I Was Born for This

by Alice Oseman

  Bliss Lai is the number-one trend on UK Twitter.

  Okay. What do you do when people are upset? What do people do when I’m upset? I’m usually the one who’s upset so I never normally have to deal with this. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Rowan scream at someone before. He doesn’t seem like himself. He hasn’t all week, really.

  I walk over to him and put my arm round him, but he just shrugs me off and says, ‘Just fucking leave me alone, Jimmy; there’s nothing anyone can do about this.’

  He slumps down onto a sofa and starts trying to call Bliss again. Okay.

  I walk away into the kitchen and start making three cups of tea, despite knowing it’s probably only me who’s going to drink any. The kitchen clock reads 12.36 p.m. How did this happen in the space between going to sleep and waking up? How did the entire world find this out in the space of a few hours?

  I hear a strange whining noise and it takes a few seconds for me to realise that it’s Rowan crying quietly into his hands. Sort of makes me want to cry too. Sort of want to hug him but I don’t think he wants that.

  ‘How did that interviewer get all the photos?’ I say to no one in particular. Rowan doesn’t answer.

  We can’t trust anyone.

  We’re being stalked. Watched. Followed to private events, parties, everywhere. They’re selling photos of us to the press. Sharing them on private gossip blogs and group chats.

  Someone got into our house. They’ve been here. I can smell them.

  ‘Jimmy,’ says a hushed voice – Lister’s – making me jump and turn towards him. Thankfully he’s put a hoodie on.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cecily had someone drop this off this morning.’

  He hands me a wad of paper. The top of the front page reads:

  This contract (hereinafter referred to as the ‘Agreement’) executed and effective this _______ day of ___________, 20___, by and between THE ARK (hereinafter referred to as the ‘Artist’) and FORT RECORDS (hereinafter referred to as the ‘Company’):

  It’s our record contract.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Have you read it?’

  To my surprise, Lister nods. I don’t think he’s read a book since GCSE English. ‘It’s a bit confusing to read, but … yeah.’ He makes a face. ‘It’s all just … more.’

  I glance back at Rowan, who is still sitting, head in hands, on the sofa.

  There’s nothing I can really do to help him right now, I guess.

  I open the contract and start to read.

  Some of it seems normal. Or at least, what I assume to be normal. I never fully read our first and only contract; we were fourteen and a little clueless, and we just had our parents read it (in my case, Grandad) and a lawyer.

  But a lot of sections catch my eye: sections asking us to do more interviews, go on longer tours, write music faster.

  It takes me a full twenty minutes to read it all.

  I knew that we’d have to spend more time on the band, on publicity, on music, but this is extreme. I knew all of this already, but seeing it here, written in such official, complex, legal language, it’s all so much more than I thought it would be. It’s all so much more real.

  I’ve barely had any time to myself as it is. I barely see Grandad more than once every couple of months.

  ‘What’s Cecily doing about this?’ I say.

  Lister shrugs. ‘Nothing, as far as I know.’

  We’ll be internationally famous, but what’s the point if you have to give up everything else in your life to get there?

  ‘We can just say no,’ I say, starting to ramble. ‘We can just have a similar contract to what we have now. This one’s been fine.’

  ‘And give up breaking America?’ asks Lister. ‘We won’t get big in America unless we take on this contract.’

  ‘Then we go with a different record company.’

  ‘It’ll be the same wherever we go, Jimmy. At least people at Fort Records know us and slightly care about us. Everyone else just thinks we’re a money machine.’

  I look at Lister. He’s sitting at the breakfast bar, staring blankly at the cup of tea in front of him. I didn’t know he’d even been thinking about this stuff. Rowan is quiet now, sitting totally still with his head in his hands.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ I whisper.

  What’s the point in being in The Ark if we’re going to get stalked, harassed, have photographs leaked, privacy stolen, and never, ever be at peace?

