Songs About a Girl

by Chris Russell

  I scanned the room, struggling to count Melissa’s haul. There were hundreds and hundreds of them.

  “If we eat all this, we are so going to puke,” I said, and Melissa squeaked.

  “I CAN’T WAIT.”

  For a while, we just sat next to each other in silence, a sugary scent in the air, and I realized I suddenly had everything I could ever need, sitting right here in my bedroom.

  I had my best friend back.

  “I’ve got SO much to tell you,” said Melissa with a sniff and a bounce, as we settled back into our established places, cross-legged at either end of the bed. “They made me president of Computer Club last week, which is a bit weird, because what does a computer club need a president for?” As she talked, an unstoppable smile was spreading across my face. “But then again, it is kinda cool, ’cause I get my own certificate and a wicked badge. And like a bajillion PC World vouchers.”

  I tossed a marshmallow at her. She caught it and popped it in her mouth.

  “Hey,” she said, pointing at my head, chewing. “Your hat’s back!”

  “You’ll never believe who I saw this afternoon…”

  I told her all about my encounter with Aimee at the bus stop, about how she’d waited for me on the way home and returned my hat. About how I’d expected her to lay into me … but she didn’t.

  “This is unbelievable!” exclaimed Melissa, knocking marshmallows off the bed. “This means you win, Charlie. You win. It’s a Christmas MIRACLE.” She raised her hand. “Don’t leave me hanging, sister.” I high-fived her, shaking my head. “But enough about her. Talk to me about GABRIEL WEST…”

  Melissa listened, wide-eyed, as I recounted the story of my night at the Rochester. It was strange, hearing myself tell it out loud, and as I spoke, memories I’d tried hard to bury came rushing back to me. I could feel the midnight chill on the back of my hands. I could hear the rumble of traffic on the streets below. I could see the rain rushing down in columns toward the pavement as I leaned over the balcony.

  Reliving it all over again, I realized I’d almost forgotten how wretched Gabriel had made me feel. How much I’d hated him for treating me that way.

  “So, hang on,” said Melissa, when I’d finished. “You’re not talking to Gabriel anymore … at all?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But … Charlie…”

  Melissa was gawping at me.

  “What?” I said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  She clicked her fingers.

  “I need your laptop.”

  I passed Melissa my computer and, flipping the lid, she typed frantically for a few seconds, then spun the laptop round and presented me with a YouTube video.

  “What’s this?”

  “Just watch,” she said, sitting back against the headboard. The video, which turned out to be a Pop Gossip news report, began to play.

  A man and a woman were sitting next to each other behind a fake news desk. Above their heads, a composite photo of Gabriel and Tammie hovered in one corner, a little spinning globe in the other.

  “… Now, Sandy,” said the man, in a syrupy American accent, “talk to me about Gabriel West. What. Is. Going. On. There.”

  The woman pointed a manicured finger in the air.

  “Well, listen up, ’cause there’s been serious speculation about Gabriel and the actress Tammie Austin, who was seen arriving at his hotel last month in, like, the middle of the night. This sparked a huuuuge debate about whether they were an item, but we think we’ve got to the bottom of it.”

  “Oh, I bet they are,” said the man, nodding at the screen. “They would be so cute together, no?”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but here’s what happened when our reporter on the ground caught up with both Tammie and Gabriel at this year’s USA Music Awards…”

  The video cut to a red carpet, lights flashing, music playing, journalists calling out for attention. Celebrities posed in ball gowns and crisp black tuxedos.

  Tammie Austin was looking into the camera.

  “So … Tammie,” asked the reporter. “Tell me about you and Gabriel West. There’s something going on there, right?”

  Tammie laughed, and then frowned. “Are you kidding me? Gabe?”

  The reporter wiggled her microphone. “Now come on, Tammie, we know you’ve been chilling at his hotel, and you’ve been close ever since the band formed, so … what’s the goss?”

