by Beth Garrod
I stood staring at him, trying to take it in. Take him in. My amazing, competition-winning, festival-playing boyfriend. I always knew they were awesome, but he never believed me. Which was why, although he’d applied when Mikey had emailed, when he hadn’t heard back, he’d assumed nothing had come of it. “You realize this makes you basically famous? This time next year you’ll probably be playing Wembley.”
He laughed gently but it faded quickly as he looked down at his feet. “Is it weird me telling you? I really thought you’d have got your job too so we could celebrate together?”
“As if?! I’m only mad you didn’t tell me sooner.”
He looked at his watch. “It’s only been seven minutes.”
I laughed. “Exactly! So, full deets, please…”
He grinned, excited to have full permission to talk about it.
“All I know is –” he was talking extra quick. It was incredibly cute “– they just rang, we get five songs, we play the New Bands Tent, the slot is TBC, I kind of can’t believe it’s actually happening and I’m about to go tell the others now. And, well … yeeeeeep.”
I couldn’t be smiling more. But as beyond brilliant as this was, there was something that wasn’t good news. I couldn’t miss this gig for the world. So if I didn’t get a job, I’d have to find another way to sneak in. Could I camouflage myself as a tent?
Adam chewed his lip and looked down, suddenly shy. “I wanted you to be first to know.”
My heart bungeed out of my mouth. Head, please save this moment to the Brain-Cloud so I can download it wherever, whenever for the rest of my life.
“Thanks,” was all I could manage back.
“No probs, but…” He swung his bag back up on to his shoulder. “I really have to go.”
As happy as I was for this impromptu visit, I was painfully aware we didn’t have any other plans to see each other. If he wasn’t going to suggest anything, I was just going to have to brave it.
“Don’t suppose you’re free this weekend?”
He shrugged but didn’t give me an answer. Time to really put myself out there. “I could swing by yours if you’re on revision lockdown?”
This time he did reply. But I wished he hadn’t.
“Sorry, Bells – you know how it is.” He sounded like an Adam robot. “Got to focus on exams … just for a few more weeks…”
He trailed off. I tried to ignore the fact he was about to go to band practice, which he still seemed to have time for, and said “OK, yeah, totally” with as much enthusiasm as I could fake. He ended up leaving with nothing more than an awkward wave between us – a disappointing alternative to the snog-my-face-off-goodbye I wanted.
But I’d taken the hint. I wouldn’t ask any more about meeting up. Or about meeting his parents. He clearly didn’t want me there.
EURGH. Why were feelings so hard to work out?
How was I meant to know what my feelings were feeling?
I loved being Adam’s girlfriend. Him being my boyfriend. And I was beyond proud of him winning that competition.
So why did I feel like there was something he wasn’t telling me?
CHAPTER
FOUR
Life post-school has been everything I’ve ever dreamt of.
If I dreamt of going to Tesco four times, watching five episodes of Escape to the Country (including the Ormskirk episode twice) and learning the names of forty-two more dog breeds. In better news, I did have one day where all three meals were crisps.
I wheeled my chair away from my desk and splatted on to my bed. Thinking was exhausting. My last day at St Mary’s was a week and a half ago now, and as I’d promised myself, I’d been putting everything I had into revising for the remaining exams. I must have the equivalent of a brain six-pack right now. I’d even revised how to revise better. German, English language and history had gone better than geography. But I still had biology, chemistry and maths looming. Aka the big ones. I had to get As.
“Knock knock!” Mum opened the door, stopping in her tracks as she took in the scene. “Woooweee. It looks like a bomb site in here…” She scanned the mass of paper and highlighters all over the floor. “If that bomb had hit a stationery factory. You OK, darling daughter?”
I grunted, which seemed to sum up my life pretty accurately.
“Here…” She plonked a steaming mug on My bedside table. “This should help.”
“Mmm, hot chocolate, thanks, Mum.”
She puffed up, all proud. “Even better than that! Nettle, garlic and fermented bean.” FACE, DO NOT REACT AT MUM’S DUBIOUS DEFINITION OF “BETTER”. “Great to detox and get all those brain chemicals flowing.”
