my shoulder as the footsteps come closer, and I can hear it accompanied by panting. A hot, sweaty arm flings itself around my shoulders and a lanky teenage boy hangs off me as he clutches his side trying to catch his breath.

  “What do you want, Brad?” I ask, without really needing to, as I watch my best friend drag air into his lungs.

  “Ugh...Notes. Homework. Help.” He gulps as he slides to the ground in an exaggerated heap.

  This is an act I’ve seen often and I know my part. I’m supposed to prod him with my foot and he’ll moan as if I’ve caused him grievous bodily harm. But I’m already late for class and I don’t have any time for his theatrics today, as much as they amuse me.

  I turn and leave him in his lanky pile of arms and legs on the grass and continue walking briskly to class.

  “Hey! Butter! Wait for me!” Brad calls out and I pivot back to him, my eyes rolled so high up into my head they ache.

  “Argh, what? I’m late!” I snap at him as he catches up with me again. And then I can’t help but laugh.

  He’s dropped to his knees and his hands are clasped in prayer and eyes scrunched closed.

  “Dear Almighty One, please please please can you send a message to Emily Butter of Jervois Lane to take pity on her lazy BFF and let him copy her English homework, or else his blood will be on her hands after he dies at the end of Mr. Harris’s ball-point pen.” He ends his prayer and I can almost imagine God having his own giggle up there.

  He opens one eye as if to make sure I’m still paying attention and then winks with it when he sees I am.

  “Ugh. Fine.” I give in, as he always knew I would. “But must you chase me through the school grounds yelling BUTTER at the top of your lungs?”

  “Firstly, thank you, thank you, thank you!” He holds his hands out as if accepting a sacred antiquity as I reach into my bag and pull out my homework binder. “And secondly, what else should I call you if not by your name?”

  “By my first name, as a wildly random suggestion.”

  “Brad and Emily? That doesn’t work. Nope. Brad and Butter just rolls off the tongue, don’t you think? We’ll always be Brad and Butter, so you might as well get used to it.”

  I sigh and hand him the homework sheet before pulling it back abruptly.

  “Wha?” His brow furrows in surprise…and fear.

  “Last night, you said—”

  “But...” he starts.

  I cut him off. “You said…you had to get off the phone to do your English homework!”

  “I…was going to.”

  “What happened?” I ask him.

  “Well, I, um, you know that I have to get into the zone, to produce my best work.”

  “Yeahhhh…?” My eyebrow lift in question.

  “And that means priming my brain…”

  “Uh-huh…?”

  “And you know they say computer games are great for stimulating the creative and reasoning and logic parts of your brain.” He grins, seemingly quite proud of his completely ridiculous argument.

  “Right.”

  “And, well, let’s just say they should recruit me for some sort of governmental think tank, that’s how primed my brain is right now.”

  “And your English homework?”

  “My brain is too primed for such a menial task!” He scoffs.

  “Hey! Are you saying I’m stupid?” I swing my bag at him and he moves out of the way just in time.

  “Oh, um, I’m not saying that! It’s just that, well, you know, there’s smart and there’s genius.”

  I nod as if in total agreement, and he grins in relief and taps himself on the temple.

  “There’s also taco day in the cafeteria, which is today and your favorite, as you know, and there’s detention during lunch for not doing your homework.” I wink at him and tap my own temple as his mouth drops open.

  He reaches over and tries to rip the homework from my hand, but I’ve known him long enough to anticipate it and cram the sheet back into my bag before making a run for it.

  “Thief, thief!!” he yells as he runs after me, “She’s taking off with her, I mean, my…thing. Thief! Somebody stop her!”

  I almost choke on my laughter but keep running, turning my head for just a moment to see how far a lead I have on him. Unfortunately, an overgrown tuft of grass catches my foot at that exact moment and I tumble over to land in an ungraceful mound of teenage girl.

  I scramble to my feet, but never the most nimble of athletes, I trip over myself and end up on the grass again.

  “Ah-ha! Gotcha!” I hear through the hair fallen over my face, and I push it aside just in time to see Brad grab the homework sheet from my bag.

  “No!” I yell and kick out with my foot, catching him on the shin and he squeals as he tumbles down right next to me.

  “Oooff,” he grunts as he rolls over onto his back, still clutching the crumpled sheet to his chest.

  I struggle to get upright and then press a foot onto his shoulder, holding him down as he wriggles. “Give it up, Windsor. Or else my foot’s going to move south.”

  “Dude. I give, I give!!!” he yells and lays his body flat against the ground.

  Bending over, I snatch the homework sheet back with one hand and offer him my other hand, helping to pull him to his feet.

  “Well played, Butter. Talk about an offer I couldn’t refuse.” He flinches as his hand hovers around his groin protectively and shudders as if contemplating what might have happened had he not surrendered. The look on his face is so pitiful I can’t help but give in. My eyes roll up into my head as I hand him the homework sheet.

  “Oh, you hath taken mercy on my poor soul. The universe shall reward you with riches and the never-ending joy of my company.”

