by Melissa Keil
I try to decipher some meaning from her rambling. I fail. ‘Maybe try that again in English?’
Her cheeks become red. She looks up at me for three long seconds. And then she closes her eyes. ‘Thing is, Sam, I sort of … write. Songs. Music. I’m not very good. I don’t even want to perform, at all. Dad thinks I’m just messing around with instruments, which I am, but whenever he’s gone … I work really hard at it. And I had this burst of something – recklessness or whatever – months ago, and I sent a demo disc out to this bar that does open-mic things. And they called me. They had someone drop out tonight. They asked me to fill in. Tonight.’
The image of screaming babies is still circling in my head. I have to replay Camilla’s words before any of them actually process. ‘You … sing?’
‘No! Well, yes, but like I said, I’m not good. It’s the writing I really like. And I’ve never sung in front of people. And it’s a bar. People are going to pay actual, real money to hear me sing my own songs, and I’m supposed to be there on stage and –’
She groans and sways a little. I grab her arm. The relief that floods through my insides almost makes me sit down in the middle of the corridor. I burst out laughing.
‘Don’t laugh at me!’
‘I’m not laughing at you. Jesus, I thought you were going to tell me you were having a baby or something –’
Her mouth drops open. ‘You thought I was pregnant? That’s the first conclusion you jump to? How exactly did you assume that happened?’
I feel my face flush. ‘Well, I don’t know …’
‘Sam, jeez, did you fail sex ed?’
I fear we are heading off-topic.
Camilla shakes off my hand. ‘It’s so stupid! I recorded the stuff on my laptop in my bedroom! I know the music industry, Sam. It’s brutal – my dad is brutal. Have you read his reviews? I don’t know why I thought I could do this, and now I can’t back out and I don’t want Dad to know and –’
‘Camilla, calm down –’
‘I can’t calm down! Sam, I’m supposed to sing. In front of people.’
Some year twelves thunder past. They look curiously in our direction. I pull Camilla into the shadows of the lockers and lower my voice. ‘Okay, look. Obviously you’ve been thinking about this for a while, right? It’s not like you’ve thrown a song together in one night, have you?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. I’ve been writing for ages. But I’ve never shown them to anyone. And I’ve never, ever sung in front of people before. It makes me want to vomit and pass out … I can get up in front of people and speak, but my music – I just can’t, Sam, I can’t, and –’
Her accent is almost painfully pronounced. The British-ness only ever comes out this strongly when she’s excited – or, I guess, super stressed.
‘Camilla. You … have stage fright?’
‘Argh! Do you have to label it? It makes me sound like I have a psychological disorder and I really don’t want to have to deal with that, since I already feel like I’m going to have a heart attack –’
‘Okay, okay. How’s this – you are somewhat, slightly concerned about getting up on stage?’
‘Maybe,’ she whispers. Her face has gone from white to an awful shade of green.
‘Right, okay. But … you like songwriting? It’s something you want to do?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, yes, I think so. I mean, I’d like to write songs for other people. I always have music and words floating around in my head, but I don’t have dreams of winning a Grammy or anything. Yes, I want to write. But my dad –’
‘Doesn’t need to know anything,’ I say.
I try to slot this new development into my Camilla file. The idea of getting up in front of people and doing anything makes me want to vomit too. I have a vague flashback to the Building Self-Esteem through Drama workshop where I met Mike. All I remember is jelly knees and a constant feeling of nakedness. But Camilla isn’t me. Camilla can do anything. Except right now, she looks like she’s about to faint.
‘Camilla, forget about your dad. You’re not doing this for him. If you really don’t want to, you don’t have to. It’s your call. But … you sent the disc in. Didn’t you?’
‘I thought I could handle it,’ she says softly.
‘And you can,’ I reply. I don’t know what else to add.
She looks at me again. Her eyes are kind of shinier than normal. ‘Do you think so?’
I smile. I hope it looks encouraging. ‘It’s just an openmic night, right? It’s not Rod Laver Arena. Aren’t these things, like, a couple of drunk people in a dark bar? It’s no big deal. You can handle it.’
