“My deal?”
“You know … your deal. Who are you?” A lock of hair fell down in front of his eyes, and he brushed it away. “Got any secrets?”
“What?”
“I’d like to hear a secret, please.”
“What … kind of secret?”
“Anything. But if it isn’t really a secret, I’ll know.”
It was hard to think with his eyes fixed on me.
“I … can’t think of anything.”
“Then try harder,” he teased.
“Fine. But you have to tell me one in return.”
Gabriel smiled, a smile that threatened to envelop the world.
“You haggling with me?”
“No,” I said, faking a sulk. “But fine, you win.” I thought for a moment. “When I was nine, I stole a mechanical pencil from the school cupboard. Never took it back.”
“Wow,” mocked Gabriel. “I didn’t have you pegged as a rebel.”
I glowered at him.
“Charlie Brown, pencil thief.”
“My turn,” I said. “And no dodging this time.”
He looked up at the ceiling again.
“Fair enough.”
“Who are the Speedway Collective?”
He eyed me sideways.
“You’ve got a lot of questions for a photographer, y’know.”
“Hey,” I said, kicking my feet against the wall. “I gave you one of my best secrets.”
“That is true,” he conceded.
“So who are they?”
He paused, and sat up.
“Have you been Googling Fire&Lights?”
“No,” I said, sitting up next to him, my elbows on the railings. “Wikipedia, actually.”
Gabriel leaned back on his palms.
“Speedway writes our songs. Hitmakers, Barry calls them.”
“Do you guys know them? The writers, I mean?”
“We meet up pretty regularly. They bring the music to us, Barry picks the best stuff, words get added on top.”
I narrowed my gaze.
“What do you mean, the words get added? They don’t write the lyrics?”
Gabriel shook his head.
“Who does, then?”
There was a wall of spotlights at the far end of the stage, behind Gabriel’s head. As I looked at him, he was half silhouetted against the bright, burning lamps, tousled hair framed in white.
His eyes gleamed at me as he replied.
“I do.”
15
“You write the words?”
My voice was forceful, a little on edge.
Gabriel laughed to himself. “I’m not as simple as I look, you know.”
I stared out into the empty auditorium, my mind beginning to race. Take me home…’cause I’ve been dreaming of a girl I know …
“But it didn’t mention that online…”
“It’s kind of a new thing. Barry’s been trying me out, for the album.” He tipped his head to one side. “You OK?”
I stalled, for slightly too long, before replying.
“Yep. No, yep, I’m fine. It’s just … some of your lyrics, they—”
“Um, hello, Gabriel?”
A hint of irritation twitched across Gabriel’s face at the sound of the voice from behind. He looked over my shoulder and gave a small, weak-armed wave.
“Oh … hey, Carla…”
High heels clopped toward us across the stage, and we pulled ourselves up by the railings. Carla’s hair was swooshing as she walked, glowing with an impossible, shampoo-advertisement shine.
“Yuki said I might find you up here,” she said playfully. Her eyes made a fleeting glance in my direction before returning to Gabriel. “What are you doing?”
Gabriel drew in a breath, his hands wedged in his back pockets.
“Just … hanging out.”
Carla considered me for a moment, mouth slightly open.
“Have we met?”
I picked up my camera bag and slid it onto my shoulder.
“Last week, in Reading … at the after-party?”
She shook her head, lips pressed together.
“I’m Charlie.”
“Oh, Charlie. Right. My bad. You must just have … one of those faces.” She turned back to Gabriel. “They’re looking for you downstairs, you know. You’re so silly, hiding away on your own.”
Gabriel stepped off the platform and back onto the runway. I wasn’t sure if I should follow him, so I stayed where I was, gripping the metal rail.
“Fine, you got me,” he said. “Busted.”
Gabriel walked down to meet Carla, and she touched his arm, her eyes fixed on me.
“You OK making your way back to the green room?” said Gabriel.
I screwed my mouth up and looked around. “I’m kinda … lost.”