  I’ve been gripping my cup of tea so tightly, I don’t realise how hard I slam the mug down on the counter, sending shards of ceramic flying all over the kitchen. There’s a sudden pain in my palm and I turn it towards me to find I’ve cut my hand open. Blood trails down my wrist and plops onto the floor.

  So, the latest is that I’m struggling to process that the person I met last night was the person who has been in a relationship with Rowan Omondi for at least, if sources are accurate, the past two years.

  She spoke to him on the phone right in front of me.

  I mean, it’s her, all right. It’s really bloody her. If the name wasn’t enough – what’s the bet there’s another Bliss Lai in the world – the pictures confirmed it. There she is. Exactly the person I met last night: the pout, the sleek black hair, the soft cheeks and rounded curves. Always pictured with a cheeky smile.

  I spoke to her for ages.

  And I had absolutely no idea.

  Oh, fuck.

  I showed her the picture of Jimmy as my lock screen.

  I talked to her about Jowan.

  She probably thinks I’m absolute fandom trash.

  Juliet has left the room, probably to go and mourn on her own for a bit, leaving me to deal with The Message.

  I start by having a look at Bliss’s profile. Her username is just her name: @blisslai. Her bio reads ‘I do a lot of stuff and I like a lot of things’. Her tweets are a jumbled mix of university complaints, TV show reactions and articles about social and political justice.

  Everything would seem perfectly normal, if she didn’t have over fifty thousand followers. No doubt she’d only had a few hundred at most yesterday.

  I’m half tempted to leave it for a bit.

  No. No.

  If I leave it now, I’ll leave it forever.

  Bliss Lai @blisslai

  It was you, wasn’t it? You told them. You saw Rowan’s name on my phone.

  angel @jimmysangels

  i swear to god it wasn’t me. i had absolutely no idea who you were. i’m so so sorry this has happened but i swear i did not know that you were rowan’s girlfriend.

  After a minute or so, the little tick symbol shows up, meaning that she’s seen it. She’s read it.

  She doesn’t reply after that. Fuck. What do I do? What do I do? I don’t want her to hate me. I don’t want her to think I would do this.

  angel @jimmysangels

  i promise this is the truth. if i’d known you were anything to do with the ark I would have been freaking out right in front of you. seriously. i’m just a normal fan, i would never do something as extreme as this.

  Bliss Lai @blisslai

  You underestimate the power of fans hahaha I know how extreme they can be

  What am I supposed to say to that?!

  angel @jimmysangels

  i don’t know what i can say to make you believe me

  Bliss Lai @blisslai

  Neither do I

  What am I supposed to say to that?

  Bliss Lai @blisslai

  I don’t know what to do

  angel @jimmysangels

  are you okay? are you somewhere safe, at least?

  Bliss Lai @blisslai

  Well not really, I’m at work. There are people with cameras waiting outside.

  angel @jimmysangels

  oh my god

  Bliss Lai @blisslai

  Yeah haha

  angel @jimmysangels

  can you get rowan to help you???

  Bliss Lai @blisslai

  N
ot really, him coming here would just make things worse. I don’t want to go out there alone. they’ll surround me.

  angel @jimmysangels

  could someone at work maybe leave with you?

  Bliss Lai @blisslai

  Not really … they just want me to make the photographers go away.

  Oh God. I’m really about to do this, aren’t I?

  angel @jimmysangels

  do you … want me to come and find you?

  Bliss Lai @blisslai

  Fuck, would you??

  angel @jimmysangels

  if you needed someone, yeah. i don’t have anywhere to be today.

  Bliss Lai @blisslai

  It’s just to help me get out of the throng of paparazzi. You’re really tall so that should help haha

  angel @jimmysangels

  i will warn you, i am weak. like no muscle. also scared very easily.

  Bliss Lai @blisslai

  Better than nothing though

  angel @jimmysangels

  you say that now!

  Bliss Lai @blisslai

  You’re really gonna come here?

  angel @jimmysangels

  you really want me to?

  Bliss Lai @blisslai

  You’re not just doing this to try to meet The Ark, right?? Because you won’t meet them.

  angel @jimmysangels

  no!!! honestly, i just want to help!

