by Holly Bourne
He’d not messaged me in a week.
Not that he was supposed to. Alfie was free, I was free. That was the plan. But that didn’t stop me from freaking out that he’d met someone else and forgotten about me and Manchester. This just about distracted me from my IMPENDING STAGE FRIGHT OF ABSOLUTE HELL.
“Where do we put our stuff?” I asked, hoisting my guitar onto my other shoulder.
“I don’t know,” Hannah said. “I don’t need anything for my slot. In one of the classrooms, I guess?”
I took a deep breath, because this meant I had to separate from them, and go talk to other people to figure it out. This made me very nervous and I was already very nervous because I was about to sing my soul out in front of a whole new college of people. Back in Sheffield, I had a little following, which took the weensiest edge off my stage fright. But here, I had no idea if my music would land whatsoever. “I’ll go find out.”
“Cool. We’ll get some drinks,” Jack replied, opening his blazer like a swaggery gangster and tapping his nose. “What mixer do you want? Coke, or lemonade?” He had a small water bottle filled with vodka, hidden in his inside pocket.
“Coke, please.”
“Meet you near the stage,” Hannah called as Jack steered her through the gathering crowd. They vanished into the swell of people – some of whom I was starting to recognize now I’d been here two weeks. Carolyn, a girl from my English class, walked past and said “Hey”. I waved back and blushed, hating myself for being so socially awkward. More people trickled in, creating a bottleneck by the doors as they stopped to take in the transformed cafeteria.
You have to sing in front of all these people.
I willed my brain to shut up, trying to focus instead on the right now and working out where to dump my guitar. I spotted Darla and her new green pigtails.
“Darla,” I shouted over.
“Hi, Amelie, you alright?”
I pushed through the crowd, bashing someone with my guitar in the process. “I’m good,” I said. “I just need to get rid of my guitar. You’re playing tonight, right?” She nodded. “Do you know where we’re supposed to put our stuff?”
“Everyone’s taking it to the music block,” she answered.
“That makes sense. Thanks. So, when you on?” I asked, forcing myself to be friendly.
“Third. You?”
“Second to last.”
Darla raised her eyebrows. “Ouch. So you have the whole evening to worry before you go on?”
Her comment hit home like a throw by a professional pitcher. I laughed and it sounded like someone treading on a mouse. “Hahahahah, I know. It sucks. Thanks again.”
I said goodbye, squeezed my way out of the bottleneck, and emerged into the balmy black night. It was almost too hot in my cardigan – my grey one, with handmade thumbholes in the cuffs. I was wearing it over a light-blue tea dress and I’d plaited my hair in random sections. My phone buzzed and I couldn’t open the message fast enough. Alfie! It must be him.
Jessa: Good luck for the talent show, Granny Cardigan. Have fun freaking out beforehand and pretending to yourself you’re not going to win. That’s always been so fun to watch x
The smile I smiled was only half of one. Love her as I did, Jessa wasn’t Alfie, and that’s who I really wanted to hear from. But I sent a reply and did feel less alone and freaked out after I’d done so.
Amelie: I’m not going to win… Seriously though, thanks so much for your message. I wish you were here. Well, no, I wish I was THERE.
I lugged my guitar through the dark to the music block, where a paper sign on the entrance said Leave your instruments here.
I pushed through the door, my guitar clattering against the frame, and that’s when I first saw him.
Such a handsome face, that was the first thing I noticed. I always thought the word was only used by Disney princesses, or my gran, but that was my initial thought the second I saw Reese Davies.
Cor, he’s handsome.
He was standing with his band, but I only really noticed him as he turned to see who’d caused the clatter. His eyes clocked mine and he smiled the smile that would turn out to be the undoing of me.
“Umm, hi,” I squeaked. “Is this where I leave my guitar?”
He was tall, and his face was all angles and chin all strong with a dimple right in the middle. He was wearing a hat, indoors, but he was so handsome I didn’t even think he was a dick for doing that.