‘You sound so confident. You’ve never even heard me sing before.’
I shrug. ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s you.’
She exhales slowly. She seems to have lost the power of speech, which does not bode well for her singing debut. But she catches my eye and nods, just once. ‘Sam … if I’m really going to do this … I could use a friendly face? I mean, I know you have plans with your mum, but –’
‘I’ll come. Of course I’ll be there,’ I say, without really thinking about it.
‘You and the guys? I think … I’d like that. As long as you’re aware that I might majorly suck. Probably will majorly suck.’
A bunch of things swim through my head – how the hell we’re supposed to get into a bar being number one. But she’s looking at me with those eyes, and all of a sudden the only image I have in my head is of Princess Leia asking Obi-Wan for help, which pretty much renders me incapable of any further logical thought. ‘Just us. I promise. I’ll spread the word among the guys on the possible major suckage. But Millie?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You’re going to be great. I’m sure of it.’
She laughs, this shaky thing that sounds like it might dissolve into tears at any second. ‘Sammy, I think you might have seriously overestimated my abilities. If I make it on stage without puking, it’s going to be a miracle.’
I take a deep breath. For some reason, I suddenly feel a bit sick myself.
•
The taxi drops us off on a dimly lit street corner at the edge of the city. Our CIA-worthy cover story is that Mike is studying at my house and I am studying at his. Adrian has no curfew, but Allison had no hope of escaping without the third-degree from her parents. I’m supposed to give Camilla a hug from her – that is, if we ever actually find Camilla.
I have no idea where we are, only that, if I were writing a horror movie scene, the three vague-looking guys wandering around a dark laneway behind a row of industrial bins would probably be too obvious a set-up.
Adrian frowns at the map on his iPhone. ‘This is supposed to be it.’
The laneway terminates at a dead end. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dark. There is a guy sitting on a milk crate at the far end. There is no signage that I can see.
We shuffle towards the milk-crate guy. In the dark I can’t exactly tell where his long hair ends and his giant beard begins. The effect is disconcerting, like the top and bottom halves of his head are swappable, Mr Potato Head-style. Crate-man is standing guard by a featureless red door. He looks us up and down. ‘ID?’
Beside me I feel Mike adjust his glasses. I swallow involuntarily. ‘We’re supposed to meet a friend. She’s playing tonight. Camilla Carter?’
The guy leaps up from his crate. ‘Camilla? That’s cool, no probs. Hey, you don’t know if her dad’s coming, do you?’
I glance back down the laneway. I consider making a run for it. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
It seems like the right thing to say. Crate-man opens the red door and sweeps us inside. A narrow concrete staircase, lit by a single naked globe, leads downwards. Mike and I pause on the top step. Music drifts from somewhere below.
‘It looks a bit dodgy,’ Mike offers.
Adrian snorts. He pushes past us and takes the stairs two at a time. ‘It’s a bar,’ he calls behind him. ‘It’s supposed to look dodgy
. Don’t you guys know anything?’
Mike shrugs. ‘He’s right, I guess. C’mon.’
Adrian is waiting at another red door, three f lights down. A cloak-room window is set in the left wall. An irritated-looking chick with a chin piercing stares out at us.
‘Five bucks,’ she says in a bored voice.
I hand over the money for all three of us, hoping the notes aren’t dripping with clammy palm-sweat. I have no idea why I’m so nervous. Mike pokes me in the side, and I realise that angry-girl is waving a stamp in my face. Then she pounds a black horseshoe onto my wrist. Adrian blows on his stamp like Mum when she’s drying her nail polish. He ends up with a crescent of ink on his top lip. Somehow, this is not how I pictured my first bar experience.
The bar is slightly bigger than a classroom. Candles in red glasses light up the tables in front of the stage, which is smallish and framed by strings of fairy lights. A row of red cracked-vinyl booths line the back wall. Mike and I herd a gaping Adrian into an empty booth in the corner.