Not sure brain chemicals was the correct technical term, but I appreciated the effort.
“Thanks.” I took a sip. SPLEE. The only brain chemicals it induced were the ones telling me to “never ever drink this again”. It tasted of herby mould puddle?! I remained mute until I could risk opening my mouth again. “Don’t suppose the post has come?”
Mum shook her head. “Not a sausage.”
Oof. We’d expected to hear back from RebelRocks by now, but with no email from them, we’d resorted to checking on the post too. People say no news is good news. But those people obviously forget all the bad news that just comes in late.
I was so glum I accidentally took another sip of tea. My stomach did a clench that was the organ equivalent of a computer error noise.
Mum plonked down next to me.
“Soooooo…” Oh lordy. She had her “I’m going to ask you about something you don’t want to talk about” voice on. I braced. This was so going to be about boys. “What’s the latest with Adam? Things going well?”
The way she stressed “things” alarmed me. I couldn’t give her an inch. “Yes, things are.”
But my vaguery did not satisfy the hunger of the Mum information beast. It was feeding time and it wanted fresh meat.
“Met the parents yet?”
I shook my head. She knew I’d been worried about it.
“Sure it’ll come…” She flicked a bit of her orange nail varnish off, pretending she had nothing more to say. I knew this move – innocence before building up to a big finish. “Have you … said I love you?”
“Mum?!” This warranted a shout. She knew this was NOT acceptable chat. As if I was going to admit to her that we hadn’t – especially when my biggest worry was that Adam never would. She ignored me ignoring her.
“And the physical side?”
This time I spat my unswallowed mouthful back into the cup. “Seriously?!”
She looked at me all innocent. But I wasn’t being sucked in. One of us had to have reasonable parent-daughter limits. Alarming that it had to be me. “Too far, Mother.”
She shrugged, as if I was the one in the wrong. “Well, with all the talk of that festival and Adam now going, I wanted you to know you can always talk to me. No boundaries here.” More’s the pity. Or I wouldn’t have had to endure the show-and-tell she did with Tegan and the 3D results of her “Body Casting at Fifty” class. “A lot can happen in tents… I should know.”
If I didn’t already feel sick from the puddle drink, the knowing look in her eye sealed the deal. “I’ve, er, left you a little something in your top drawer.” Please let her mean a White Chocolate Kit Kat. She smiled and patted my leg. “Condoms.”
Oh, excellent. New top entry for “words I never wanted to hear coming out of my mum’s mouth”. Didn’t she understand that this was literally what the internet was made for? The end of parent-child conversations like this?!
Especially as all Adam and I had ever done was snog. Yet my own mother thought we were doing more than that.
I could never look her in the eye again.
Not to be dramatic, but I was probably going to have to move out.
I deployed emergency tactics: calling her out.
“And what about you, Mother? I heard all that giggling the other day.”
But something weird h
appened. Her face sort of … changed colour. Was she … self-declared condom-pusher, who once rang into GMTV to talk about how she used to make macaroni and cheese using her own breast milk … was she blushing?!
She fiddled with her hair. “Well, you know I’ve been trying to scrape together money for Give A Dog A Cone?” I nodded, not sure how this was relevant. “I guess I thought a bit of something fun might help take the pressure off. Stop some of the worrying.”
I had two options.
Say something supportive about her “fun”.
Or drink more puddle drink even though it might actually kill me.
I gulped the puddle. Lots of puddle. So much puddle.
My mum’s sex life was not something I wanted to think about. Ever. I didn’t even like thinking those two words in the same sentence. Even in the same dictionary was too near.
BING-BONG.
Saved by the bell. Beyond relieved for the interruption, I ran downstairs, Mumbles leaping around my feet like she thought it might be a guest for her. I flung the door open to discover Tegan in her gymnastics gear, fresh from a training session.
I hugged her, the tails on my giant horse slippers swishing as I moved, driving Mumbles wild with excitement.
“Well, you look like a competent adult making me doubt every life choice I ever made.”
