by Maggi Gibson
So that’s what I do. Compromise. Taslima, Cordelia and Megan give me one last good luck hug, then, with a heavy heart, I climb up into the front seat beside Ben. I’m just about to pull the door shut when Magnus pops his head in.
‘Actually,’ Magnus says to Ben, ‘you have to pass my house to get to the motorway. You couldn’t give me a lift, could you?’
‘Sure, kid,’ Ben nods. ‘Glad somebody’s happy to ride with me. Hop in beside Sassy!’
As he climbs up into the front seat I’m forced to slide into the middle. Magnus grins as he helps me find the central seat belt and fasten it. ‘See, I’m getting the hang of this environmentally friendly thing,’ he grins. ‘We can all share our carbon emissions. Save the planet.’
I fire him a filthy look, but already he’s playing with the window controls. The tinted glass slides down. Then Ben starts the engine and we’re off. Taslima, Cordelia, Megan and Miss Cassidy all stand waving goodbye.
As we swing out of the car park I’m thinking that maybe I need to be less hard on myself, maybe I do need to soften up a bit, maybe I take the whole environmental-consciousness-green thing too seriously.
And that’s when I see A CERTAIN BOY, sitting on the wall, watching, as I’m driven away with Magnus, in the biggest, ugliest, greediest Big Shiny Thing on Wheels imaginable.
Why did Twig have to be there today just when I’d given in and got into Ben’s Hummer? Now he’ll think I’ve sold out completely, that I just happily climbed in and drove off. And he’ll think that he was right, that I’ve given up everything I believe in just so I can get my chance at fame.
Ben and Magnus chat away while I sit jammed between them in a big unhappy sulk. Magnus, apparently, has just become interested in the music business. ‘I wouldn’t mind doing music management when I’m older,’ he tells Ben, and I try not to snort with derision. I know for a fact Magnus isn’t into music at all. He even gets off music every week to do weightlifting sessions as part of his swim-training.
At the edge of town when we stop at the end of Magnus’s street, Ben flicks a business card from his shirt pocket. ‘If you decide to get into the music business, Magnus, give me a call,’ Ben says. ‘We can always use the right kind of person.’
As he gets out Magnus turns and gives me a thumbs up, ‘Good luck, Sassy,’ he says. ‘You’ll blow them away. I know you will.’
‘Cool guy,’ Ben says as Magnus saunters off and we pull out into the traffic.
‘Whatever,’ I mutter.
‘You OK, kiddo?’ Ben glances across at me. ‘Not nervous, are you?’
I take a deep breath. I’m not OK. I would be OK if Twig was talking to me, if Twig had given me a thumbs up and had wished me luck. But he didn’t, did he?
‘Nervous? No way! Just a bit sleepy, that’s all.’ I force a yawn and stretch for added effect.
‘Relax, then,’ Ben says, turning the radio on. ‘You’ve got a busy time ahead of you.’
From the outside the recording studio looks like a big old Victorian house, set back from the road in its own grounds in a leafy suburb of Edinburgh.
Zing makes a huge fuss when I arrive, like I’m a star already, which does make me feel better about things. There are framed photos in the hallway too of all the Y-Gen success stories, including Phoenix Macleod.
‘Phoenix was our last signing on the Y-Gen label,’ Zing explains as she shows me into a changing room with a huge lit-up mirror and its own toilet and shower. ‘We’re very selective, you know. We’re only interested in the best!’
My heart starts to race when Zing says that. Because that’s what I want to be. The best. And I’m going to sing my heart out to prove it.
Zing flashes me a super-white smile as she leaves. ‘Freshen up, then come through to the kitchen when you’re ready,’ she says. Then she’s gone. I look around. Is it possible Phoenix Macleod once used this changing room? A shiver of excitement shimmies right through me.
Quickly, I change out of my school polo shirt and skirt and pull on a vest-top and a pair of jeans. As soon as I get out of that silly uniform I start to feel much more confident, more like myself, much more grown-up. I’m just fixing my hair in the mirror and putting on a teensy bit of make-up – a bit of gloss on my lips and a bit of mascara – when my eye catches my friendship bracelet. I finger it thoughtfully for a moment. I suppose I should take it off. I mean, if Twig’s not friends with me any more, I shouldn’t really be wearing his bracelet, should I? A big feeling of sadness wells up inside me as I pick at the knot. But it’s no use. Since Twig tied it on I’ve been wearing it non-stop – even in the bath and in the shower – and all the little threads have become moulded into one. There’s no way the knot can be picked apart.