He opened his mouth to reply but Mrs Clarke appeared, looking wilty and a bit stressed. “Amelie, hi! Yes, you’re in the right place.” She reached out for my case and I handed it to her gratefully. “How are you feeling?”
“Very nervous,” I admitted.
“Don’t be. You’re going to be great.”
“I hope so.”
We hadn’t spoken yet but I was already super aware of Reese’s presence, like he was radiating a magnetic force field.
“What are you opening with?” Mrs Clarke asked me, and I talked her through my ten-minute slot while also craning to hear this boy in a hat discuss his.
He’d turned back to his band. “I still think we should open on ‘Welcome To Nowhere’,” he said, with that quiet authority that would turn out to be the undoing of me.
“Yeah, but, Reese, we agreed on—”
He smiled as he cut his band mate off with his hand. “Dude, we’re supposed to be rock ‘n’ roll, chill the hell out. We can mix up the set list. We’ve got ten whole minutes to play with, and it’s not like we’re going to get detention.” The rest of them laughed reluctantly and I watched his smile, before Mrs Clarke distracted me again with enthusiastic questions about my own songwriting process.
Now how I wish I’d just walked out of that room and kept walking, walking, walking. But I didn’t. Instead I made my way back into the refectory, found Jack and Hannah, let Jack pour a hefty amount of vodka into my Coke, and continued down this path of destruction.
You never know at the time, do you? You can never know if a moment is going to make your life better or rip it apart and piss on the pieces. What scares me most of all, Reese, is that now, back in this stuffy refectory, with my soul sucked dry and my heart beyond repair…I…I…
I still worry I’d do it all over again.
What have you done to me, Reese?
The talent show opened with a beatboxer who went on a bit too long. We found Liv in the crush – she was with a bunch of new friends from her photography class. I’d instantly found Liv to be a bit on the “intimidating” side of “intimidatingly cool” – with her cropped hair and artsy disposition – but she was friendly enough and acted pleased to see me. We all waved hello and yelled into each other’s ears to try and be heard above the dude gargling down the microphone. I let the others take on the burden of conversation-making while I stood at the back, nodding and trying not to freak out about my slot.
“It seems like such an unfair combination,” Alfie had said before my last gig up in Sheffield, kissing my shaking fingers. “That you’re so incredibly talented and yet find being on stage so incredibly awful.”
“What if I vomit?” I asked him.
“As I’ve said many times before, I’ll still fancy you,” he confirmed.
Vomiting is one of my stage-fright fears – that I will just projectile hurl all down myself. This is closely followed by a fear of peeing myself. This is closely followed by forgetting all my words and just standing there like an idiot. This is closely followed by remembering my words, but singing out of tune. This was my first gig in years without Alfie’s gentle reassurance, without him standing in the front row and nodding me along.
Why hadn’t he sent a message?
“You okay, Amelie?” Jack yelled over. “You look a bit green. Want some more lubrication?” He held out his water bottle of vodka.
I knew it wasn’t a marvellous idea, but I said yes anyway and let him tip more into my cup. When I took a sip, it tasted of almost pure vodka.
Th
e beatboxer finished, to mild applause. The teachers judging held up scorecards of rather-generous fives and sixes. There was a dance act up next. A group of long and lean girls in Lycra hot pants leaped around the stage waving ribbons to some rap mix-up song. The night found its groove. I had another top-up from Jack. Hannah got up and performed an amazing sketch from The Vagina Monologues, which won her a few eights. I watched Jack watch her and knew my suspicions were right. I nudged him with my elbow.
“So, you and Hannah?” The vodka had made me able to initiate conversations.
He smiled blearily. “Am I that obvious?” he asked.
“Maybe just to me. I’m more of a watcher than a participant.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“I think she likes you too, for what it’s worth.”
“Really?” His face lit up for a millisecond before dropping into a confused grimace. “But she spent the whole of our school-leaving ball kissing this dickwad from the football team.”
