by Alice Oseman
‘Really?’ he says.
‘Yeah. It’s fine.’
He seems to believe me.
We are three people from the front of the queue and a large group of girls near the back of the line seem to be causing a fair amount of unrest. I keep hearing shouts of, ‘Can you stop pushing?’ and the space between each person seems to be getting smaller and smaller. We’re all fairly packed in now, actually. People are starting to get agitated.
Despite how the media paints us, fandoms are actually very supportive and respectful places. Fans will stick up for each other and look after each other in a way that normal strangers don’t. I think it’s because despite who we are, where we came from, and whatever we’ve been through, we all have a very big part of us in common.
Of course there are always a small number of fans who are not good people.
There are always those who lack any empathy whatsoever.
‘Why is everyone pushing?’ Juliet mumbles. The first thing she’s said in about half an hour.
The next person walks towards the curtains. Two more to go.
Mac looks like he wants to die. He hasn’t said anything either. I’ve been distracting myself by talking to the other fans around us, talking to people who actually care about being here.
‘I might get out of here,’ he says suddenly.
Juliet says nothing.
‘Someone else deserved your ticket,’ I tell him.
He looks at me like I’m from another planet.
And then there is a sound.
A loud crack.
And a terrified voice rips through the air.
‘What the fuck, what the fuck—’
And Rowan stumbles out from behind the curtain with blood cascading down one side of his face.
I am wearing my happy face again and everything is fine and then suddenly it isn’t.
A girl walks round the curtain and everything is normal and then it’s not.
Instead of smiling and holding out her phone for us to take a photo, she withdraws a brick from her bag.
A brick. Like the ones you’d use to build a garden wall.
Security aren’t superhuman. The girl throws the brick at Rowan before they can jump on her and it hits him on the side of the head and he stumbles backwards with a cry of pain, hands flying to his face, and the girl, some random girl we’ve obviously never seen before, is screaming. The girl is screaming that she hates him, she hates what he did, why did he have to have a girlfriend, why did he have to destroy her life, but security are pinning her to the ground and I’m looking at Rowan again and his face is a mess of blood. He takes his hand away from his face and looks at it. He just stares at the blood; he can’t believe this is real. I can’t believe this is real. And then he stumbles blindly away, out of the curtained-off area, probably meaning to head towards the door we came in from but instead veering towards the crowd. I haven’t moved.
It all happens in under ten seconds.
Rowan. I start walking after him, ignoring Lister’s attempt to get me to stop, to stay where they can’t see us, but I’m gone, I’m out of the curtain, and I see Rowan, just in time for both of us to be consumed by a plague of bodies, screaming, screaming our names.
I’m ripped away from Juliet and Mac as the queue ropes are trampled by bodies. Those who want to get to The Ark push forward and those who know we should give them space can’t fight back and the crowd of two hundred fans crushes themselves into a screeching, swarming mass of bodies. Queue ropes seem to disintegrate. My view of Rowan and the blood dripping cinematically from his eyebrow is torn away as I’m swept across the room by the tide. I drop my meet-and-greet ticket, which I’d wanted them to sign. When I struggle to breathe, too many people crushed against my chest, I start panicking. I stop wanting to be here. I want to get out. Now.
I let the tide of bodies push me towards a wall. I try to spot Juliet – she’s small, she could easily be pushed under and get trampled – but I can’t see her, there are too many people. I get pushed again. Someone’s bag scratches my arm. Someone stands on my foot. The screaming is so loud.
The screaming isn’t the same as normal, though.
Screams of fear are very, very different.
I know there are bad people in fandom but I’ve never actually seen them – the people who stalk them to their hotels, the people who keep trying to track down their address, the people who don’t care about the boys’ comfort, personal space, happiness. The people without empathy.
Most fans aren’t like that. Most fans would take a bullet for The Ark. Most fans would defend them until their last breath, form an army to keep them from harm or discomfort.
But when one person does something like this, it’s no wonder everybody hates us.
