Push Me, Pull Me

by Vanessa Garden

  Martin nudged me with his knuckles and a cold drink grazed against my bare arm. Without taking my eyes away from the stage, I took it and without even sipping, knew it would be ginger beer. Since we were kids Martin turned me on to ginger beer. One afternoon when we were building a cubby house with broken branches at the local park, Martin suddenly declared that ‘one should only drink one’s hair colour.’ Brunettes should drink Coke, blondes lemonade…etc. And that was that. We’d stuck with it ever since, except now he swapped lemonade for beer.

  Byron raised his face to the crowd. His eyes were shadowed in the light but I could see the outline of his lips, so perfectly shaped, and the long scar gleaming like a strand of silver down his face and neck.

  A hush descended on the crowd, except for a few clinking glasses.

  “Hello, Donny Vale.”

  The crowd responded with thick silence.

  I cringed.

  Byron shook his head and half-smiled before adjusting his guitar strap again. Then somebody yelled out, “Come on!” and a few awkward coughs broke out somewhere behind us, followed by a wolf whistle and a “Shut up!”

  Byron sucked in a deep breath, sighed, closed his eyes, and began to play.

  He started with a long guitar intro, the piece sounding like soft rain. It was good, but my stomach remained clenched up tight with anticipation, waiting for him to sing.

  He leaned in close to the mic and licked his bottom lip.

  I held my breath, waiting.

  It was so quiet you could hear the cash register ping.

  But then his beautiful voice rang out and ate up all the silence.

  Chapter 6

  The song ended. My ears rang in the silence that followed. Desperate to fill that silence, I brought my hands together in a loud clap and let a “Yeeaah!” fly.

  Ouch. Somebody elbowed me in the ribs. The girls in the front row swung their heads around to glare at me with heavily made up eyes and I shrank back into my skin.

  “Shhh, let the boy sing,” the woman from behind the counter at the local bakery, who had a tattoo of a crow—its wings spread in flight—across her wrinkled chest, whispered hoarsely.

  “Yeah, shut up,” a few others echoed simultaneously while my face burned hot.

  Byron winked at me and suddenly the humiliation was all worth it, even if I was blushing so hard I probably looked like a tomato bobbing in the crowd.

  Taking a sip of ginger beer so I could hide my huge stupid grin, I nearly choked when Byron groaned and then grimaced as though in pain as he bent to retrieve the little black guitar pick he dropped.

  The girls around me squealed with delight, as though Byron had just done something sexy.

  They didn’t seem to notice the way he kept pulling on the guitar strap as though it was bothering him, or holding the instrument away from his body so that it wouldn’t touch his chest. The guy was in serious pain.

  Somebody tugged my hair, Martin, because he did that a lot, but I ignored him and kept my eyes trained on Byron.

  “Mr. Fauxhawk so owns you,” Martin whispered in my ear.

  I elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Thank you,” Byron mumbled into the microphone before wincing and running a hand through his hair.

  A girl behind me yelled out, “No, thank you!” in a suggestive voice and a small, shy smile flitted across Byron’s face before it disappeared altogether and he began strumming the guitar strings, his brow furrowing in concentration.

  He was good, so good that I started to forget about his earlier physical discomfort. In fact, by the fourth song I was swaying from side to side, in public, despite Martin’s mortification at my lame dancing skills.

  Music had been Mum’s thing, and Derek’s, so maybe I’d subconsciously boycotted it the past two months. Every song I heard just seemed to remind me of Mum somehow, the lyrics too personal and spot-on they made me feel like invisible eyes were watching me and recording my every action and secret thought. So I avoided music whenever I could.

  Up until now.

  Here I am, contemplating some shoulder moves.

  Byron wound the song down and I nudged Martin, my arm poking his belly, to find out if I was bias to Byron’s music because I had a tiny crush on him, or if in fact he truly was the real deal. But my best friend didn’t even look at me. He was too busy hawk-eying Byron.