  “Yeah, yeah, just hurry up and get it back to me before we have to hand it in,” I beg him as I brush the dirt from my clothes.

  “I am the very picture of speedy plagiarism,” he says with absolute confidence.

  “Mr. Windsor, Miss Butter. Is there some reason why you are late for my class?”

  Our teacher’s voice drifts toward us and we turn to see him striding across the grass, notes in hand, a wholly unimpressed look on his face.

  “Erm,” I start, but not sure how I’m going to finish.

  “Oh, Mr. Harris, don’t be coy now,” Brad pipes up. There’s that cheeky catch in his voice. Oh man, this isn’t going to end well.

  “Whatever could you mean, Mr. Windsor?” Mr. Harris cocks his eyebrow, twenty years of teaching experience telling him to just let the kid talk himself into trouble.

  “Well, weren’t you talking about how it’s better that we not go anywhere on our own on school grounds? That it’s always better if you can have a...what did you call it, ‘pal’? Just for safety’s sake?”

  “Spit it out, Windsor!” The blood starts to build up Mr. Harris’s neck and up to his face.

  “Well, we’re it! We’re your pals! Your very own double escort service, I mean…not that kind... erm, yes. It’s not safe for a handsome man like yourself to be wandering the courtyard on your own. So we were waiting for you as we are your very own bodyguard service to get you to your fifth-period English class, safe and sound. You. Are. Welcome. C
ome along now… we’re late.” Brad takes a few steps forward and calls out to me, “You take up the back end there, Butter. Can’t have Mr. Harris teach-napped under our watch now, can we?”

  Mr. Harris stares at Brad, mouth agape.

  “Um, after you, Mr. Harris.” I smile sheepishly and try to hold it together just long enough for him to shake his head and follow Brad, now a good fifty feet away.

  “By the way, Mr. Windsor, that better be your own homework you’re holding in your hand there! I expect that handed in as soon as we get to class!” Mr. Harris shouts to my mischievous best friend.

  Unsurprisingly, Brad suddenly takes off and disappears around a corner, leaving me to “pal” my English teacher all on my own.

  ***

  “You are a dead man.” I point and narrow my eyes at Brad as soon as I catch up to him in the courtyard after class. He’d conveniently found an empty seat in the back of the class to avoid my glares and had hightailed it out of there as soon as the bell rang.

  “Oh, whatever do you mean?” He plays innocent and my eyes narrow into such thin slits I can barely see him through them.

  “You left me alone with Old Man Harris and fucked off after your whole pal-pal speech! I had to explain that I don’t think you’re certifiably insane, but we can’t be sure until you get tested next week!”

  He finds this hilarious and laughs as he drops his ratted old excuse for a school bag onto the ground and sits on it. “By the way, thanks for the homework notes. I’ll owe you.”

  “You already owed me.”

  “Oh, so this one’s a freebie?”

  “No. Oh no, Windsor, you will pay. Mark my words, one day, you will pay.” I shake my finger at him, and he pretends to cower.

  “You can have my first born.”

  “If it’s anything like you, no thanks.”

  He starts to say something, then he stops, and a shadow crosses his face. “Incoming.”

  “Hey babe,” a deep voice whispers against my ear, “how’s my girl?”

  My boyfriend’s hand comes up to wrap around the back of my neck and he pulls my head closer for a kiss.

  “Hey Silas.” I lean in and press my lip against his and then squirm, hating the feel of his hot sweaty hand against my neck.

  “Oh, sorry! I forgot, the princess hates her neck touched.” His voice has a mocking tone and I know he’s still pissed from our fight last night.

  He pulls away and I face him, my eyes scanning his features, reading his expression. After a year and a half together, there isn’t much I don’t know about him. I certainly know enough that me hanging up the phone halfway through our argument last night was not going to sit well with him and that the radio silence since then was meant to express his discontent rather than an agreement to disagree.

  But it was a disagreement that was a long time coming.

  He’s made it clear he wants to go to the US to pursue his music, with me in faithful tow, and I want to stay in London and pursue my writing. The years at Guildhall School of Music have been wonderful in stoking my passion for music, but my talent has limits and I know that I’ve reached them. It won’t stop me from being surrounded by music; it would just be in a different capacity. What I do know is that that capacity isn’t as a groupie, which is what I’d be if I let Silas’s dream eclipse my own. He is good. But so am I.

  A clear and logical mind would tell me the right thing to do, but the heart’s never been accused of such practicalities.

  “Hey,” I tug gently on his hand and give him a crooked smile. His frown softens and I know that he’s as frustrated about our impasse as I am. He pulls me in for a hug and I can’t help but lock eyes with Brad over Silas’s shoulder as we embrace. The look on Brad’s face is tense, and I know he can sense that everything’s not all right between Silas and me.

  I roll my eyes to lighten the mood, but he just stares back. Despite being friends since elementary school[JD1], lately they haven’t had more than two words to say to each other, and I’ve managed to keep the two relationships separate. There’s just so much room for gigantic egos at one time.