I’m gradually being pushed further down the wall, and as soon as I feel a handle sticking into my back, I take my chance and disappear behind the door into what appears to be a disabled bathroom.
I fumble for the light and go and look at myself in the mirror. My scarf has been pulled slightly askew, so I quickly fix it, and wipe up the smudges of eyeliner under my eyes. Aside from that, you’d never have guessed I’d just been caught in a mob.
I sit down on the closed toilet lid and try to calm down.
If I just wait here for a while, the security guards will sort everything out, and then I can leave and go to the concert as planned.
Or maybe it’ll be cancelled.
If Rowan is injured.
I didn’t get to meet The Ark.
I didn’t get to tell them anything.
I didn’t get to thank them.
All I have is the image of Rowan’s bloodstained face.
They are all around me. They are touching me. Reaching for my arms, my hands, my face. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I close my eyes. I put my arms over my face. I don’t want to see them.
I am dragged into the flood.
I try to stop listening but I can hear them all. Someone screaming that they touched me, laughing, they got to touch me. Another screaming away from me, telling people to move, give him space, stop pushing. Someone is saying, ‘Don’t worry, Jimmy, we’ll help you, we’ll get you out.’ Someone else is saying, ‘Oh my God, he’s so beautiful in real life. Jimmy, we’ll help you. Stop pushing. Give him space. He is so beautiful.’
I try not to make any sound but I can’t breathe and I’m scared. I’m going to die. I get pulled one way by the flow, yanked another by someone’s fist on my hoodie. I feel it rip. I can’t stop the tears emerging from my eyes, I can’t make my heart stop pounding, I can’t do anything, I can’t do anything—
‘ROWAN!’
One single bellowing cry of Rowan’s name sounds above everything else, despite the noise. It’s so loud, so full of panic and pain and so different to the other shrieks, that I lower my arms from my face and open my eyes to look.
Cecily Wills has risen above the crowd like Poseidon emerging from the ocean.
She must have climbed on someone, or found a chair to stand on or something, because she’s at least two metres above the ground. She reaches out with one arm over the crowd, which I then realise is in the direction of Rowan, who has somehow almost made it to the door. Rowan reaches out his hand towards her over the heads of the crowd, his hand and arm smeared with blood, but can’t quite reach far enough, and the tableau of them both reaching their arms out towards each other reminds me of that Michelangelo painting, The Creation of Adam, where God is reaching out to man.
The bodyguards fight through the crowd, pick him up round the waist, and carry him towards the door.
In the time that this is happening, two girls seem to have been trying to fend off the rest of the crowd from coming near me. They’re both a lot smaller than me, and look younger too, and I’m not really hearing anything they’re saying any more, but they keep pushing away the people who are either forced closer to me or are trying to reach me. I’ve finally hit a wall and I keep my back to it, feeling the
cool wallpaper on my fingers, and then start edging along it, not really sure where I’m going, just that I need to get away.
When my hand finds a door handle, I open it and fall back inside without a further thought, slamming the door and locking it, and then I spin round, intending to find a corner to hide in or a sink to crawl under, but instead I am faced with a girl.
I nearly shit myself when the door bursts open, and then nearly shit myself again when I realise who has entered the bathroom.
I am faced with none other than Jimmy Kaga-Ricci.
Jimmy Kaga-Ricci.
The heart and soul of The Ark, the band that has ruled my life for the past five years.
He is only a couple of metres away from me.
Looking right at me.
This cannot be real.
I must have hit my head.
Or I’m dead.
My head wouldn’t make up something like this, would it?
I know I have a lot of daydreams and fantasies but I would never imagine Jimmy like this. His hoodie has been ripped and there are tears glistening on his cheeks. He’s got a bandage wrapped round his hand – did he just do that now, or did he have that when he got here?