  Tammie flicked her hair back over her shoulder.

  “Sure, we’ve been close for, like, a year now … but he’s just a friend, always has been.”

  In the distance, another reporter shouted Tammie’s name. She ignored him.

  “Plus, I have a boyfriend, and Gabriel is so not my type. He’s a pretty boy. Way too skinny. I like guys with big arms, you know?”

  I peered over the laptop at Melissa.

  “Why are we watching this?”

  “Quiet!” said Melissa, pointing at the screen. “It’s not finished.”

  The report cut back to the studio. The composite image in the top corner had been replaced with a photo of Gabriel and Tammie stepping out of a nightclub together.

  “Do we trust Tammie Austin, though?” said the man, his hands upturned. “If she cheated on her boy, she ain’t gonna ’fess up on TV, is she?”

  “Well, just wait,” replied his cohost, “because here … is Gabriel’s side of the story.”

  Gabriel appeared on-screen, walking the same red carpet, looking irritable. He ran a hand through his hair, which was unkempt and wild.

  “Gabriel, hey, Gabe!”

  He stopped in front of the camera. His eyes had a sunken look to them, as if he hadn’t been sleeping.

  “Hey,” he said, forcing a smile.

  “Talk to us about Tammie Austin. You guys … you’re an item, right?”

  Gabriel took a deep breath.

  “She’s just a friend. I’ve told you people a hundred times. Don’t ask me that again.”

  Gabriel started to walk away, but the reporter kept yapping at him.

  “Now come on, Gabe. Everyone’s talking about it.” He thrust the microphone forward. “You wouldn’t lie to us, would ya?”

  Exasperated, Gabriel turned on his heel and looked straight into the camera.

  “No,” he said, firmly. “I wouldn’t. But I guess it’s too late now, right?”

  Gabriel set off toward the venue, ignoring the reporter, who was still spouting something about the Rochester and Tammie’s argument with her boyfriend.

  But I wasn’t thinking about that.

  I was thinking about the look I’d seen in Gabriel’s eyes, just before he turned away. Just after he said “I guess it’s too late.” It was a look I’d seen before, on the cliff side, when he’d opened up to me about his father’s suicide. It was the closest I’d ever felt to him, that moment, and I realized, for the first time, I was seeing the real Gabriel. Exposed, insecure, like any other eighteen-year-old.

  It cut me right to the core, and I knew straightaway.

  I knew he was telling the truth.

  “Oh my God…”

  I pushed the laptop across the bed. Blood was rushing to my face.

  “You see, this is why you need me,” said Melissa, biting into a marshmallow. “Because of all my knowledge.”

  Things Gabriel had said on the balcony were crashing back to me, things I’d assumed were lies, things that had made me hate him even more. You’ve got it wrong … this whole thing … You have to believe me, Charlie. She’s a friend. Nothing more.

  “What do I do, Mel?” I said, my heart racing. “I don’t … What do I do?”

  A knock at my door.

  “Girls?”

  “Hellooo?” said Melissa, perkily.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Enter, stranger,” said Melissa, and the door opened. I closed my computer.

  “I meant to tell you,” said Dad, stretching out his hand, “you got some post this morning.”

 
; He set a padded envelope down on my desk.

  “Ooh, interesting,” said Melissa, craning her neck to see. Dad threw me a look.

  “Everything OK, Charlie?”

  “Um … yeah,” I said, distractedly. “Fine.”

  “We’re all good,” added Melissa with an enthusiastic nod. “We’re just hanging out on YouTube, watching some vids.”

  “Right,” said Dad. He glanced around at the forest of marshmallows and gave Melissa a little wink. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  Dad backed out of the door, closing it behind him, and I peered at the package on my desk. I barely ever received post, except bank statements and school letters, and this didn’t look like either of those.

  Slipping off the bed, I walked to my desk and picked it up. The minute I saw the handwriting, my stomach flipped.