“Maybe she was just…”
But I was interrupted by a band coming up onstage. Everyone whooped and cheered louder than ever. I glanced up to see what all the ado was about, and it was hat boy from the music room and his band. Reese. He clutched the microphone and flicked the brim of his trilby. “Hi, everyone, we’re That Band,” he announced, self-confidence lacing his every word. They launched into “Welcome To Nowhere” and it was pretty seamless. The song was tight, the melody catchy. It rose and fell in the right bits. Charisma hurtled out of Reese’s voice and crackled through the mike. It was impossible not to look at him. He didn’t have the best singing voice, but his air of arrogance carried the song so perfectly I was surprised he didn’t spit up lightning.
Hannah found us among the dancing smush. “How did I do?” she yelled.
I reluctantly looked away from the stage. “You were great! When can I vote for you to be prime minister?”
We all hugged – her, Jack, Liv and me. As we broke apart, Hannah looked up at the stage.
“Oh god,” she groaned. “All aboard the Dickhead Express.”
That.
That was my first red flag. Right there. There’s a whole long line of them, punctuated through the mess that was us. Every single one ignored.
Did I stop at this flag and think, Oh, I wonder why it’s so red and flaggy?
No, I did not.
I leaned in, excited she knew who he was. “Who are you talking about?”
She pointed him out. “Reese fucking Davies. The singer. Otherwise known as King Of The Bell-ends. He went to the other school but we were in the same Stagecoach growing up.”
“Why is he such a bell-end?” I asked.
The band skidded into a slow song and it was hard to talk over it without being overheard. The slow song wasn’t as good as the opener and I edited it in my head as I listened. They didn’t drop the chorus soon enough and some of the lyrics were slightly clichéd, but still, with the way he sang it, I think every girl there fell a little bit in love with him. Apart from Hannah.
The rest of the set whizzed past in a haze of me staring at him too much. The lights went up. The judges awarded them some nines while everyone clapped, and suddenly it was almost my turn.
“You’re up next,” Hannah called as my eyes followed him offstage. “You’d better go get ready.”
Liv and Jack cried “GOOD LUCK, YOU’LL BE AWESOME!” down my ear. I wobbled my way to the side of the stage, where Alistair was waiting.
“Amelie!” he exclaimed, reaching out to high-five me. His face was flushed pink, clashing with his hair. “I’m excited to hear what you’re going to do for us.” A stand-up comic was on, currently pacing the stage in a suit.
“Have you ever noticed how long people take at cash machines?” he asked, to no laughter at all.
I involuntarily screwed up my face. “I’m a bit nervous,” I told Alistair. Understatement of the entire kingdom. A musi-tech student handed me my guitar and I swung it on, feeling slightly more confident – it acted as a wall between me and the world.
Alistair smiled kindly. “I have to say, I was surprised when I saw your name on the sign-up sheet. You barely speak in form time.”
“Everyone’s surprised when they find out I sing,” I admitted. “I don’t know why I do it to myself.”
An awkward ripple of polite laughter ran through the crowd.
“Uh-oh, someone’s flatlining out there,” Alistair said, before noticing the stress on my face. “Don’t worry! From what I’ve heard, you’re going to smash it. Mrs Clarke says you’re very talented.”
I tried to let the compliment dissolve in to give me strength, but it didn’t work. All the vodka was making me whirry, and the lack of a message from Alfie was making me anxious, and the sound of the comedian dying was making me sick, and… Why the hell do I do this to myself? Before every single gig, I ask myself that question. Much too quickly, there was lacklustre applause and the comedian climbed down the steps leading off the stage.
“You’re on.” Alistair gave me a double thumbs up as all the usual horrid thoughts rushed in. You’re going to be rubbish. You’re going to humiliate yourself. Everyone’s going to hate it. Why didn’t you go to the toilet beforehand? What if you’re sick?
