by Judy May
Just as we could hear my dad driving up outside, she told me a huge secret, that she and her boyfriend Beau are starting up a rock band so they have something fun to do this summer. Emma-Jo already looks like a rock star, even the way she sits and talks and everything. When I think back right now about how much I was talking tonight, I’m a bit worried that maybe I sounded boring or silly. But then, maybe what I said was OK because she kept listening and she’s not the sort to let herself be bored.
She asked me did I play any instrument, but I don’t (thanks to the violin devil lady).
I so wanted to offer to help out, to maybe make posters or help them think of a name for the band, but I didn’t think she would want me involved so I said nothing (big surprise there then!). I also didn’t ask her about knowing Christophe because I wouldn’t know what to say if she asked me if I know him.
I am trying not to think of him at all. But not doing all that well, it would seem.
DAY TWENTY-SEVEN
When we woke up this morning there was a bunch of HUGE fish on our doorstep! Luckily they were in a basket with a lid, so Trug didn’t get to them. I knew in a second that The Watcher was at work. Mum is a bit freaked out because so many of the strawberries have gone missing and now these big, fat fish have landed on her. Well, not on her, but she feels she has to fillet them and cook them for dinner so they don’t go to waste. Dad says we’ll have a barbecue tonight and make the fish the main course. I used to love when we’d have them back home, and everyone we knew would come over and we’d take over the lounge with all our friends while the adults were on the balcony.
Emma-Jo just phoned, and asked me to help her set-up the auditions to find a lead guitarist and a singer for her band! She said she reckons I’m really good at thinking things through, which I reckon is another way of calling me shy and mousy. Emma-Jo plays bass guitar (which is so cool, I would give anything to be that cool, although I don’t want to play guitar because I tried it once and it killed my fingers), and Beau plays drums. Or as Emma-Jo says,
‘Well, he hits them, bless him.’
I said that I’d ask my dad if we can hold the auditions in one of the barns. I’ll ask him tomorrow after he’s had breakfast and done that thing where he pats his stomach with both hands and goes, ‘Ah yes, this is the good life!’ Sometimes when my dad is being a complete embarrassment like that, Mum sees me making a face and whispers, ‘At least he’s not dancing!’, which always makes me smile again. He dances like he’s pulled several important muscles and flaps his arms around with his mouth hanging open. We have geese that dance better than Dad.
I’m ridiculously excited now that I have a task, and finally know some people. I hope Christophe won’t tell Emma-Jo that I’m a loser who drops bags of sweet potatoes and wanders about in the wood, because that would ruin everything. I have decided that he must be The Watcher, must be.
I still haven’t answered the last note.
They gave me the job of asking the Hoopers over for the fish barbecue at our place tonight and I am dying at the thought of it. I asked Adam would he do it and he said he had to get the fence-mending finished and then go and collect Liza. So basically, I have to eat fish and listen to my mother getting tipsy on red wine, while the most fanciable guy in the world, and a teacher from my school watch me.
Okaaaaay, brilliant.
DAY TWENTY-EIGHT
Not only did I survive last night, but it was even a bit good. We sat outside the kitchen door in the little bit of yard in front of the kitchen garden, which Mum calls the patio, but is really just a hard bit of ground with no grass. Sammy-boy had his hedgehog with him to show us. Now that I have met Emma-Jo I feel bad for Sammy-boy having no one his age to play with.
Mum was not too loud and only drank a bit of wine, not like at the parties in the city. Liza (who I accidentally called Miss Dobbs three times) is hilarious and had us all in stitches with her stories about different schools she has taught in. She did a perfect impression of the headmaster at my school and I thought I would fracture my insides from laughing so much. I actually talk when she is around because she asks me loads of questions about myself. I like that. So, Liza’s on my party-list, for certain, even though she’s an adult. It’s going to be weird if she’s my teacher again.
I managed not to have to talk to Christophe all night and he looked way more embarrassed than me any time we caught each other’s eye. I guess it was a real come-down for him to have to hang out with not cool people like me and my family, but why did he leave the fish and the notes if he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me? If he is the Watcher, of course; I don’t know whether I’d be disappointed or relieved if he wasn’t! He must be though! Must. He mostly spoke to Dad and they seemed to be having fun. He talks fast, laughs a lot and waves his arms about like an Italian when he’s explaining things. He is SO gorgeous (she mentioned for the fifty thousanth time!), I’m glad I didn’t have to sit beside him or I’d have been too nervous to eat.
Then, I was bringing some of the dirty plates back into the kitchen, and he followed me because his mum made him collect some too. So we were both there in the kitchen and had put the plates down. He had no interest whatsoever in talking to me and just as he was headed out to the ‘patio’ again I panicked and blurted,
‘Thanks for the fish!’
Of course he just laughed at me again and didn’t look back.
He didn’t deny that it was him, but made it very clear that it wasn’t something he wanted to be made known to people. So I’m good enough to be a note-leaving friend, but not good enough to be a real social friend? I guess he’s as bored as I am and it’s a way of doing something without having to actually hang out with me. Kind of like the way Barbara spoke to me on the way to school then dropped me like a too-hot cheese-toastie as soon as others were around.