  Martin had always wanted to be a guitarist but could never get past the A and E minor chords, so almost all the songs he wrote came out angsty and downright depressing. When he was thirteen, and had to play the song he wrote about us, “Lemonade and Ginger Beer,” for the school’s end of year concert, he started crying halfway through and the principal kicked him off the stage. At least he had a lot of girlfriends that summer.

  “Isn’t he just brilliant?” I whispered in his ear.

  “Shhhh!” he said, nudging my arm back, hard. “Let the dude sing.” He sounded pissed off. But then I saw Madeline, eyes half lidded, her head tilted up towards Byron, a sexy smile curving her lush lips while she danced. She’d certainly changed her mind about Byron, and Martin had obviously noticed. I snuck a peek over my shoulders. Even the burly miners were nodding their heads at each other as if to say, ‘this kid’s not half-bad.’

  The next song came and it was a bit faster and heavier. Some of the men in the crowd tapped their feet and tossed in the occasional head-bang, spilling some of their beer in the process.

  As the show progressed, little things began to thrill me, like the way Byron’s fauxhawk started to fall, sending hair across his eyes whenever he stopped to tighten the guitar strings or fiddle with the amp’s controls. Or the way he took a sip of water and spilt some down his shirt, making his chest all shiny. Or the way that he grinned and apologised to the audience in a soft voice when he made a mistake with the intro chords to one of his numbers. Or when he played the final note of the last song, the way he moved right to the edge of the stage, tossed his fringe back, and locked eyes with mine.

  Wow…

  For a long moment I just stared back, spellbound and magnetised, my breath caught in my chest. I don’t know if I was just caught up in the buzz of being out of the house for the first time in forever, but in that single eye-lock I realised there was something that dwelled inside of Byron, something both dark and bright and beautiful. And I needed to know what that thing was, right now.

  A girl in the crowd whistled like a referee, breaking the spell. Rowdy applause broke through the silence. Byron had passed the Donny Vale test. He was in the league of the Tom Jones impersonator now. No. He was a billion times better than the Tom Jones guy. He was just perfect in that faulty, beautifully imperfect way. And for one crazy, pulse-racing moment, I wondered if Byron could see past my imperfections and want to know the real me too.

  Minutes later, people began to form small groups, but I remained stage-front and watched Byron lean his guitar against his amp.

  When he straightened up, he winced again and arched his back before peering down his unbuttoned shirt. His hand followed, checking something in there, and his face twisted into a grimace. He was in pain, extreme pain, and I knew I should have looked away but I couldn’t.

  Our eyes met and my stomach churned with nerves. I didn’t know what to say, and before I even got a chance to muster up the courage to speak, Byron quickly turned away, buttoning his shirt up as though he’d caught me perving.

  My face flared up with embarrassment and I quickly spun around and searched for Martin and Madeline who’d somehow vanished. A girl I went to high school with, from a higher grade, grinned at me and pointed to the left hand side of the entrance.

  There they were, in the middle of a sloppy, face-eating fest. It was as though Madeline had swallowed the keys to her car and Martin was trying to dig them out with his tongue.

  I groaned and turned away, and stood around on my own for a bit, finishing the last dregs of my now warm ginger beer that I didn’t really want to drink but did because I had nothing else to do.
To my right stood a group of kids I used to go to school with, but there wasn’t any point in chatting to them, seeing as the last time I attempted to do so, at the Apple Fest, they’d gotten so bored during the conversation that they sort of just fell away, one by one, like they all needed to go to the toilet at the same time. I guess my life just wasn’t as interesting as theirs was.

  “Drink, babe?” A bearded miner offered with raised brows and a hairy grin.

  “No thanks.” I turned away from the man and waited patiently for my chaperones to unlock lips. They were grinding against each other now, completely oblivious to me and the small audience that had gathered around them to watch.

  I turned away, my stomach feeling weird at seeing Martin going for it like that, and scanned the crowds for Byron. He was at the bar, clusters of girls on either side, but he wasn’t wincing in pain anymore. Instead he was laughing and gesturing wildly with his hands as if telling a crazy story to his female audience who watched him with glittering stars in their eyes. Then somebody got in the way, a tall woman, and I couldn’t see him anymore. The woman turned. She was wearing a Megadeth shirt and was sipping on a fruity looking drink with a paper umbrella sticking out of it, staring at me, unblinking.