  It was Gabriel’s.

  35

  “Whatcha got there?”

  I ran my hands around the package. There was something square-shaped inside.

  “Hey … Charlie.”

  I looked up.

  “Who’s sending you post?” asked Melissa. I stared, again, at the handwriting on the front.

  “Gabriel.”

  Her mouth fell open.

  “No … way.”

  “Why would he…”

  Melissa drummed her hands on the bed.

  “Open it, then.”

  My hand was on my mouth.

  “What?”

  “Open it, dinkus.”

  I’d been wrong about Gabriel, again. I’d accused him of lying, cheating, and only caring about himself. I’d made the exact mistake he warned me against, on that empty stage in Brighton. Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet.

  “Charlie, you’re killing me here.”

  “Sorry, Melissa, I…”

  I’d gone too far this time, surely. How could he forgive me after the things I’d said?

  I crossed over to the bed, sat down opposite Melissa, and tore the seal on the envelope. Reaching inside, I pulled out the square-shaped object.

  It was a CD, in a plastic case.

  The case was battered and scratched and had a long crack along the front panel. The album cover, which looked amateurish, maybe even homemade, was a deep shade of red, with three words printed across it in a spidery white font.

  Little Boy Blue.

  “Oh my God…”

  “What?”

  I opened the case, revealing the CD. Light from my bedside lamp glinted off the shiny surface in a rainbow of colors.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the band Gabriel told me about. His dad’s band.”

  “Wait … that’s where the lyrics in your mum’s notebook come from, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Man, I came round at the right time. This is awesome…”

  I slid the album sleeve out from behind its plastic teeth. Exactly as Gabriel had said, there was very little information inside, only a list of the guys in the band, the sentence “All songs by Harry West,” and a date. February 1998.

  Melissa waved for my attention.

  “Aren’t you going to play it?”

  “Huh?”

  She clicked open my laptop and gestured for the CD.

  “We’re not just going to sit here and look at it, are we?”

  “No, I … guess not.”

  I plucked the CD from its molded tray and handed it to Melissa. She slid it into my computer, and the ancient drive whirred and sputtered to life.

  Seconds later, the first song began to play.

  “This sounds cool,” said Melissa, bobbing her head. A driving piano hammered out chords beneath the distant wail of an electric guitar. “Totally nineties, though.”

  Soon, Harry’s vocal struck up over the chords. His voice was, in a way I couldn’t quite place, familiar. Like when you catch someone’s scent on the air, and it evaporates a second later.

  I met a girl in winter

  She played piano in a local bar

  She sang Aretha over whiskey and soda

  I took a drink and sat down beside her

  I said, “D’you know how to play ‘Piano Man’?”

  She said, “I don’t take requests from strangers…”

  The song went on like that for a verse or two. The story of a guy meeting a confusing, mysterious girl and falling for her. Then, after a guitar solo, the music dropped and the voice came back, and something happened that made my chest tight.

  She lives her life in pictures

  She keeps secrets in her heart

  The whole world could burn around her

  Realization bloomed on Melissa’s face.

  “Those lines … they’re Fire&Lights lyrics.”

  “Yeah,” I said breathily, as I thought back to my conversation with Gabriel on the cliff side. This must have been Gabriel’s only copy of his father’s album. Why was he sending it to me?

  “That’s so weird…”

  We both stared at the open envelope.

  “Is there anything else in there?” asked Melissa, and I reached back inside. My fingers brushed against a sheet of paper, and I pulled it out.

  A handwritten letter.

  Charlie

  You probably weren’t expecting to hear from me. Maybe you’ll tear this up before you even read it.

  But if you’ve got this far, please hear me out.

  Talking to you about my father changed everything. You opened my eyes. I’d always thought of him as just this coward who deserted me, but you changed that. You made me see him as a person.