Then Liza, Adam and Mum came into the kitchen so I couldn’t dwell on the fiasco of my first attempt at a conversation with Christophe. Mum organised us all into getting the fruit flan together for dessert. My mum should be in charge of China, or a medium-sized country at the very least. Her talent is seriously wasted on such a small party, on such a small farm, on a fruit flan. Seriously.
When they were leaving the Hoopers hugged us all because they are a huggy family even though we aren’t. Because everyone ended up hugging everyone goodbye I know that the (really fast and not very huggy) hug Christophe gave me didn’t mean anything except a goodbye hug. So I’m not blowing it out of proportion or anything. It was nice to get any kind of hug though, for a minute it looked like he was just going to leave me out.
Anyway … today Sammy-boy hung out with me in the greenhouse all afternoon. It’s finally comfortable and not just bearable since I moved down the old chairs from my bedroom, and found a broken side-table top that Sammy can rest over the arms of his chair for drawing on. I made us a picnic lunch of tuna and sweetcorn sandwiches and Sammy drew a picture of us all at the barbecue, which is great (except I look a bit like a hamster for some reason). I insisted he sign that and the hedgehog one, which seemed to make him really happy, so I got him to write a sign saying ‘The Gallery’, which we put on the greenhouse door. At least he’s happy to hang out with me!
Tonight I just lay on my bed, did a few minutes of French and then just sort of lay there again.
OK, not to bang on about the hug thing, but I think it proves (as if proof were needed) that Christophe couldn’t ever fancy me, because when you fancy someone you get way too self-conscious about hugging them. Not that I mind or anything. Just saying.
God, shut-up Poppy, he thinks you are a social rash! Stop wanting people to like you when it’s obvious they think you’re a waste of space!
I just can’t stop thinking about him and have re-read the Watcher notes over and over.
DAY TWENTY-NINE
Emma-Jo likes hanging out with me, that’s one thing at least. Emma-Jo is the kind of person you could put in a bottle and sell as an energy drink. Good thing I d
idn’t leave this out by the bed because I was woken up at seven-thirty this morning by her landing into my bedroom like a tornado.
‘Morning, chick! Let’s get famous!’
‘What time is it?’
‘Time to seriously rumble with the audition thing!’
I dragged on some jeans and a t-shirt and ran downstairs to fetch us a breakfast of banana-nut muffins and a huge pot of orange-pekoe tea to have in my bedroom on the sheepskin rugs.
That’s a wonderful thing about living in this farmhouse, my bedroom is HUGE. It used to be the attic, and although the ceiling is low, it’s about three times bigger than the other bedrooms. Mindy and I chose who would sleep where, without ever having been here, just hearing descriptions. So Mindy got the room with the farmyard view, which isn’t as good as it sounds from far away in the city. When we got here and she realised that hers was tiny and really noisy in the mornings, she tried to force me to swap. But Dad took charge, and said that she had fought for her room when she thought it was the best, and that I had every right to stay where I was.
So anyway, — get to the point, Poppy!
Emma-Jo cleared her throat and announced,
‘Poppy, chick, there has been a meeting. A businesslike, professional, business meeting with pens and everything, and the result is that Beau and I have decided you should be our Marketing girl for the first gig. We’re talking posters, parades, coupons, whatever it takes to get those bums in the doors and on the seats.’
‘Yes, great! Love to,’ was all I could manage without choking on a muffin.
We went on to have the best time planning how to hold the auditions for her band. I’m going to show people in, and get their names and phone numbers, and take a photo of them so we can remember who is who. Then Emma-Jo and Beau will sit behind a table, listen to each person play, and ask them about their influences and if they have time to rehearse, and suss out if they are serious about it.
I can’t believe this is happening so fast. Part of me is scared that when Beau sees me he’ll know who I am and tell Emma-Jo that they laugh at me and call me The Farmer at school. But at least I am still involved for now.
This afternoon I went down to the Hazel Wood and there was a note from The Watcher pinned to the tree. Well, from Christophe, but I still think of him as The Watcher when I’m in the wood. I was worried that he was going to stop now that I am 90 per cent certain of his identity.
It said:
Dear Hazel Wood Girl…
And instead of a note there was this amazing black-and-white hand-drawn cartoon of me wearing the outfit I had on last night. He had exaggerated my eyes and made them look incredible. He had my hair even more wild, long and curly than it is in real life, and I was standing in a field of cows, getting butted by one. It also had no mouth, which I suppose is a dig at me not talking much. And he didn’t make me look like a hamster. It was so fantastic that I wanted to show it to someone, but then I would have had to explain about me being the Hazel Wood Girl and Christophe being The Watcher, so I just ran up to my bedroom and taped it to the side of the old mahogany wardrobe, where I can see it from my bed, but no one else can see it if they walk into my room.
I know I should be angry with him for not wanting to talk to me or be my friend in the real world, but compared to not having him be my friend at all, this is good enough. If I was less of an idiot, dropping things and saying ‘Thanks for the fish’, instead of ‘Hi, I’m Poppy’, then maybe he might be bothered with me one day rather than have me as a part-time project just because they don’t have a TV. I still think that maybe it’s some trick, but right now I’m going to try to just enjoy it.
