‘It made a better story,’ he says. ‘I got us a showcase slot for after the festival, didn’t I?’
‘You did,’ I agree. ‘But what if we’re not ready by then, Marley? What if we’re rubbish, or if we can’t write any more songs? What if we can’t play the festival, let alone the showcase? It’s a lot of pressure for a new band, especially with half of us struggling to get permission to come out to practise!’
He pulls a face. ‘Don’t you want us to succeed?’ he asks.
‘Of course I do!’ I say with a sigh. ‘That’s the whole point! We need to be realistic. It’s going to take a lot of hard work to get to the point where we can play in public.’
‘So we’ll do that hard work,’ Marley declares. ‘That’s all there is to it!’
In the end, he chooses a biography of Ked Wilder so he can research the man we’ll supposedly be sharing a stage with. ‘I want to impress him,’ he says simply.
‘You can borrow more than one book, y’know,’ I say, and Marley laughs out loud and tells me not to push it, which is probably fair enough.
The radio interview is over now, and Miss Walker hands Marley his library card and checks out his book.
‘You guys were amazing,’ she tells us. ‘So natural, Lexie! And, Marley, you were awesome!’
‘Don’t tell him that!’ I wail. ‘He’ll start to believe it!’
We’re on our way again, heading for town to scour the charity shops for rugs and throws for the old railway carriage.
Marley slips his hand in mine as we walk.
‘I’m awesome,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘Stick with me, kid – we’re going places!’
21
Famous for Fifteen Minutes
I’d go to the ends of the earth for Marley Hayes and, yes, I’d probably jump off a cliff for him too. Not an actual cliff, obviously, but the point is that I’d risk a lot if he asked me to. I think about him all the time, dream about him the way I once dreamed of Daniel Radcliffe from the Harry Potter films.
I’m just not sure he feels that way about me.
He’s sweet, he’s funny, he’s endlessly flirty, but if I needed him, would he be there for me? I honestly don’t know. Bex has warned me over and over that Marley never sticks with a girl for more than two weeks – maybe my time is up?
My mum walked away from me; now I’ve chosen a boyfriend who might do the same. Fear of being abandoned all over again seeps through my veins like poison, waking me up at night.
As for the song lyrics, I can’t tell if they’re actually about Mum or Marley.
How do you tell the boy who wrote a piece of music for you that the words you’ve written for it tell a sad story, one with no happy ending? I hand him my notebook lyrics and the GarageBand link on my mobile as we sit together on the railway carriage steps, waiting for the others to show up for Monday’s band practice – our first proper one since being evicted from the library.
‘I’m not saying this is our story,’ I tell him. ‘It’s just a story that came into my head randomly. I’ve been stuck for ages, trying to think of something, and I know you needed it done, so … is this OK? You did inspire it, kind of, when you mentioned “going places” the other day.’
Marley looks at the lyrics and listens to my rough-cut sung version for a second time, and his mouth curves into a smile.
‘It’s good,’ he says. ‘I think it could be our best yet. But we’d better stop calling it “our song” in case we end up doomed to live out the story. I am gonna fly high, y’know – but I’m taking you with me, Lexie Lawlor!’
He pulls me close and leans in for a kiss. My heart starts to race and I close my eyes and part my lips, but at the last moment he veers away and kisses my nose, laughing. I open my eyes abruptly and laugh too, but a part of me feels hurt, rejected. It’s more than a week since Marley first kissed me, and that was when he last kissed me too. Aren’t boys – especially boys like Marley – supposed to be mad for all that?
‘Watch him,’ Bex had told me, before that first date. ‘He’s going to push his luck, stands to reason – be strict with him!’
But I haven’t needed to be strict. There has been no lip action at all since the cafe, and I am convinced that means I am a rubbish kisser. I probably am, being so new to it and all, but how am I supposed to improve if he won’t come near me? How am I supposed to know what I’m doing wrong?