He pointed past my shoulder.
“Out of that door, end of the hallway, there’s a long staircase that takes you right to the door. If we haven’t heard from you in forty-eight hours, I’ll send a search party.”
I smiled at this. Carla did not.
“Catch you later,” said Gabriel.
“Sure,” I replied, watching as he led Carla away across the stage. I could hear her talking about me, in hushed tones, as they walked.
“… Who is she, anyway? Some random groupie?”
“She’s Charlie,” said Gabriel, and I drew a sudden breath. Something about the way he said my name sent a thrill pulsing through me.
“It’s so weird,” replied Carla. “She’s, like, not even famous…”
I made my way toward the exit Gabriel had shown me, weaving past instrument cases and over curled cables. Carla’s voice reverberated around the stage.
“… Anyway, have you heard what Brooke DeLacy has been saying about me? She was like, Carla Martinez is way jealous of my modeling career, and I was like, whatever, Brooke, in your actual dreams…”
Just before they vanished into the wings, Gabriel looked over his shoulder, caught my eye and mouthed, HELP ME.
I put my hand to my mouth to cover the smile.
* * *
Aiden was sitting on a tabletop, strumming his guitar and singing “Viva la Vida.” He always looked great on camera, gazing out from behind his shaggy blond hair, thoughtful expression on his face.
I fired off a round of shots and flicked through them on the screen.
“These look cool,” I said, stopping on a close-up of his face. His cheeks were dotted with freckles.
“Really?” He brushed the hair away from his eyes. “I think I need a haircut.”
I shook my head.
“Nah, you’re good. It’s the natural look.”
Aiden smiled at me and went back to strumming his guitar. When I returned to the viewfinder, I found Yuki creeping up behind him wearing a cardboard Gabriel West mask, the kind you see outside tacky souvenir shops. He glanced at me and touched a finger to his (well, Gabriel’s) lips.
“Surrender, Irish pig-dog!” he yelled, and Aiden jumped several inches into the air, releasing a metallic twang from the guitar. Yuki hooked an arm around Aiden’s neck and, leaning over his shoulder, affected a deep, swaggering voice.
“Greetings, I am Gabriel West. I am mysterious and brooding, and women fall to pieces in my presence.”
Laughing, Aiden tried to free himself, but his bandmate was too strong. Yuki looked up at me, straight into the camera, and I flicked off a round of pictures. It was eerie, capturing Gabriel’s face, but with Yuki staring from the eye holes.
“I have astonishing hair,” continued Yuki, spinning Aiden round, “and I write songs of heartbreaking genius! Kiss me, you fool!”
Aiden folded into a shaking ball of laughter as Yuki mauled his neck. Eventually, with Aiden gasping for breath, Yuki released him, turned to face me, and stuck his fists on his hips.
“How do I look, Charlie B? Handsome? Devastating?” He cocked his masked head. “Devastatingly handsome?”
I squinted at him.
“You look kinda dorky,” I said, and Yuki pulled the mask off, revealing his mouth wide open in a mock-offended O.
“Gabriel West will not be pleased to hear that,” he said, lobbing the mask over his shoulder. It spun like a Frisbee and crash-landed in a box full of clothes.
“Hey, guys.” I was switching lenses on the camera. I kept my eyes down, my tone indifferent. “Can I ask you something about Gabriel?”
Olly and Gabriel were in some distant room on the other side of the building, being interviewed for Pop Mania. They weren’t due back for at least ten minutes.
Yuki slumped down in a chair and unscrewed a bottle of water.
“You want his phone number, don’t you?”
I cast him a withering look. He grinned.
“No, actually … it’s about his lyrics.”
Aiden looked up from his guitar.
“What about them?” he asked, stowing his pick between the strings. I slipped the original lens back into its case and rotated the second one onto the body of the camera. It fixed in with a click.
“It’s nothing, really … I was just wondering … where they came from.”
Yuki wrinkled his nose.
“I don’t know. He just makes them up, I guess.”