New plan – I am definitely going to talk more. This is the ideal time because Mindy is away and not taking up all the airspace. I just have to get over this notion that everyone has good things to say and I don’t. When you think about it, most things most people say are just ordinary, and that’s OK. Most of my old friends knew me from when I was a baby, but to make new ones you have to ask questions and tell people about who you are inside.
DAY THIRTY
Today I said more than I normally would in a whole month. Most of this talking happened in the café in town, which is unofficially our rock band office, as long as we buy a fresh pot of tea every hour. Quite a good rate for office space these days! Beau is much less scary than I thought he’d be. When he talks, he says things in this long drawn-out way which makes him sound like he just woke up all the time. The fact that neither of them had any idea that I’m usually practically mute, meant that they didn’t think it was weird of me to say so much. That felt good. It’s like I can be my real self with them, not the person I accidentally ended up being.
Emma-Jo has decided that her name is not rock star enough, and we all have to call her ‘Em-J’, which does have a good sound to it. Beau knows that his name means ‘handsome’ in French, and so he loves it. I think I already have a cool name, it’s just that I need to grow into it.
Once we were all clear on what to call each other, I said,
‘My dad’s OK with us using the big, stone barn.’
‘Why do you have a special barn for the big stones?’ asked Beau, and he wasn’t joking either.
‘It’s a big barn, made of stone rather than bricks or wood,’ Em-J explained patiently, ‘hence “big, stone barn”.’
And you got the feeling that she spent a lot of time filling him in on the basics. It’s obvious she adores him though. It’s like they balance each other out, she brings him up to her high speed, and then he calms her down with a big smile and a kiss.
Em-J wrote out the audition notice, which says:
Lead guitarist and singer needed for new, impossibly awesome rock band. Only people with the spirit, skills and super-style of a rock god or goddess may apply. Dare to display your super star-self if you drip with attitude and reek of success.
And then we added where and when, and that there would be no food. Adam says people always expect to get fed, so I thought we better put that in case they went wandering over to the house for refreshments. I can just imagine Mum wrestling with complete strangers for control of the coffee pot. Not a good picture.
While me and Em-J shared a slice of pecan pie and talked about the artistic direction of the band (and about boys and hair lighteners), Beau went off to get a dozen copies of the audition notice printed up. Em-J voted amongst herself and decided that I should be the band’s official production manager. Not objecting too furiously is the same thing as agreeing as far as Em-J is concerned, so I suppose I agreed.
By the time Beau came back Em-J had pretty much planned the first world tour and written it up on a napkin, between the pastry crumbs. I just love the way she calls everyone ‘chick’, even Beau.
We had the most hilarious time going around convincing people to put our audition notices in the newsagent’s window, the noticeboard in the supermarket, beside the maps and things in the reception area of the town hall, even sticking the last few up on trees and lampposts along the main street.
I did the asking in most places because I am the production manager, and because the other two think I look like the least trouble. I know that means that they don’t think I’m nearly as edgy as them, and they’d be right.
It was so funny, they would start slyly poking me in the back or tugging on my hair as I was talking, to try and make me laugh or mess up what I was saying. I can’t stop laughing now, just thinking about it.
Em-J is so into things being stunning and all outer-atmosphere, that I’m certain she must find me really dull. Anyway, I suppose she needs me for now and that’s good enough. BIG plus, is that Beau is too dozy to have noticed that they don’t like me in school, so – as long as Barbara Montague stays away and doesn’t phone – I’m safe as houses for the summer. Unless the new people in the band know about me … God! How did I manage to be one of the hated ones? I was always one of the liked ones before, always, even if I wasn’t the princess of the planet or anyt
hing.
DAY THIRTY-ONE
I was down at the Hazel Wood early this morning, just as the sun came up over the ruined cottage, not looking for a note, just enjoying looking at the trees like when I first went down there. I wandered around and thought of how much things are different just because of knowing Em-J. It so rocks, how she has an idea and makes it happen. Also the way she makes everything sound so huge, ‘We’re talking global domination, chick,’ ‘Millions of raving fans, BRING IT ON!’ I’ve never had a friend before that makes me feel so much like doing things. So in that mood I decided to get tough with The Watcher (now 99 per cent sure it’s Christophe). Dangerously, I had brought pen and paper with me, so I wrote;
Dear Watcher,
So, if this ‘thing’ with us is going to only exist in the Hazel Wood, you won’t mind sending me flowers instead of just notes. Right?
Yours,
HWG
I think I was annoyed with him and feeling confident at the same time and wanting him to think I was really ‘couldn’t care less’ about it all. I loved myself for it for the first half hour because it seemed like such an Em-J, kick-ass thing to do, but then I was worried sick all day that he’d think the note was lame. I might have ruined everything and even though he doesn’t want to know me, I now look forward to the notes instead of daydreaming about JL. I was too worried to even go and get it back in case he was already reading it while I came along. Flowers? God! What possessed me to ask for flowers!? At the time, things can seem like such a good idea, but the better you think the idea is at first, the more you worry that it’s crap once the excitement has worn off.