Before I have time to worry much more, Jake, Bex and Happi come wandering across the grass and we head inside. The railway carriage looks incredible now. The faded bench sofas are draped in bright blankets found on Saturday’s charity-shop hunt and Dylan’s battered old drum kit sits in pride of place at the end of the room. Marley says he plans to keep it here from now on, that this might actually prevent a lot of family arguments.
Happi sets a tin of traybakes on the kitchen counter while I set the kettle to boil, making hot drinks for anyone who wants them. By the time I’ve handed out the mismatched mugs, everyone is here, setting up, tuning up, admiring the finished space and running through their pieces in a cacophony of music and chat.
‘Are we ready?’ Marley yells above the noise. ‘I hope you all like our new practice space – a big thanks to everyone who’s helped us get it cleaned up, to Jake’s stepdad for all his help, and of course to the amazing Louisa Winter for letting us use this little piece of history. So, I hope you’ve all been practising at home, because we have a lot to get through!’
He nods at Lee who lets rip with his trumpet intro and the rest of us try to remember our cues and crash in and out clumsily until Marley waves his arms and stops us, and we take it from the top again. And again, and again, with directions from Marley and a few tweaks from the rest of us, until ‘Back Then’ is sounding good once more.
It takes a while, but Sasha has clearly been practising because the vocals are really tight now, and we do sound more like a band and less like a rowdy class of Year Sevens messing about with the instruments when the music teacher nips out of the room.
Next, Marley, Dylan, Bex and Sasha run through the library song a few times. This has been put together jigsaw style, with the help of GarageBand links flying back and forth, but although it’s basic it’s sounding strong. Most of us have ideas about what our contributions might be, and two hours in we manage to have both songs sounding good. Marley calls another all-band practice for Wednesday.
‘We have to step it up,’ he says. ‘This festival for the libraries is a real game changer. We’ve got the chance to support one of the best-loved stars of the sixties – Ked Wilder is a music industry giant. He knows everyone there is to know in the business, and if he likes the Lost & Found – well, I don’t need to tell you what that means. It could be our ticket to fame and fortune!’
Bex pulls a face. ‘This whole festival is a marketing opportunity for you, am I right? I mean, I care about the band, obviously, but this festival is all about saving the libraries – that’s what matters!’
‘Definitely,’ Marley agrees, staring Bex down with his trademark blue-eyed charm. ‘And we can do that better if we’re really well practised and our songs are the best they can be. So, I need to know if everyone’s on board here. We’ll have all-band practices on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and in between there’ll be smaller, more focused meet-ups so we can work on whatever needs the most attention. If anyone thinks they’ll struggle to do all this, tell me now – I’d rather know. I want everyone at practices; everyone – unless you’ve broken both legs or you’re dying of some contagious tropical disease, be here, and be here on time. The more we put in, the more we get out – the stakes are high, for the libraries and for us as a band. Understood?’
There’s a general murmur of agreement. Nobody says they can’t manage the timetable, though not everyone looks overjoyed about it.
‘What about you, Soumia?’ Bex checks. ‘You’re in Year Eleven – haven’t you got GCSEs at the moment? Are you sure you can fit in three practices a week alongside the revison?
Are your parents going to be OK with it?’
Soumia shrugs. ‘I’ll make it work,’ she says. ‘I won’t let you down.’
I frown. The idea of the Lost & Found was supposed to be a place to go to connect with others, not just one more chore in an already stressful teenage life.
‘Be careful, Marley,’ I tell him as I wash the hot chocolate mugs afterwards. ‘I know how much you love this band, but don’t push people too far – not everyone can be as committed as you are.’
‘Why not?’ he asks, genuinely puzzled. ‘This is our big chance, don’t you see? We’ve got an amazing sound and we’re writing our own songs. And we’re young – still at school – which gives us a unique selling point once the press get hold of it. If the world could just see what we’re capable of, we’d go right to the top! You have to have vision. That’s what Ked Wilder says in his book …’
‘I knew I would live to regret getting you a library card,’ I tease.
‘You don’t mean that,’ he says, switching off the lights and locking the door as we make our way down the steps. ‘C’mon, I’ll walk you home. I’m only pushing them because I care – you know that, don’t you? We’ve got something special, Lexie. You know it, I know it – we’d be crazy not to run with it!’