I twisted the focus on the new lens, peering through the viewfinder at the floor.
“He’s never, like … talked to you about his songs?”
“He’s pretty private about it,” said Yuki. “Mind you, he’s private about most things.”
I thought back to the band’s run-in with the paparazzi earlier that afternoon.
“Like his family?”
“Especially his family.”
“So you really don’t know, then?” I asked, setting the camera down on a table. I looked up, and Yuki was staring at me blankly.
“Absolutely no idea.”
* * *
The countryside flew past, black and shapeless, as my train made its way toward Reading. My reflection peered back at me from the window.
This time, I wouldn’t miss curfew.
But I had missed most of the concert.
“Make some noiiise, Brighton!” Olly had yelled, as Fire&Lights spilled onto the stage amid a glittering cascade of fireworks. Yuki went straight to the drummer, pumping his fist with every stamp of the bass drum, and Gabriel and Aiden led the fans in a fast hand-clap, jumping up and down on either side of the stage. I stood in the wings, half hidden behind a curtain, the noise pounding in my skull, the screaming and the crying, the earsplitting roar, the razor-edged wail of the guitars.
Just hours before, I’d been standing on that stage with Gabriel, the building empty and serene around us.
“Tickets, please. Tickets from Brighton…”
I’d been sad not to stay beyond the first song, but as luck would have it, Fire&Lights had opened with “Dance with You.” Over thumping drums and shimmering keyboards, scenes from the music video played on the big screens: the sun-drenched cliff side, the gleaming, azure-blue ocean, the band in their open-top sports car. Guiltily, I realized I knew almost every frame.
The four bandmates ventured onto the audience walkway, two on each side, hands stretched out as they filed past the crowd. Though it was nearly impossible to make out the lyrics above the booming of the band and the screaming of the fans, I knew exactly what I was waiting for. The words were seared into my brain.
… Take me home
’Cause I’ve been dreaming of a girl I know …
… I call her name
I keep her picture in a silver frame …
The boys were reaching out into the auditorium, singing those words, Mum’s words, to thousands of adoring fans, and I tried telling myself that it meant nothing. Somewhere, there was an explanation for all of this that would make my growing obsession seem ridiculous. There had to be.
“Excuse me, miss?”
I looked up. A kind-faced inspector was holding out his hand.
“Oh. Sorry … yes. One sec.”
I reached into the camera case for my ticket. As I pulled it out, I spotted a folded piece of paper, nestled in the lens pocket, with something handwritten on the inside.
The inspector clicked a little hole in my ticket, and I opened the note.
Send me that pic? I’ll look you up on FB. Gabriel
I thought back to our impromptu photo shoot on the stage. The picture Gabriel had shown me was kind of cool, I suppose, as a keepsake for me … but why would a famous pop star want a photo of us together?
“There you go,” said the inspector, handing my ticket back.
“Thanks.”
As I sat there with my train ticket in one hand, Gabriel’s note in the other, I watched the inspector wander off down the train, tickets please, swaying slightly as the carriage curved around a corner. The train thrummed rhythmically beneath my feet and, looking down at the note, I found a second message at the bottom.
You’re all right, Charlie Brown. You should come again. Xx
16
Sunday, late morning, and Melissa and I were sitting opposite each other on my bed, cups of tea steaming on the desk, a mess of French textbooks lying open between us. Melissa was chewing the end of a pencil.
“So, hang on,” she said, her voice muffled by the pencil, “the imperfect tense is for talking about what something was like, and the pluperfect tense is for … what?! What does that even mean?”
“I’m confused,” I said, reading the same dull sentence for the seventh time.
“I don’t even want to go to France again,” complained Melissa. “I’ve been tons of times. I’d much rather learn Swahili.”
I threw an eraser at her, and it bounced off her knee.
“Because you hang out in Africa all the time, right?”
“All the time.”
I put my head in my hands and groaned.
“I am so bored.”