He looks scared too. He doesn’t look like himself without the airy smile that I always see in the photos and videos. He’s frowning, eyes wide and alert, like a frightened rabbit. He doesn’t seem to be able to catch his breath – he’s breathing abnormally fast – and he’s shaking. Visibly.
Of course he looks impossibly beautiful too.
I desperately want to hold him.
But he doesn’t know who I am. Of course. He has no idea who I am.
I’m just another featureless face in the sea of people screaming his name.
I take a small step forward and start to say, ‘Are you okay?’ but I only get to ‘Are you—’ before he stumbles back against the wall and stammers, ‘D-d-don’t come near me.’
‘Don’t come near me,’ I say, unable to stop myself. Fuck. I need to be polite. I try to reach inside myself and pull out the Jimmy who smiles, says hello, how are you, would you like to take a picture, but I can’t. He’s gone; he’s dead now. I can’t breathe properly. Please, God, please help me.
What if she hurts me? What if she takes a picture of me? What if she tries to kill me? She doesn’t look scary but they never do – she’s tall, though, taller than me, so she could probably kill me with a few punches. She’s smiling. Smiling. Is it a nervous smile? A sympathetic smile? I’m panicking too hard to tell.
I sink down onto the floor, my legs giving way. She’s not moving. She’s not coming any closer. Good. Please. I look at the door. It’d be worse out there. I can hear them shouting. Jimmy’s in there. Don’t go in there, Jimmy’s in there.
I look back at the girl. She doesn’t look scary but I’m scared. God, please, don’t let her hurt me.
She suddenly crouches down so that she isn’t towering over me. I don’t want to look any more so I put my hands on my head and hide my face against my knees, curling myself into as small a space as possible. I try to think about Rowan and the way he tells me to breathe when I’m having panic attacks. Breathe in. Breathe out. I can’t. It’s not the same when he’s not here. I can’t do it on my own.
Someone will come. Someone will come to help me.
‘Jimmy … are you okay?’ she says. She’s got a loud, deep voice. Or maybe my brain is just making things up.
She shuffles a little more towards me. Closing in. I can’t breathe. She’s going to kill me.
I don’t know what to do.
Instinctively my hand goes to the back of my jeans to Grandad’s knife and I hold it tight and I say, ‘Please don’t.’
‘Please don’t,’ he says, holding something out. It takes a few moments for me to realise what it actually is.
It’s a knife.
Not a butter knife or even a kitchen knife. It’s a knife designed for cutting people. A dagger, to be honest. It’s even got an ornate handle.
I stand up faster than I thought I could and stagger backwards so that I’m as far away from Jimmy Kaga-Ricci and his dagger as I can possibly be. As soon as I do this, I realise my mistake. I can’t get to the door now. He’s right in front of it.
Wait. What? Jimmy Kaga-Ricci isn’t going to stab me. Is he?
He’s Jimmy. He’s sunshine. He’s the dreamlike centre of The Ark, a little aloof but always shining, always lovely. He’s been through hard times of course, but he’s surrounded by the love of his two best friends, and his fans, and he’s performing his music, his passion, to the world.
That’s Jimmy Kaga-Ricci. Isn’t it?
Not this. Whoever this is. Shaking and crying on the floor in front of me, waving a dagger around like he thinks I’m going to attack him, or something.
This can’t be him. It can’t. He can’t. This is wrong. This isn’t what I know. This is all wrong. I don’t understand.
This isn’t how we were supposed to meet.
‘What are you doing?’ I say. God, my voice is shaking. I’m scared. Why am I scared of Jimmy? My Jimmy? I love Jimmy. I’ve loved Jimmy for years.
His breathing sounds like he’s just surfaced from water. The hand holding the dagger is unsteady. He’s hidden himself behind his knees.
‘Just … stay away,’ he croaks at me, his voice scarily quiet.
He’s afraid of me.
Me. Me. The human embodiment of a caterpillar.
‘I could … I could leave?’ I suggest, pointing vaguely towards the door, but the sudden movement of my arm makes him flinch.