The place is just about half-full. Camilla’s audience looks like the uni crowd that hang around near the Nova cinema; there are lots of vintage shirts and thick glasses and bizarre hair. I am wearing my most inconspicuous clothes – a black T-shirt and dark jeans – but I still feel somewhat sore-thumb-like.
‘How cool is this!’ Adrian barks. Several people turn and stare. I sink into my seat.
Two young guys are strumming guitars on stage. Their song is about trees or ferns or something. The song fades out, and there is some light applause from the room, but mostly people seem to be concentrating on their drinks and animated conversations. An upright piano is set to one side of the stage. Even under the dim fairy lights, it looks awfully exposed.
I stand up. ‘I’m going to see if I can find Camilla.’
Adrian stands as well. A twenty-dollar note appears in Mike’s hand, seemingly plucked out of the air. He waves it at Adrian. ‘You wanna get drinks?’
Adrian’s eyes widen as he looks at the bar. ‘Awesome. Whisky? How ’bout tequila?’
Mike rolls his eyes. ‘How about three beers? This isn’t Sex and the City. I’m not holding your hair back while you puke.’
Adrian snatches the note from Mike and practically skips over to the bar. Mike looks impassively at the guitar players on stage. ‘Say hey to her for me, yeah?’
There is a gap to the side of the stage with a metal sign pointing to the toilets. There’s nowhere else to go, so I squeeze between the tables and head towards it.
A guy in a Radiohead T-shirt stumbles past me and shoves open a door with a picture of a cowboy on it. I’m probably not going to find Camilla in the guys’ toilets. I turn around and smack straight into her.
‘Saaaaaaaam!’ she wails, grabbing my forearm with both hands. ‘You’re here. I think I’m going to throw up.’
She’s wearing a green dress that reaches her ankles. Her hair is swept to one side and spills over her tattooed shoulder, and she’s framed her eyes with some sort of dark stuff that makes them look even brighter than normal.
‘You look great,’ I murmur. I have a feeling my cheeks have turned red. I’m sort of glad we’re in semi-darkness.
I don’t think she’s listening to me anyway. Camilla’s face is chalk white. She really does look like she’s about to be sick. ‘Sam, I don’t think I can do this,’ she whispers.
‘Okay … you need to relax. Calm down.’
She takes a deep breath but doesn’t seem to let it go. She starts to pace the tiny corridor, her hands flapping like wayward birds. ‘I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t –’
She paces back towards me. I grab her hands, even though mine are still clammy. I don’t think it matters, since hers are just as damp. I don’t know what else to do.
‘Camilla, look at me.’
She stops flapping. She looks up at me. Her eyes are terrified.
I think about my top five all-time greatest movie inspirational speeches. Most of them take place just before expendable soldiers are sent off to battle aliens or killer cyborgs. There’s that speech from Army of Darkness I know by heart. I’m not sure if an inspirational speech from Army of Darkness is going to be relevant in this situation. Camilla is still looking at me. I am still holding her hands.
‘You can do this. You always know the right thing to say. I can’t imagine it’ll be any different when you sing.’
I wouldn’t want to send the troops off with that. But it seems to do something useful for her. She takes a couple of slow, deep breaths. Camilla’s hands are really soft, but her fingertips are rough with guitar-string calluses. My hands feel too big and clumsy around hers; I’ve never noticed that before. I have a sudden flash of the lonely piano on stage, and I’m struck with this overwhelming urge to grab her and haul her someplace safe. I grip her hands a little tighter instead.
‘Okay, Sam … I think I can do this.’ She smiles weakly. ‘Hey. What’s the worst that could happen?’
‘You could die a horrible violent death if legions of the undead invade. But that probably won’t happen. So relax.’
She laughs a bit as she lets go of me and shakes out her hands. ‘Okay. It’s four songs. It’s no big deal. I can do this.’
‘You can. You will kick arse.’
She grins. Then there is a smattering of applause from the front room, and I hear the guys on stage mumbling thanks into their microphones. Camilla’s smile vanishes. Radiohead guy reappears behind her and pushes past with a slurred apology. She stumbles and lurches into me. I grab her by the shoulders, my hand curving around the blue flowers of her tattoo. I can all but feel her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest. She smells like vanilla and lilacs.