Something special.
I sigh because I know without a doubt that Marley isn’t talking about me and him. He’s talking about the Lost & Found.
We’re in the middle of Wednesday’s practice, a particularly rowdy one where we’re struggling to agree on how to arrange the harmonies for ‘Going Places’, when there’s a sharp knock on the window. Louisa Winter appears in the doorway, striking as always in a paint-stained pinafore dress and a green silk bandana tied round her hair. The trademark paintbrushes are speared through her auburn waves, of course.
‘Were we too noisy?’ I say anxiously. ‘I’m so sorry if the sound carried. We’re working on a new song and it’s still a bit chaotic …’
‘The music is glorious,’ she declares. ‘But not loud enough to be heard up at the house. No, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’ve just had a telephone call from your Miss Walker. Exciting news! The local TV news want to do a feature on the libraries, and they want to talk to me – and you! Reclusive lady artist and up-and-coming teen pop band … how about that?’
Marley jumps to attention. ‘The TV?’ he checks. ‘Really? How soon? Because we’d planned to keep our set list for the festival under wraps for just a little while longer.’
Under wraps? This is Marley-speak for ‘we only have three songs, we’re seriously rough around the edges and I don’t think we’re ready for world domination until next week at the earliest’.
‘They’ll film it on Saturday to broadcast Tuesday,’ Louisa is saying. ‘I don’t think they need a whole song – just a clip of a few of you playing in the library perhaps? And they want to talk to you, especially you, Lexie, and Marley – you spoke very well on the radio last weekend, it seems. Miss Walker is keen for Bex to be there, and then whoever else you want to bring along – possibly not the whole band. There are rather a lot of you! Miss Walker said six would be plenty …’
‘Didn’t I say we’d be famous?’ Marley crows. ‘I knew it! Didn’t I tell you?’
Miss Winter just laughs. ‘Fame is somewhat overrated,’ she tells us. ‘But it’s not always easy to convince the young of that fact, especially these days. We’re all a bit obsessed, it seems. Everybody can be famous for fifteen minutes, as Andy used to say. He had some very strange ideas on a lot of things, but with that one I have to admit he was spot on …’
‘Who’s Andy?’ I whisper to Bex.
‘Andy Warhol,’ she whispers back. ‘Super-famous pop artist. Bit of a weirdo. Friend of Miss Winter, clearly …’
‘So the TV crew will be at Bridge Street Library at five o’clock on Saturday,’ Louisa Winter tells us. ‘Be there on time, and bring your instruments in case they do want an action shot of some kind. Oh, and I love what you’ve done with the place. Groovy, as we used to say back in the day! See you Saturday!’
Louisa Winter exits as dramatically as she arrived, leaving us in stunned silence. Thanks to the library campaign, we’ve already been on the radio and now a TV appearance is looming. This is great for the band, obviously. But, for me, perhaps it could be life-changing. Not everybody listens to the radio … but the TV? That’s still pretty popular, right?
Anybody could be watching.
Even my mum. She might switch on the telly and catch a glimpse of the girl she left behind more than three years ago; she’d drop everything, of course, and call the TV station to track me down, and we’d be back together again. There are just those old niggles: why she’d need to spot me on TV in the first place, why she hasn’t been to the police or social services trying to track me down and why she didn’t come back in the first place. Amnesia, perhaps? If she’s lost her memory, could a TV appearance trigger its return? I don’t know.
‘Lexie? You’re crying,’ Bex whispers, and I wipe away tears with my sleeve because I do not want to fall apart here, or now, or ever.
‘One more time!’ Marley calls out, oblivious to my meltdown, and the Lost & Found crash into action again.
22
Something Special
‘Mum?’ I reach up to tug at the duvet, trying to wake her, but she just grunts and turns over, pulling the pillow over her head.
‘Mum, wake up, please!’ I say. ‘I’m hungry, and there’s nothing in the biscuit tin, and I’ve missed school again. I might be in trouble … we had tests today!’