‘Are you ready yet?’ Zing pops her smiley face round the door. I really like Zing. She’s so upbeat. If you shook her, I bet she’d fizz up like a bottle of champagne and explode with laughter.
In the kitchen I meet Andy, the sound recorder. He’s a big fierce-looking guy with long straggly hair and tattoos. Exactly what I think a roadie for some sort of heavy-metal band would look like. Scary! But when he speaks his voice is gentle.
Zing offers me a choice of kiddie snacks and a six-pack of Mister Men juice she’s bought in especially. Honestly! She must think I’m about six! I take a carton of juice,8 but I’m way too nervous to eat anything.
Then, at last, we’re in the recording studio!
I can’t believe it. I have dreamed about this moment so often. Andy sits behind a big glass window in front of these huge soundboards with hundreds of dials and flashing lights, completely cut off from the main part of the studio.
‘Don’t worry about any of this stuff,’ Andy says as he shows me the soundboards. ‘This lot’s for me to take care of.’
Then Ben leads me through to the recording space. There are no windows anywhere and it’s completely soundproofed so when we record there’ll be no unwanted noises, like birds or traffic or the wind. I notice several beautiful guitars on stands. A big drum kit. Even a baby grand piano.
‘Do you play?’ Zing asks when I run my fingers over the piano keys.
‘Only this,’ I say, and quickly pick out a plonky version of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’.
Everyone laughs and I relax a bit. ‘Maybe you should stick to the guitar!’ Ben smiles.
I pick my guitar up and walk over to where there’s a mike on a stand with a round mesh screen thing in front of it.
‘Are you OK?’ Zing asks, adjusting the mike so it’s at the right height for me. My stomach clenches.
‘Sure,’ I grin.
‘We’re not recording right away,’ Ben reassures me. ‘We just want you to get the feel of the place. Relax into it. Just sing us through a few of your songs.’
Nervously, I start to tune up. This all feels so weird. Ben and Zing go behind the glass with Andy, then Ben’s voice comes through the intercom.
‘Think of this as a bit of fun, Sassy,’ he advises. ‘Imagine you’re alone in your room. Try to forget we’re here.’
I finish tuning and look up. The studio’s totally quiet, eerily so. Like you could reach out a hand and actually grab a fistful of silence. Through the glass, Andy’s head is down, his brow furrowed as he concentrates on his soundboards. I can see Ben and Zing chatting away to each other, though I can’t hear a thing.
I take a deep, calming breath, close my eyes and do the visualization exercise Taslima taught me. I see me. On stage in front of a huge crowd. I’m singing and they’re loving it. I reach the end of my song and I can hear the roar of the crowd in my ears. Then I snap my eyes open. All the negativity I felt in the Hummer is gone. I’m going to give this recording 100 per cent!
My hands stop shaking and my tummy settles. I play a couple of chords. I don’t want to start with something they’ve not heard before, so I decide on ‘When the Little Birds Stopped Singing’. You know, the song they first heard on the Internet clip, the one that was secretly filmed.9
After the first few lines I lose myself in the melody. In my head I’m back up the tree again with Twig… I’m in my room singing it for Twig… I’m thinking about Twig.
And then it’s over.
The silence descends once more. Wrapping around me like a thick invisible blanket.
‘That sounded great, kiddo.’ Ben’s voice comes through the intercom. ‘Andy’s got the sound levels now. Just play what you want. Relax into it. Have fun!’
And that’s how the next hour goes. Ben keeps saying, ‘That’s great, kiddo. Do us another.’
About seven o’clock we take a break. Ben and Zing both say they’re delighted with how I’m coming across in the studio. I phone Mum and let her know I’m fine. Mum’s just home from Pip’s play and I can hear Pip stressing in the background. ‘She’s lost one of her false eyelashes,’ Mum confides. ‘I’d better go and calm her down.’