“Hardly.” She punched me lightly in the arm. “So, are we off then?”
I mentally scanned what I was wearing. Tracksuit bottoms. Jo’s old When I Grow Up I Want to Be Beyoncé T-shirt. Zero make-up. Hair balanced on head. Potentially some crisp residue in the roots. Could the public see this?!
And then I thought of Mum, waiting on my bed, poised to unleash more excruciating chat.
Yup – the public was ready.
I kicked my slippers off and pulled on my Converse.
“Sozzy for my state. Wasn’t planning on you being early.”
We’d arranged our extended revision break/dog walk/Adam spot for one p.m. Rach couldn’t come as she had been taken to a spa by her mum as another treat for revising so hard.
“And by early you mean…” Tegan glanced up at our hallway clock. It was one p.m. On the dot.
“I clearly mean on time.” I tried to clip on Mumbles’ lead but it was hard because she was bouncing with excitement – so much so that one of her large dribble strands splatted against the hall wall with an actual thud. She gave me a fleeting innocent look before fleeing the scene of the crime – running slap bang into the legs of the postwoman who looked minus impressed.
“Erm.” I ran after Mumbles, lead in hand. “Sorry about that.”
The postwoman shoved the post into my hand without saying a word. Well, not with her mouth. With her face she said, “I sometimes consider whether to sacrifice my own financial security just so I can move me and my family far, far away from you, your saliva-tastic dog, and your mum, who often forgets to wear an adequate amount of clothing when she opens the door.”
As she walked off, I looked at Tegan. “Think I’ve made a real friend there…” But wait. I looked at the pile in my hand. There was an envelope addressed to me. And it had the RebelRocks logo on.
GULP.
This was too big for one person to deal with. Well, if that person was me. Tegan was more than capable, so I passed it to her. Calmly, she ripped it open and started reading, making noises like “Uh-huh”, “Oh, OK”, and “I see”.
“Soooo…” She dropped her shoulders. “It’s … it’s not good news, Bells.”
But it was too late. I was already smiling. From my insides out. Because if I knew one thing, it was when Tegan was lying.
Grinning with her whole face, she grabbed me. “WE’RE GOING!!!!”
“We’re?” I asked nervously. This was just my letter.
She turned it so I could read. “Uh-huh! It has my name as your tent buddy?! We both got picked!!!”
I would have told her how amazing this was if I wasn’t too busy squeaking and jumping round in a circle with her.
My first festival. Our first festival.
It was really happening.
Immediately, we FaceTimed Rach. When we told her our news, she yelled “yes” so hard she cracked the clay mask on her face. We then had one of those conversations where there’s too much to say, and not enough time, so everyone speaks at once with questions that never get answered, yet it still feels productive.
Do we have enough clothes to take?
Are Portaloos really that bad?
Does anyone have a tent?
Is trench foot a real thing?
It was intense. In-tents. I couldn’t wait to tell Adam.
ME: GUESSSSSSSS WHHHHAAAATTTTTT?
He messaged straight back.
AARD: What what what what what what what what?
Along with a GIF of Professor Brian Cox doing a weirdly sassy eyebrow raise.
ME: 1 – that’s AMAZING.
ME: 2…
Pause.
ME: …
More dramatic pause.
ME: WE’RE COMING TO SEE YOU PLAY AT REBELROCKS!!!!!!!
Then:
ME: HASHTAG ALL THE CELEBRATION EMOJIS!!!
And then:
ME:
We both loved a good celebratory carp windsock emoji, but only after I sent it did I notice I’d used a Christmas tree instead of a hands up. I still felt it worked though. But by the time Tegan and I set off for our now majorly delayed walk, all I’d got back was a thumbs up.
“Oi.” Tegan put her arm around me. “I know what that face means. It means you’re thinking too much about something. So…” She pushed her lips together. “Less fretting about what Adam may or may not be thinking, OK?”
“What about thinking about what my mum may or may not be thinking about me and Adam?”
“Banned too. Only thing allowed is more thinking about all the stuff we need to get ready for the festival.”