“Right, that’s it!” proclaimed Melissa, sliding off the bed. “I’m staging an intervention. Where’s your laptop?”
I gestured beneath the bed, and Melissa leaned over the side, hanging upside down, her hair coiling on the carpet. A moment later she emerged with my computer and clicked the lid open.
“Jack Callaghan’s interview with Fire&Lights goes online today, and I’d say we’ve earned ourselves a break.”
I checked the time.
“Mel, we’ve done eight minutes of French homework.”
“Minutes schminutes,” she replied, loading up YouTube. “I need my fix of Fire&Lights. Just because you get to hang out with them every Saturday night now…”
I made a face at her.
“Actually,” continued Melissa, typing words into the search box, “since we’re on the subject … when do I get to meet the band?”
“What?”
She looked up from my laptop.
“You’ve been to two concerts now—you must be able to sneak me into the next one.”
“That’s not really how it works, Mel.”
“Please, Charlie. Pleeease.”
“I barely know them. I can’t just start bringing my friends along.”
“Not all your friends, doofus. One friend. Me. The Morris.”
I scratched my head through my hat.
“I don’t know, they’re pretty tight on security at the con—”
Melissa grabbed me by the shoulders, and shook me.
“GIVE ME SOMETHING TO LIVE FOR.”
“OK, fine,” I said, peeling her hands off me and cradling them in mine. “How’s this? If an opportunity comes up—if it does—I promise: I will take you to meet Fire&Lights.”
Melissa’s whole face lit up.
“I love you so much, Charlie Bloom, sometimes I think I might pop.”
I smiled, shaking my head, and Melissa turned back to the computer screen, where a list of videos had appeared. She pointed at the top one and clapped.
“Ah! Here it is. I am proper excited. Jack C
allaghan is the FUNNIEST…”
Jack Callaghan was an Irish TV presenter whose Saturday night chat show, Jack’s Night In, was the natural opening act for Make or Break. He interviewed all the hottest bands, movie stars, and celebrities, interspersed with stand-up comedy and live performances. The show got massive ratings every week.
“… I’m sure you all know what’s coming next,” Jack was saying as the video began. Lights swirled around the studio, and the audience began to applaud. “Ladies and gentlemen, the HOTTEST pop act on planet Earth right now … Fire&Lights!”
The house band launched into an instrumental version of “Dance with You,” and Gabriel, Olly, Yuki, and Aiden emerged from backstage, waving at the crowd, their eyes bright, skin glowing.
They were dressed in immaculate tailored suits.
“Oh my,” said Melissa. “They. Are. Looking. Sharp.”
“Calm down, everyone,” said Jack, once the band had settled on the sofa. Yells and catcalls spilled down from the audience. “I know, I know … how long have I wanted these boys on my show? How long?”
Whooping and cheers, a flourish from the drummer.
The band were all smiles.
“OK lads, first off. What … a … year, eh?” Clapping and whistles from the studio. “I mean, what, just last summer you were ordinary guys, living your lives, and now … now you can’t walk down the street without being mobbed. Is it just … It’s got to be crazy, hasn’t it?”
The boys all looked at each other.
Olly cleared his throat. “We love it,” he said, “it’s a dream come true. But it’s all down to the fans, really. They made it happen.”
The audience cheered, and Jack nodded sagely. Yuki stretched his arm out along the back of the sofa and poked Olly in the ear.
“But … yeah,” continued Olly, batting Yuki away. “It’s pretty crazy. It’s changed everything.”
“We get to stay up past eleven every night,” said Yuki. “It’s off the hook.”
“’Cause there you were,” continued Jack, throwing a smile at Yuki, “you won Make or Break, and one year later, your first album isn’t even out yet and you’re already international superstars. You’re here, you’re everywhere, you’re on the telly, you’re hanging out with Kaitlyn Jones…”
The camera cut to the feed from the green room. Kaitlyn Jones, America’s hottest and blondest pop starlet, waved and blew a kiss.
Songs About a Girl Page 12