  Why do I want to help? Why am I doing this?

  Bliss Lai @blisslai

  Okay that’s good because otherwise I might have to live in HMV forever

  She works in an HMV? That’s not exactly what I expected from someone so confident and ambitious. How old is she anyway? She seemed five years older than me, but if she’s Rowan’s girlfriend, maybe she’s closer to my age.

  angel @jimmysangels

  okay well that sounds traumatic. send me the address and i’ll be there as soon as i can!!

  She sends me the address. I look up where the nearest tube station is. I get dressed. I go downstairs.

  Juliet and Mac are eating breakfast in the kitchen. Juliet looks like she’ll never enjoy food again. Mac looks like a guest at an awkward family dinner. Dorothy is standing at the kitchen counter, writing in a notepad.

  I make up some excuse about agreeing to meet with a friend in London, but neither Juliet nor Mac seem particularly phased and they don’t ask any questions. I walk out of the house without a second thought. Off to rescue the girlfriend of one of the three boys who have kept me alive for the past four years. You know. Just a casual, normal Wednesday.

  It’s not normal for us to get a day off from The Ark. Most days are spent at interviews, meetings, rehearsals, studios, concert venues. And even on the rare day we got to spend sightseeing during our Europe tours – they’re not days off. Not really. Not when the fans track you down, somehow, impossibly, to wherever you want to go. Not when someone is asking for a selfie every five minutes, snapping photos, screaming, always screaming.

  The fans gave us everything we have. I love them. I love the fans.

  I love them, I love them, I love them, I love them.

  Days spent at home are our real days off. When did we last have one? Maybe three, four months ago? I Skyped Grandad, called my mum and dad. Rowan Skyped his family, spoke to his sister for hours. Then we ordered pizza and played Splatoon. Lister … I don’t remember what Lister did.

  Today isn’t anything like that, anyway.

  Rowan is inspecting the cut on my palm, checking to see if any shards of ceramic have been embedded into my skin. He holds my hand up to the kitchen light, squinting at it.

  ‘I think there’s a bit in there,’ he says.

  My hand stings.

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘I think we’re gonna have to get it out.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Do you want to do it or do you want me to do it?’

  He looks at me. Right in the eyes.

  ‘Jim?’ he says.

  ‘You do it,’ I say.

  ‘Do we have tweezers?’

  Tweezers. I feel a bit ill.

  ‘I think so. In the bathroom.’

  Rowan puts my hand down on the breakfast bar and walks away towards the bathroom. I just stand there, waiting, my hand open in front of me like it’s not really attached to my body, blood still seeping out of the open wound. I look down and realise there’s blood splattered all down my pyjama shorts and on my legs.

  I laugh.

  Why’ve I got blood all over me?

  What the fuck.

  ‘Jimmy?’

  Rowan’s back, holding the tweezers. He picks up my hand and grips my wrist tightly.

  ‘This will hurt,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say.

  Rowan digs the tweezers directly into the wound.

  I make a strangled screeching noise in the back of my throat and try to move my hand, but Rowan keeps it still. My eyes start watering again.

  ‘Sorry,’ Rowan mumbles, poking the tweezers at my palm now.

  I’d say it’s fine, it’s all fine, he shouldn’t be sorry about anything, he’s the one going through seven tons of shit this week, but all I can manage is a pained laugh.

  ‘Nearly got it,’ he says, clenching his teeth. Rowan doesn’t like blood. When we had to dissect a kidney in a Year 8 biology lesson he threw up.

  ‘There!’ He holds up the tweezers triumphantly. There’s a tiny reddish sliver of ceramic in between the pincers. Rowan puts it down on the countertop. ‘Now you won’t get poisoned.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, wiping my eyes with my uninjured hand.

  ‘Wait here, I’ll get a plaster.’

  ‘I can do that—’

  ‘Not with an injured hand, you can’t.’

  Rowan leaves again.