So, taking her advice, we got right back into plotting RebelRocks. And soon we’d got our priorities in order. Priority one? Deprioritizing revision and getting all three of us together ASAP.
CHAPTER
FIVE
The spa was meant to have made Rach all chilled and Zen, but that evening she literally galloped across the playing field to meet Tegan and me – the entire twenty-second journey yelling something that sounded like “HELLOOOREBBELLLROOCCKKKK-EEERRRSSS.” The over-60s cricket team that were mid-game looked genuinely concerned.
“Good eve, friends!” She dumped her massive bag off her shoulder, breathless. “Or should I say, co-festivalgoers!!” She did a celebratory wiggle, arms in the air. I whooped back.
She sat cross-legged on the grass, opened her bag and unfolded a massive bit of blank paper on to the bench.
“First things first.” Rach passed us each a biro. “Which band’s playing where and when.” She got out her iPad. “My do or die is … The Session.”
As if she needed to remind us.
Tegan opened her phone and made three lists: Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Underneath Sunday she wrote The Session. Yes.
Things I loved:
1)Making lists.
I peered at the long, upside-down grid of band names and panellists on Rach’s screen.
“Mine is anyone who doesn’t start before midday.”
Tegan elbowed me in the ribs, knowing exactly what I was getting at. On further reading about our litter picking, we’d found out when our shifts were. One was a day before it started on Thursday, and the other three were the following days all starting at FIVE A.M., aka five o’clock in the Actual Morning.
“Thing is, with early starts…” Tegan was still trying to convince us both that this was going to be OK. “We can see all the bands.”
“But will it count if we’re having a standing snooze while they’re playing?”
“We will not be doing ANY snoozing, my friends – well, except between the hours of 1 and 4.46 a.m., when we can deploy earplugs to the max.” Rach said it with
a knowing look at Tegan, who sometimes used them when it got too late at a sleepover. Because Rach wasn’t working, she had major guilt over her free ticket, so was insisting on getting up and making us breakfast while we were doing our shifts. It all depended on being able to wangle camping in the same area though.
“Shall I check if any more line-up TBCs have been C’ed?” We nodded, and Rach wedged herself between us on the bench so we could all see as she Googled.
“There are three slots left, right?” I asked even though I knew the answer. “Am crossing everything that Velvet Badger are going to be one of them. Or The Helicans… Ooooh.” A thought hit me. “Maybe they’ll have announced Wet Donald’s time too?!”
But when the search results for “latest RebelRocks announcement” came up, our faces all fell.
Our amazing festival had hit the headlines for all the wrong reasons.
And from her face, Rachel was taking it the worst. Stunned, she clinked the link.
HAVE THE SESSION GONE TOO FAR?
Fancy getting your hands on merch for The Session’s upcoming “It’s Only Words” sell-out tour? All you’ll need is £25 and zero self-respect.
For a band who preach that their fans always come first, their range of clothing has got some people raising their eyebrows. Brian was pictured rolling out of a female friend’s hotel room this morning in what looked like one of their T-shirts, the words:
Never Ask. Never Apologize.
It’s Only Words™
splashed across his chest. Hours later the full range made its debut in their online store, instantly crashing the site. Was that because of demand? Or disbelief?
With two ranges – one for guys and one for girls – take a look and see for yourself…
Rach shook her head, shocked. “The media are always after them … bet it’s not even that bad. Also—” She squinted at the photo of Brian, all scruffy hair and tattoos. “Not the point but he looks fit as.”
I would have agreed if I hadn’t already seen Tegan’s judgy face. But Rach did have a point; gossip columns loved nothing more than speculating which new model Brian had hooked up with – and left heartbroken. Kind of the band’s own fault, when their debut single had broken the internet for highest number of girls in bikinis in one video. They’d said it was “a celebration of empowerment of over 1,200 women”. The internet wasn’t so sure – lots of people reckoned that some of the women could have easily been celebrated while wearing actual clothes. Rach had given them the benefit of the doubt and been on one side. Tegan had been on the other. I’d tried to keep the peace.