I have run out of inspirational material. I seem to have run out of words entirely.
And then someone on stage calls her name. There is more polite clapping, and a hysterical voice that sounds suspiciously Adrian-like cheering from the front room.
I look down at her. She looks up at me. She is trembling beneath my hands. ‘See you afterwards?’ she says quietly.
‘Right. Afterwards.’
I turn around and walk away, realising that I didn’t even wish her good luck.
Mike glances up as I slide into the booth. He pushes a glass towards me, and turns silently back to the stage.
Adrian takes a big swig of his beer. ‘What are we going to do if she sucks?’
I can’t answer him. I wrap my hands around my glass, not really caring that this is, officially, my first drink in a bar. I can still feel my palms sweating through the cold.
The noise in the room has increased since the guitar guys finished their set. A single weak spotlight lands on the piano, and the guy on the mic who called Camilla’s name wanders back behind the bar.
She walks out on stage. On the table in front of us, two guys are talking, loudly, about the latest Michel Gondry movie. It’s all I can do not to leap out of my seat and tell them to shut the hell up.
I can see Camilla’s bottom lip trembling as she takes the piano stool and adjusts the microphone. She pauses for a moment, her eyes laser-fixed on the keys. She chews on the inside of her cheek a little bit, a thing I know she does when she’s tossing up options inside her head. Then she slips off her shoes and rests her bare feet on the foot pedals. She squeezes her eyes shut.
She takes a deep breath. I’m holding mine. And then she places her hands on the keys and begins to play.
Her voice is breathy, and odd, and sweet. It isn’t note-perfect, but it doesn’t matter at all. It is almost exactly what I imagined Camilla would sound like. Her eyes are still squeezed shut, but her voice doesn’t tremble. Her feet tap at the foot pedals. Her hands don’t miss a note.
Mike nudges my foot. He grins at me.
‘Hey … she’s really good!’ Adrian says brightly.
‘Shush,’ Mike hisses.
Her lyrics are kind of weird, but not at all in a bad way. They’re
not about guys or broken hearts or anything else I assumed girls would write songs about. Her first song seems to be about a crazy lost dog. A few people chuckle, but it’s in the right spots. The guys in front of us stop talking.
I rest my palms on the stained table and my chin on the back of my hands. Camilla’s voice soars over the chorus, more powerful than breathy now. The hair that’s tumbling over her shoulder brushes against the keys, but she moves it aside without skipping a beat.
She finishes her first song with a few notes at the top end of the piano, and the audience claps. A guy in front of us whistles. Adrian swings his hands above his head, cheering way too loudly. Camilla glances around, shading her eyes against the stage lights. I know there is no way she can see me without her glasses, but somehow, I think I catch her eye for a second. Then she turns back to the piano. She still looks shaky, but her eyes are open this time.
Her first three songs are light and funny, and they seem to hold the attention of even the cranky-looking guys behind the bar. The conversations around the room are definitely quieter than before. I even catch a glimpse of drunken Radiohead guy tapping his fingers against his table.
The applause is louder at the end of the third song. Camilla smiles shyly at the room. ‘Thanks, everyone,’ she says softly. ‘Well, um, this is my last song. I just want to say thanks to my friends for coming tonight. Especially my friend Sam. I might’ve passed out on my way to the stage if it wasn’t for you.’ She waves in my direction. A few people turn and stare. I think my face becomes crimson. And my stomach does that uncontrollable bouncing thing again.
Camilla turns back to the piano and starts to play again. Her last song is different to the others. It’s still strange, but it’s also a bit darker and sadder than her first three. Her fingers fly super quickly over the keys; she really is an amazing piano player. The lyrics aren’t exactly obvious, but I think, somehow, I know what this song is about. It’s about absent people, and uncertain things. I’m pretty sure it’s a song about Henry. I don’t think I like this song.
And then she finishes. The room explodes with applause. Adrian tries to climb onto the table, but Mike yanks him back into his seat. Camilla stands and bows. She looks sheepish and flushed. And then she disappears from the stage.