  It was her.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

  This was getting ridiculous and plain weird. There were plenty of people in Donny Vale caught up in situations that they probably wanted help with. Why wasn’t she stalking them? Why wouldn’t Mrs. Patfield just leave me the hell alone?

  “Can we go please?” I asked Martin when he finally came up for air.

  He thought for a moment and then wiped the back of his hand across the wet lower half of his face. His lips were swollen and red.

  “Madeline wants to stay,” he said, puffing and panting from all the mouth action. His eyes followed the sway of Madeline’s arse as she disappeared through the crowd. “She wants his autograph.”

  My eyes flickered over to Byron and his fan club. Mrs. Patfield was gone and a quick scan of the crowd confirmed this. Had I imagined her? No. Because that would mean I was truly going insane.

  I turned back to Martin, straining to recall our conversation.

  “Byron’s signature? Really?”

  “Yep. I gave her the phone number he gave me at the video store and she’s going to get it signed.” He raised his foamy beer. “Hey, here they come.”

  “He signed it.” Madeline squealed before leaping into Martin’s arms. When they twirled out of the way my heart skipped a beat. Byron was standing right there.

  “Your show rocked, dude,” Martin said, his palm sticking out between Madeline’s tangled limbs. Weird that Martin was all friendly with Byron now when he’d seemed pissed off and jealous in the audience earlier.

  Byron gripped the proffered palm in a man-shake before taking a sip of red wine from the glass in his other hand.

  He turned to me and took a step closer so that Madeline and Martin were blocked from my view but not so close that he was invading my space or anything. He was tall and his chest was still wet and shiny from when he’d spilled water down his front, or perhaps it was sweat. Whatever it was, it was complimentary and I had to force my eyes away.

  “We meet again,” he said.

  “Hi.” I eyed his drink with uncalled for menace. Dad was particularly partial to red wine lately.

  “Can I buy you a drink, Ruby?” His eyes moved to the empty mug attached to my hand. All I could think about was that he’d remembered my name. Maybe Martin was right, maybe Byron had Googled me. A thrill tickled my insides, that is, until I remembered that the only thing on the net about me was that I was Donny Vale’s six-time champion apple bobber in the under eighteen division. Great. Like I needed more attention drawn to my huge Milton Mouth.

  He waved a hand over my eyes to break my trance and smiled. God, he had a beautiful face. My heart raced, flipped, and pounded against my chest all at once.

  “Oh, um…no thanks, I’m not legal yet.”

  “So, why are you in a pub?” He made a pissed off face and pretended to look around. “Where’s the management around here?”

  I couldn’t help but grin.

  “Kids,” Martin said, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head. He ruffled my hair like I was a five-year-old. “Lucky she’s got me looking out for her and making sure she sticks to her hair colour drink and doesn’t try any of the more adult options.”

  I yanked my head away. Byron was frowning. Probably wondering what on earth ‘hair colour drink’ meant.

  “Even if I was eighteen I wouldn’t touch that stuff.” I glared at Martin’s beer, and at Byron’s wine, then at Byron’s perplexed expression, before raising my palms up in defence. I really needed to get out of here before fun-police became my new nickname.

  “Sorry. Look. Enjoy your wine and your success, but I’m going home.” I turned to Martin and Madeline. “Don’t make any mouth-babies tonight.”

  Somebody grabbed a hold of my hand. “Wait.”

  My eyes shifted from Byron’s hand, warm and holding mine, up to his eyes, which also seemed warm somehow and…caring. Could eyes be caring? I swallowed and felt lightheaded. My brain had just left the building.

  “You’re not walking home on your own are you? It’s dark outside.” He was still holding my hand and I was tingling all over as a result.

  It took me a few seconds to regroup my brain cells before I could answer.

  “Dark outside?” I breathed out a shaky laugh and tried not to think about Mrs. Patfield waiting around some dodgy corner for me. “I know these streets blindfolded. It’s a small town. We don’t have serial killers here, okay, Byron?”