  The blood falls, with a soft ‘plip’, onto the table. Almost indiscernible from the rain falling outside.

  The fact of the matter is there’s no way to fix this. The information is out, the photos, all the evidence of Rowan and Bliss’s relationship. There’s no way to erase the memory of every single person in the world. I can’t go begging to Cecily to fix this one. I can’t pay anyone to stop. I can’t do anything.

  I just have to sit and wallow in it.

  The punishment for the truth.

  At times like this, when horrible stuff happened, I used to pray, and talk to God, and He’d talk back to me. All that stuff.

  These days, though, it’s a lot harder to get a response.

  ‘I couldn’t find a plaster big enough, but we did have some bandages.’ Rowan grabs my hand again, pulling it towards him, and pushes up his glasses with his free hand.

  ‘Do you think it needs stitches?’ I say.

  Rowan starts wrapping it in bandages. ‘I don’t know. Do you want to go to the hospital?’

  ‘No. This is our only day off.’

  ‘True.’

  He rips the bandage and ties it. The blood has already started to seep through the thin white cotton.

  ‘How does that feel?’ he asks.

  I lie. ‘Fine.’

  He chuckles. ‘Liar.’

  I look at him. ‘It hurts.’

  He looks at me. ‘Don’t smash mugs, you mug.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘I know.’

  We both stand there at the breakfast bar. Rowan starts scooping all the shards of ceramic into a pile in the middle of the table. I move my fingers around. It hurts.

  It all hurts.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Rowan asks me.

  ‘Are you?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ he says.

  ‘Me neither,’ I say.

  He sits down on a bar stool, spinning gently from side to side.

  ‘I wish we could go outside,’ he says.

  ‘We can,’ I say.

  ‘No, we can’t.’

  The pain on his face makes my pain feel worse.

  I spot movement in the corner of my eye, and look up, o
nly to see Lister darting away into the corridor. I’d forgotten he was even in the room.

  ‘How did that interviewer get those photos?’ Rowan asks, shaking his head. ‘Who would want to mess with us that much? And why?’

  ‘It’s got to be a fan,’ I say.

  Rowan nods. ‘Yeah. One of the extreme ones. They’re the sort who’d do something like this. Just stalk and collect pictures and post them just to create drama. First that Jowan photo and now this. God, I hate them.’

  I gaze at him.

  He sighs. ‘It’s fine.’ He pats me on the arm. ‘We’re in this together, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, my voice little more than a whisper.

  God.

  At least I have him.

  He looks at me. ‘You okay, Jim? You look like something’s wrong.’

  Rowan is the only person in the whole world who knows me. Rowan was with me when we were eleven and desperately strumming at guitars in a tiny school music room. Rowan was with me when I was twelve and crying because people were bullying me, girls were sneering at me, boys were spitting at me, teachers frowning in confusion at their class register when I corrected them with my real name, Jimmy, again, and again and again and again. Rowan was with me when we were thirteen and watching YouTube videos in my bedroom and saying, hey, maybe we should do this, maybe we could do this. Rowan was with me when we were fourteen, fifteen, when paparazzi locked me in my own family’s house for two days, and when we were sixteen, seventeen, when I passed out because I hadn’t eaten enough after a week of press interviews, when I had a panic attack immediately after our BRITs performance.

  But my best Rowan, my favourite Rowan, is the Rowan I knew seven years ago, sitting next to me, plucking at a guitar.

  ‘I miss home,’ I say.

  He looks confused. ‘We are home.’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ I say.

  I have been Ready to Die at many points in my life. The day before my A-level chemistry exam, for example. And yesterday morning, probably, upon waking to find all my dreams – all one of them, I guess – had supposedly come true.

  And this is another.

  Walking down a busy London high street, going to meet Bliss Lai, who is Rowan Omondi’s girlfriend.

  I mean, logically, this shouldn’t be affecting me at all. I met Bliss yesterday. We got along normally. Two very normal people. Just a fangirl and the girlfriend of an internationally famous member of a boy band.