False eyelashes! Pip already has the most gorgeous dark curly eyelashes. I have tried so hard to instil some sense into that child. I dread to think what she’s going to be like by the time she’s a teen.
After the break – and a Mr Tickle juice – we go back into the recording studio. Ben says they’re ready to cut a short demo, then we can finish up. He’s asked me to choose three songs that show the range of what I can do.
‘How about “When the Little Birds Stopped Singing”, “I Don’t Want To Be a Juliet to Your Romeo” and “Sweatshop Kid”?’ I suggest.
‘OK, we’ll go with that,’ Ben grins.
The first two songs go great. Zing’s all smiles and Ben looks serious but impressed.
Then I start a run-through of ‘Sweatshop Kid’, and I’m mid-way through the third verse when Zing’s voice breaks in over the intercom.
‘Thanks, Sassy. I don’t think we’ll use that one. Have you something else you can let us hear?’
‘But I was wanting this one on my demo. I think it’s one of my best. It’s got a great chorus. Really catchy.’
‘It needs a bit more work, Sassy,’ Zing insists in a sharp no-more-nonsense voice that doesn’t suit her at all. ‘Personally, I don’t think it’s one of your best. Not right for a demo at any rate.’
I sigh noisily and roll my eyes.
‘If you’re going to make it in this business, you need to be able to accept advice, Sassy,’ Ben says quietly. ‘Without rolling your eyes.’
I roll my eyes again. And smile cheekily. They both laugh.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘But I still think “Sweatshop Kid” is a really good song.’
‘No one’s saying it’s not,’ Ben reasons. ‘But we’re trying to put together a demo here. It’s a showcase. Trust our professional judgement. We’ve been doing this a long time. OK?’
‘I suppose so,’ I say and pick up my guitar again. ‘So what do you want me to sing?’
‘Some kind of love song, maybe?’ Zing says over the intercom. ‘Something about being young, heartbroken, suicidal… That sort of thing.’
I think for a minute. I do have a kind of love song. It’s been forming in my head ever since the blow-out with Twig, and it fits to a chord sequence I’ve practised quite a lot. I strum my guitar a few times. Just thinking about Twig is painful, so if it’s broken-hearted they want, then that’s what they’re going to get.
We like the same things,
we share the same laughs
You think that I’m kooky,
I think that you’re daft
I love when you’re waiting
out by the school gate
And when you’re not there,
my heart starts to break.
If only you’d call
It might all be all right
What can I say
To make things OK
You thought I was wrong
I thought I was right
You were sweet
You were cool
And I was a fool…
I glance up at the glass. Ben’s looking thoughtful. Zing’s smiling in a sad, dreamy way.
I wish that you’d call me,
I wish that you’d phone
And that’s when the most amazing thing happens. My mobile rings! I stop mid-phrase.
The ringing in my pocket grows louder. On the other side of the glass Zing throws her arms up in exasperation. Ben leans forward to the mike and his voice, calm but cool, comes over the intercom.
‘You may as well answer it now, Sassy.’
I stick my guitar on the stand and fumble in my pocket.
I glance at the number. It’s not Cordelia. It’s not Taslima. It’s not Mum. It’s not Dad. But it is a Strathcarron number. My heart starts to beat fast. Maybe, just maybe, it’s Twig? Maybe somehow, in some kind of psychic way, he’s connected with my song and now he’s calling to say he’s sorry, and I’ll say, no, it was me that was in the wrong…
I press the answer button.
‘Hi, Sassy!’ The line buzzes like a wasp’s caught in it.
‘Twig?’ I say, my heart in my mouth.
‘Twig?’ The voice crackles, then suddenly the line clears. ‘Course not! It’s Magnus. Listen, Sassy, I was thinking, there’s a great film on at the cinema tomorrow, and I wondered –’
I stab an angry finger at the ‘end call’ button. Then turn the mobile off and stuff it back in my pocket. Tears prick my eyes. Tears of anger that Magnus has the cheek to call me and ask me out. Tears of frustration that it wasn’t Twig.
‘Ready for another take?’ Ben’s voice booms in the silent space.
I nod towards the glass booth, close my eyes for a second to centre myself in the song, then start up again.