  He drew a sharp breath, as though the sound of his name on my lips had affected him. Then his eyes lit up and he smiled, making my belly perform many intricate gymnastic-style moves. I couldn’t hide my Milton special if I tried.

  “That’s…disappointing. When I first moved here, the lady at the Donny Vale Information Centre promised at least one serial murder per week.” He sighed as if he was really bummed.

  My smile widened. Martin was going to be disappointed to know that as well as hot and talented, Byron was funny too.

  “I thought your flyer said you’re here for a short time only.”

  Byron opened his mouth, as if to speak, but two girls, the ‘hot-spot’ girls, materialised from the crowd and lunged at him from either side. One stroked Byron’s hair while she glared at me, the other trailed a polished nail along the silverly scar on his face and neck. Byron’s shoulders seemed to tense up when they touched him and soon enough he gently shrugged them off and cleared his throat, his vivid blue eyes never leaving mine.

  “You sound as though you might be unhappy that I’m leaving,” he said, his hand still holding mine.

  “I’m totally fine with it,” I said, shrugging and looking away, hoping the pub lighting was dim enough to hide the sunburn and blush on my face.

  “Would you come and watch me if I played again?” There was a slight catch to his voice, like he was worried I’d say no. It was strange. His nervousness didn’t match the whole hot musician/artist persona. If the local girls here were draping themselves all over him then it was most likely he got this reaction wherever he went and wouldn’t need to ask plain-Janes like me to attend his shows.

  I traced the outline of a mysterious orange stain, ingrained in the carpet for who knew how long, with my shoe.

  “Music’s not…really my thing.”

  “Really? I saw you dancing.” He squeezed my hand, causing my pulse to stutter, and lowered his voice. “At least I think it was dancing.”

  I covered my mouth with my free hand and pretended to cough so he couldn’t see me smile. Byron stared down at me over the rim of his wine glass, his blue eyes flashing with amusement. Though his hair was brown, the pub lighting made it look like he had a golden halo.

  A large, sweaty crowd bustled past us as they gravitated towards the exit
. Byron moved in closer so they could pass, his bare arm brushing against mine, making my skin tingle all over again.

  “I’ve been reading his poems,” he said, his voice low and just for me.

  He meant Lord Byron, this I knew. Over the past two weeks, since the bookstore incident, I’d been reading and swooning over the man’s poems on the internet myself. However, the entire time I’d pictured this Byron reciting them to me.

  “Me too,” I said in a husky voice before inwardly groaning. I’d been sprung.

  But instead of teasing me about it, Byron said nothing and took a sip of wine. His hand shook, making the red liquid tremble inside the glass. Maybe he was about to spout verse.

  A couple bumped into us, interrupting the spell between us and severing our connected hands. Byron cleared his throat and looked away. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. It was getting late. One thing I’d learned from looking after a toddler full-time—you needed to catch up on sleep while said toddler was sleeping. It was the only time you got a break.

  Yawning, I turned my head to find Martin staring at me intently.

  “Oh, don’t pass it on,” he said, before stifling one himself.

  “I’m tired.” I shrugged. “And I need to be home for when Jay wakes up. He hasn’t slept through in ages.”

  “You want me to walk you?” He flicked his head in the direction of Madeline who was chatting to one of the hot-spot girls. “I don’t think she’d notice me gone for ten minutes.”

  “I can walk you if you like,” Byron said.

  I locked eyes with his. They got darker and deeper each time I looked, like he was full of deep dark secrets. Secrets I wanted to know.

  “Ruby’s got a cute blond guy waiting for her at home,” said Martin, winking at Byron who seemed disappointed, much to my inner joy. “Hey, Rubes, pass me your phone, I need to show Maddie that hot photo of me you have in there.”

  I fished out my phone and handed it to Martin, shaking my head while Madeline glared at me with shiny, black, dagger eyes.

  “It’s not hot, I promise you. He’s cuddling Jay,” I said to Madeline, annoyed that I always had to keep defending myself in front of her.