  “Yo, Bradley!” a voice yells from across the courtyard and I see Jez, Sebastian, and Marius, Brad’s best friends and bandmates making their way toward us. He grins and jumps up, brushing the grass off his ass. “Gotta run! Nice seein’ ya, Silas. I’ll call you tonight, Butter.”

  We barely have time to answer before he grabs his bag and is sprinting away to meet up with his friends. Not for the first time, I wish I could follow him.

  “Babe,” Silas’s voice turns my attention back to him.

  “Hmmm?”

  “I thought we were going out tonight.”

  “We are.” I nod, kissing him gently on the cheek, hoping to break the ice between us.

  “Then why did Brad say he’d call you tonight?”

  “I dunno,” I shrug. “Force of habit I guess. He knows we’ve got plans,” I say in reassurance.

  “Good. As long as he remembers you’re mine and mine alone.” There’s a warning in his voice, and I brush it off as sheer possessiveness. Something that I’ve never really enjoyed but have tolerated in him. I’ve never given him reason to doubt my loyalty, and I wasn’t going to start now.

  Chapter Four

  Brad

  Present Day

  Two hundred eyes turn toward me.

  Pens poised higher and audio recorders stretched just that little bit further in my direction, waiting for an answer. I clear my throat. It echoes in the silent room, dancing back and forth on the waves of tension.

  “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?” I need the extra moment to compose myself, my thoughts.

  I can just make out her silhouette as she pulls herself up taller and straightens her shoulders. It’s definitely her. I haven’t seen her for eight years, but I’d recognize her anywhere, from any angle. There’s no lack of confidence in her figure and she doesn’t need to clear her throat. She knows exactly what she wants to say.

  “I said, ‘do you guys ever intend on doing anything but ripping off other musicians’ work?’ I mean, this is your fourth album now, the last one you won you two Grammys for Best New Artist and Best Contemporary Instrumental. But really, when you break it down, aren’t you nothing but a glorified cover band?”

  The two hundred eyes turn back to me again.

  In the corner of my eye I can see the guys trying to fight back grins and guffaws. I’m sure they’ve recognized her by now too and are probably picturing a hundred different times we’ve played out this very same argument. Of course, then it was just us, two stubborn music students trying to one up each other for fun. Now it was in front of every influential music journalist in England. And I wasn’t going to let her win.

  “Well, um, I’m sorry, what was your name?” I play dumb, buying time as my mind ticks over, still trying to process that it’s her. Here.

  “Emily,” comes the one-word curt reply.

  “What a lovely name. I once had a best friend called that.”

  “Poor girl,” she fires back.

  Jez, on the far end of the table, chokes on his water and I kinda think he deserves it for enjoying my pain.

  “Yes, well. She was a bit of a hag anyway. Huge Dumbo ears. And um, you know, that awkward, really long second toe. That’s weird.”

  A light smattering of chuckles travels through the crowd. I’m not sure they know what’s going on, but they’re enjoying it anyway.

  “Back to your question—it’s a doozy by the way. I might need a second to ponder it. While I’m doing that, can I ask you a question?”

  She shrugs one shoulder in response.

  “Hmm yes, chatty one, aren’t you, not at all like my old friend, Emily. Couldn’t shut that one up. Anyway, what’s your favorite song, Emily?”

  I can just see her open her mouth, pausing, and then closing again before answering. “I don’t…”

  “Nawww, come on, you’re here, reporting on us. You must
be a music journalist of some sort. Are you trying to tell me that you don’t have a favorite song? And I don’t mean the one you think your music snob listeners want to hear is your favorite song. I mean the one that when it comes on the car radio, you turn it up and forget all traffic, red lights, pedestrians, and gets you singing and dancing in the street. The one that makes the whole world make sense for just three minutes and completely turns your day—no matter how shitty it was—around. What song is that?”

  I know what it is, and she knows I know.

  “’Tainted Love.’” She gives it up, reluctantly.

  “By?” I prod her.

  “The original, Soft Cell.”

  “Good choice. Except that…of course, it’s not the original. The Soft Cell version.”

  I can’t see it, but I can picture her, that little furrow of the brow, and how her whole face curls in confusion, not just her forehead. Her lips kinda purse and her eyes dart side to side as her brain churns in her head. It’s adorable.

  “Yeah, would you believe Soft Cell’s version of ‘Tainted Love’ is in fact a cover. A rockin’ singer by the name of Gloria Jones actually released the original in the ‘60s, way before her time of course. It flopped, giving Soft Cell the chance to give it a second life in the ‘80s. So, anyway. In answer to your question…no.

  “No what?” she replies.

  “No, we won’t ever be much more than a glorified cover band. We don’t really have it in us to compose. A few songs here and there, sure. Like the lovely one you’ve heard recently, the new song on our album, the single ‘Cadence’s Song’ by our man Sebastian over there. But we do have it in us to make melodies and harmonies ours. Breathe our version of life into them. And well, isn’t that what music’s all about? And anyway, since your favorite song ever is actually a cover—it doesn’t really sound like such bad company to me.”

  With that, I lean back in my chair and pull the sunglasses back down over my eyes.