I start it gently like last time. Then, without meaning to, I start to sing louder, start to play faster. My frustration, my disappointment, my hurt flood down my arm and into the chords. Hurt fills my voice. Tears trickle down my face.
When I finish I drop my head in emotional exhaustion.
At last I look up. Andy’s grinning through the glass. ‘Brilliant, Sass! We’ve got that in one. Great stuff!’
He gives me a thumbs up, then goes back to fiddling with his soundboards. Zing opens the door into the recording space and comes bouncing across, beaming, and offers me a handful of tissues. ‘Way to go, Sass!’ she enthuses. ‘Maybe we should let you keep your mobile on every time you record!’
‘It wasn’t bad news, was it?’ Ben asks, concerned.
I shake my head and force a laugh. ‘No, not really.’
‘Well, you were awesome, kiddo.’ Ben ruffles my hair. ‘Whoever called you, you certainly owe them one! Why don’t you call back and say thanks?’
‘It’s OK.’ I shove my guitar back into its travel case and clip it shut. ‘It was just a nuisance call.’
We finish much earlier than Ben expected.
‘With some people recording can take so much longer,’ Zing says as she places my guitar in the boot of her car. Zing has agreed to drive me home so I don’t need to get into Ben’s big Hummer ever again. ‘You were great in the studio. Well done!’
‘So does that mean you’ll offer me a recording deal?’ I ask cheekily as I strap myself into the front seat.
Zing laughs. ‘Oh, it’s not just us who decide,’ she explains as we drive off. ‘There’s a whole crowd of people who make that decision. We’ll let them hear your demo, then we’ll get back to you.’
While Zing drives I use the last of my credit to phone home to ask if it’s OK if Zing drops me off at Taslima’s. Zing says we should be back in Strathcarron before nine and I figure that’s not too late – even for Taslima’s mum! I’ve also decided not to think any more about Twig. He’s the PAST. My music is my future, and I’m so excited about getting the demo done I want to share everything with my two best buds right away. I really can’t wait till morning to see them.
Dad’s great. If Zing takes me straight to Taslima’s, he says he’ll bring my overnight stuff round just after nine.
It’s only ten to nine as I wave goodbye to Z
ing and hurry up the path to Taslima’s house.
‘Surprise!’ I grin as Taslima opens the door. ‘I didn’t have any more credit, or I’d have called first!’
Taslima’s face clouds. And I’m just wondering why, when who should appear at her shoulder but Megan! All my excitement fizzles away as Megan beams at me and says, ‘Hi, Sassy! How did it go?’
‘OK,’ I mutter as I follow Taslima through to the living room to say hello to her mum. I don’t know what to think. Do Taslima and Cordelia feel they have to replace me if I’m not there for five minutes? Or does Megan just have the knack of wriggling her way into my space as soon as my back’s turned?
‘Ah, Sassy!’ Mrs Ankhar says. ‘This is a surprise. I thought you were not coming this evening.’ Then she looks sternly at Taslima. ‘You are remembering the sleepover rule?’
Taslima’s face burns as she nods her head. Mrs Ankhar has a rule – well, actually, Mrs Ankhar has a gazillion rules – and the sleepover rule is that Taslima can have no more than two friends at a time.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Ankhar,’ I say quickly, even as my heart bombs into my boots. ‘I’m going home soon. My dad’s coming for me.’
As Taslima leads me upstairs, I wish I had never decided to come round her house. It was a stupid idea. I realize that now.
Silently we file into Taslima’s room. Three plates sit on a tablecloth on the floor, piled high with Mrs Ankhar’s deliciously mouth-watering pakora and bhajis. Three of Mrs Ankhar’s hand-embroidered napkins lie crumpled beside them. Three bright tumblers of juice sit on Taslima’s bedside table.
Megan bounces across the bed to make a space for me. I get this strange sensation, like they were all having a great time before I arrived.
‘I’ll run downstairs and get another plate,’ Taslima says brightly, but I’m pretty sure she’s embarrassed.
‘Come on, Sassy!’ says Cordelia, her face shining. ‘Spill, girl! How did it go?’
‘OK,’ I stammer, trying to suppress the feelings of betrayal. ‘Zing says they’ll listen to the demo, then get in touch if they want to take things further.’