  So I went back to my foster home and asked them for everything, anything they had, that belonged to my parents. They made some calls, followed up some old leads, and a week later, they sent me a box full of stuff. Stuff that when I left last year, I’d told them I didn’t want. Photos, letters, keepsakes. More of my dad’s lyrics.

  When you told me about your mother, and her notebook, we figured she was just some random fan. But I think we were wrong. I think, somehow … our parents knew each other.

  I can’t explain in a letter. I can only hope you read this, and call me. You have my number. I’ll meet you anywhere.

  This is bigger than us, Charlie.

  G. x

  I was gripping the letter tight. It quivered between my fingers.

  What did he mean, our parents knew each other…? What did he mean?

  “Oh, wait. There’s something else in here.”

  Melissa was peering into the envelope.

  “What is it?”

  She turned the bag upside down, and one final item dropped out.

  “It’s a photograph.”

  Melissa passed the photo to me, and I held it under my bedside lamp. I could tell instantly that it was an old picture, at least ten years old, maybe more. A boy of around five was kneeling on the carpet, amid a scattered pile of half-opened presents, at what looked like a birthday party. He had tanned skin and dark hair and was looking right into the lens through a pair of keen, amber eyes.

  It was Gabriel.

  He wasn’t alone. Several other children of varying ages were gathered around him, picking at food on paper plates and tearing up strips of wrapping paper. Then, on the edge of the photo, I noticed a lone toddler, sitting a meter or so away from the rest of the group with its back to the camera. It was difficult to say without seeing its face, but from the way it was dressed, it looked like a girl.

  And that was when I saw it. The unusual white patch on the back of her neck. A distinctive blemish on the skin, just beneath the hairline, around the size of an avocado stone. A birthmark in the shape of a flame.

  The little girl was me.

  “Dance with You”

  Take me home

  ’Cause I’ve been dreaming of a girl I know

  The night draws in, and with a shiver on my skin

  I still remember everything

  I took her hand

  I held her close and felt t
he beating of her heart

  And then we danced

  I wanna dance with you, girl, till the sun goes down

  I wanna feel every rush that you feel

  I wanna hear every sound when your heart cries out

  So sing it with me tonight

  I call her name

  I keep her picture in a silver frame

  So she will know, that if I ever come home

  She will never be alone

  We took a ride

  We stood on the edge and said we’d never be apart

  It’s in your eyes

  I wanna dance with you, girl, till the sun goes down

  I wanna feel every rush that you feel

  I wanna hear every sound when your heart cries out

  So sing it with me tonight

  Chris Russell has written and recorded some of the songs that feature in this novel, including “Dance with You.”

  To listen, visit:

  www.songsaboutagirl.com

  www.chrisrussellwrites.com

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks go to Pip, for being the jam in my sandwich. My agent, Ed Wilson, for his tenacity, razor-sharp wit, and magnificent trousers. My American agents, Ginger Clark and Noah Ballard, at Curtis Brown, for very much the same reasons (though I can’t comment on their trousers) and for affording me the opportunity to legitimately say “my people in New York are on the case.” My wonderful editor, Sarah Barley, along with the whole team at Flatiron, for not only taking a chance on a debut novel about a quirky British pop band but for making me a better writer in the process.

  To Mum, Dad, and my army of brothers, you are spectacular human beings, and I owe everything to you. Gran and Grandpa, you told me when I was little to follow my passion—thank you, endlessly, for that—and you always call me Christopher, which never fails to make me smile.

  George, when we started a band, I had no idea it would lead to this, but I’m rather pleased it has. Along with the rest of The Lightyears, you’ve taught me that being in a band is a bit like being married to three grown men, which is a lot more fun than it sounds.

  John Howlett, you were the first “proper” writer to read my work, and you may never know what a difference your words of encouragement made. It is a debt I hope to pay forward one day. And to Jerry Owens, Jane Watret, Maureen Lenehan, and Professor David Punter, you were unforgettable teachers, and I thank every one of you for inspiring me.