I still found myself climbing the steps, wobbling in my cowboy boots, and pulling my cardigan further over my dress. I sat down on my stool and was so terrified it took me for ever to hook up my guitar.
“Wooo, go, Amelie!” Hannah called out to punctuate the terrible silence, and that tiny act of friendship was enough to get me together.
“Thanks for that,” I murmured into the microphone to titters of laughter. The crowd relaxed, helping me relax enough to get my tech sorted. Then, before I had time to think about what the hell I was doing, I leaned into the mike again. “I’d like to sing you a song I wrote called ‘Worth The Risk’.
“If we do this,
we can’t undo,
what it does,
to me and you…”
I went straight into the piece I’d written for Alfie – my favourite song. The room around me hushed as my music caught them and landed. I closed my eyes and felt the meaning of each word, the story I was telling.
“Only time knows if this is a mistake,
if we are worth the risk we’re about to take.”
My voice climbed and hit the notes it needed to, and I could tell it was good. I was good. I opened my eyes and saw a crowd transfixed. I held them all inside my heart, my song, my story. A surge of euphoria took me over. I was here. I was doing it. I was singing my songs and people were enjoying them, and moments like that make the nerves worth it.
I sang about Alfie and me. About how we’d tiptoed around our feelings for so long, both of us terrified of losing our friendship. Both convinced the other only thought of them platonically. I sang about all the almost-moments and only managing to finally get it together a few months ago, not realizing that we didn’t have much time left to be together.
This is the first time I’ve sung this without him in the audience, I thought. My voice caught and I blinked hard, thinking of the lack of Alfie in the crowd and the lack of a message from him on my phone. It was almost a relief when the song finished.
The audience stood patiently, captivated. I checked my tuning before launching into an easier song. This one was my crowd-pleaser – “Ain’t That The Way It Goes” – an upbeat folk number with a catchy chorus. I felt my confidence regrow as people smiled, a few of them dancing and twirling one another around. I smiled back and even managed to lose myself in the song a bit, tapping my foot, laughing at the funnier lines. Everyone applauded hard when I was done.
“This is my last song,” I told everyone. The song I’d started to write overlooking the railway track. “It’s new, so I hope you like it. It’s called…‘Home’.”
Just the word home set me off a little. Saying it out loud felt like being kicked in the stomach – the part of my stomach that used to feel safe an
d good whenever I walked through my old front door. Into the home that was snatched from me.
“My heart is where the steel is,” I sang, and all my favourite bits of Sheffield flooded back. The water fountains outside the town hall, which I ran through on a rare, hot summer’s day; the looming skyscraper of the university arts tower you used as a guiding beacon; the surrounding heather-laden cliffs of the Peak District. “My heart is steel since I left.” I choked. Oh god, I was losing it. I couldn’t lose it, not up here. Not with a whole new college of people watching.
I managed to make it through the first verse and chorus but, halfway through the second verse, I came to the line, “And I can’t go back because home isn’t even home any more.”
I started crying, right there onstage. The tears couldn’t fall quick enough. My voice wavered. My hands shook on the mike. I couldn’t believe it. I was crying openly onstage while trying to win a talent show. I was hijacked by humiliation. Yet somehow I kept singing. I tried to put all my emotion into the song, which was pretty easy what with all the bawling. I allowed myself to remember how awful it was saying goodbye to Alfie, to remember standing in my empty bedroom, looking around and knowing I’d never set foot in there again. I remembered the choking feeling in my throat on the drive down the M1, where all the overhead signs said THE SOUTH in aggressive block capitals and how I couldn’t even comment because it would make Dad feel even more guilty. I pumped it all into my singing, and the tears fell and fell until I finished on a large sob and a D minor chord.
There was total silence. I wiped under my eyes and looked out at the mass of people, feeling that surreal jolt back to reality I always get when I finish a set. The silence stayed silent for five whole terrible seconds, and then the applause started.