Silence. The curtains are pulled shut against the sunshine and the room smells stale, stifling. Mum has been in bed for three days now. If I try to snuggle in with her, she pushes me away, and in the night I can hear her crying. She hasn’t been taking her tablets.
‘Mum?’ I whimper.
She struggles into a sitting position. ‘Get out of here, Lexie!’ she growls. ‘Give me some peace for once, please!’
I wake up crying, my eyes gritty with tears.
The nightmares are back.
On Tuesday at six o’clock, Bex and I are squashed on the sofa waiting for our small-screen debut; Mandy has her feet up on the coffee table, Jon is in the kitchen making popcorn and Mary Shelley is sitting on my knee, nibbling apple slices and blinking at the TV. Just to add to the fun, my mobile is bleeping every few seconds with messages from the rest of the Lost & Found guys.
Here we go! Happi texts. I hope Mum and Dad like the interview!
OMG! Sasha texts. They just mentioned us in the intro! I wonder what time our segment will be on?
Wish you were here, Marley texts. The suspense is killing me. I hope they cut that bit where they tried to talk to Sami and he just ignored them because he can’t speak much English yet. Or maybe he’s just rude, who knows? And the bit where you said we were all misfits. Not cool, Lexie, not cool.
Hurt, I stuff my mobile down the side of the sofa.
‘What’s up?’ Bex asks. ‘Trouble in paradise? Mr Wonderful being an idiot again?’
‘Of course not,’ I lie. ‘I just don’t want to be interrupted, that’s all. This waiting is making me nervous! I wish I hadn’t said that thing about us all being misfits …’
‘Why?’ Bex says. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’
‘I know, but what if it offends someone? Like Happi’s parents, or Sami’s aunt and uncle, or Romy’s mum, or … well, anybody!’
‘You didn’t say it in a nasty way,’ Bex says.
‘You’ll be brilliant,’ Mandy adds firmly. ‘Stop worrying.’
I do worry, though. We are a long way from brilliant. We’ve notched up another two practices, and the three songs are sounding strong – but they’re still just three songs, and that’s not enough for a festival set. Marley has stuck a calendar up inside the railway carriage and is crossing off the days until we play. When he’s stressed, he gets snarky and gets on everyone’s nerves.
‘Popcorn coming u
p!’ Jon calls through from the kitchen. ‘D’you want butter and salt or a drizzle of honey?’
‘Honey,’ Bex calls back. ‘Always!’
Jon passes the hot, sweet popcorn around. My mobile buzzes endlessly from underneath the cushions, and I ignore it, stroking Mary Shelley. And then, finally, the presenters start talking about the library closures, and the cameras cut away from the studio to Bridge Street Library.
Almost two hours of planning and filming has been cut down to just four minutes, but they are four awesome minutes all the same.
The film opens with a shot of the Lost & Found playing. We were told to bring just half the band, and there were a few disagreements over the line-up. Soumia pulled out at the last minute because her parents didn’t want her to be on the telly, so Marley dragged in Sami instead. The silent, sad-eyed refugee kid has cheekbones like razor blades, the longest lashes I’ve ever seen on a boy and the kind of messy, wavy hair you want to run your fingers through.
In theory, obviously. Not in practice.
Anyway.
Marley said he was trying to get a balance of sound, but I noticed that he also picked the best-looking kids in the band to accompany us. Romy, shy and overweight, and George, with his glasses and acne-pitted skin, didn’t make the shortlist.
It ended up being Marley, me, Bex, Sasha, Sami and Happi, with Jake lurking in the background as runner/manager/photographer.
The camera crew arranged us cleverly, sitting on tables, standing against bookshelves, Sasha sitting on a pile of books and peeking over a copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone to sing the chorus from ‘Back Then’.
It looks stunning. The camera layers in a hazy shot of Marley leaning in towards me as I do tambourine and backing vocals, adding an improvised harmony of his own. As that shot fades, we see Sami playing mournful flute on the book stacks behind Sasha, then a shot of Bex strumming bass guitar and Happi playing violin while sitting precariously on a half-height shelf.
Love from Lexie Page 10