‘No,’ he snaps, raising his head. ‘You’re gonna – You’ll just bring more of them.’ His eyes are wide and fearful. The beauty that I’d admired there has gone.
‘Well … I … Can you tell me how to help you?’ I ask. Is he having some sort of … I don’t know … episode? Maybe he has a health condition that I don’t know about. Asthma? Epilepsy? I don’t know enough about either of those things to be able to do anything to help.
‘I –’ He chokes on his own sobs. His fear is contagious and I’m catching it fast.
I’ve never seen anyone this terrified.
He lowers the dagger a little. I dare myself to look at it a little closer. It looks like some sort of war antique and the actual blade is worn and … blunt? Could this thing even break skin? It looks barely sharper than a butter knife.
‘What do you want me to do?’ I say, not because I’m scared of him, but because he clearly needs help.
But he doesn’t even respond.
‘What do you want me to do?’ she asks quietly. God, I’m being weird and scary and I hate myself so, so much.
‘S-sorry,’ I say, holding up my free hand, trying to shield my face. Sorry for being weird and scared and a disappointment of a human being. ‘I’m not gonna – I won’t, I just –’ I can’t explain what I’m trying to say. That I know I’d never actually stab anyone. I can’t.
It just makes me feel like I’m really here. Holding this piece of me in my hand.
‘P-please–’ I say again, but she doesn’t move. Her face moves from fear to confusion, and then to pity.
‘What is wrong with you?’ she asks.
I need to tell her that I’m just having a panic attack, that this is something that happens, but all I say is, ‘Please help me.’
‘How can I help you?!’ she practically cries out. ‘Tell me what I need to do!’
The shouting just makes it worse and I can’t say anything.
‘I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘God, I don’t understand.’
I can’t let her leave. She’ll bring them all here. The fans. I can’t let any more of them see me like this.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
He starts trying to breathe in and out very slowly but can’t quite manage it, his breath breaking and stuttering mid-inhale.
Wait. I think I know what this is.
I think he might be having a panic attack.
<
br /> I’ve never had a panic attack. I’ve never seen anyone have a panic attack. I don’t even know much about panic attacks other than they are, well, an attack of panic.
He’s still holding the dagger but he’s dropped his arm down to the ground, as if it’s too heavy to hold up. He’s not actually going to stab me.
I crouch down near to the floor again.
‘My name’s Angel Rahimi,’ I say very slowly, introducing myself as Angel before I realise what I’m doing. Maybe that’s who I am now.
He looks at me, then, eyes narrow. ‘What?’
‘My name is Angel Rahimi,’ I say. ‘I’m a fan of The Ark. I came to your meet-and-greet today. I want to help you.’
‘Angel?’ he says. ‘Your name is Angel?’
‘Well …’ I begin, but why make this any weirder and more confusing than it already is? ‘Yeah, yeah, it is.’
He doesn’t do anything but stare.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘I’m not going to hurt you. I’m very harmless. I can’t even kill spiders.’
More staring.
Then he says, ‘Okay.’
‘Are you … are you having a panic attack?’ I ask. Maybe he’s tripping on drugs, or something. It’s not like I’d know.
He nods very slowly.
‘S-sorry …’ he stammers through short breaths.
What’s he apologising for? The panic attack?
God, I want to hug him. I want to hold him and let him cry gently into my shoulder.
At least we seem to be communicating now.
‘Maybe try taking a few deep breaths?’ I suggest. I demonstrate by taking a comically deep breath. ‘Breathe in.’ I exhale with a loud whoosh. ‘Breathe out.’
To my amazement (as I hadn’t expected him to do it), he tries to mirror my breathing, his eyes so round and wide and watery and cutting through the air to look at me. He can’t quite manage it, instead taking about three breaths in the same time that I take one. Though I’m still shaking quite a bit, I manage to smile at him and say, ‘Yeah, that’s it! That’s it!’ Like a parent cheering for their kid on sports day.
