by Oli White
As I swung open the gate, a soft, calm voice spoke from behind me.
“Jack! Hey, Jack! Why don’t you come back in? The pizza’s arrived and as usual I’ve ordered far too much.”
I turned around to face Austin’s smiley mum, Tina.
“Yeah, I’m not sure I want to,” I said.
“Oh, come on, I’ve got my best china out,” she laughed. “Look, Austin just filled me in on what happened. I know he can be a bit of a dozy sod at times, but he’s all right really.”
“Is he?”
“Well I know I’m biased, being his mother,” she said, “but why don’t you at least come in and give him a chance?”
I thought for a moment, then took a few deep breaths and followed Tina inside. I know, I’m a soft touch, but what would you have done? If I’d walked away then, where would I have been? I was over being a loner, you know? I was over being lonely.
As we reached the kitchen, where everyone was gathered, Austin stood up.
“Jack, look, what it is, right—”
I put my hand up and shook my head.
“Can we just forget it for now, Austin? It’s cool, honestly, mate. Let’s just leave it for the time being.”
“All you need to know is that we think you’re a really good bloke and we’d like you as a mate whatever,” Ava said.
“Good enough for me,” I answered.
It’s funny, in the short trip from the front door to the kitchen, I’d come to the conclusion that I didn’t really want any explanations or even to talk about it that night. I just needed to digest the situation for a while and think about it all later. At that moment it was all about pepperoni pizza, which was bloody delicious, as it goes.
Austin’s kitchen was vast and white and there was a flat-screen TV on the wall opposite the table, which was also enormous. As we all grabbed a second slice of Papa John’s finest, Austin flicked through the music channels, landing on a video featuring a girl singer backed by two guys—a keyboard player and a guitarist.
Ava jumped out of her seat.
“Oh, I love this band! Turn it up, Austin,” she said, spraying bits of pepperoni all over the table. “They’re called The Gloves—they’re a bit wacky but so good. Have you seen them?”
None of us had, but I thought they had a pretty good sound: electronic beats with funky, scratchy guitars, and the singer had a voice like nothing I’d ever heard.
“They’re American,” Ava said. “Kind of old-school punky disco but with a contemporary edge. The girl’s called Wren. Isn’t that an amazing name, Wren?”
Sai laughed, waving his pizza at her.
“You’re obsessed with her, and I’ve never even heard of them.”
“I am not obsessed, I’m just interested in great music that isn’t forced down our throats via a TV talent show,” Ava said.
“Sad fangirl,” Austin said, laughing and running a greasy hand down her face.
“There’s nothing sad about it,” Ava said, ducking his hand. “She’s a cool young woman who doesn’t feel like she has to conform to that whole Taylor Swift pretty-girl vibe.”
“Oh here we go,” Sai said, rolling his eyes. “Well I like Taylor Swift.”
“Me too,” Ava said. “But some girls are not into that sort of music and don’t want to be. And I totally get where Wren is coming from with the whole understated-look thing. I love her style. Anyway, shut up, I’m listening.”
I have to say, even after everything that had happened that evening, I was still quite intrigued by the dynamic within this group of misfits. They all seemed very smart, had a sense of humor, and took the piss out of one another mercilessly, but there was clearly a lot of love and respect between them as well, which appealed to me. I wondered if they’d been drawn to one another because none of them gelled with any of the other cliques in the school. All that week, during lessons and in the common room, I’d been hearing kids planning the stuff they were going to be doing at the weekend, whether it was hanging out at a skate park or the shopping mall or going to one of the three or four parties or get-togethers I’d heard talk of. Maybe Austin, Sai and Ava were the kids who never got invited to parties; maybe that was why they found themselves hanging out. It dawned on me that I’d been one of those kids for most of my life, I just hadn’t been lucky enough to find others of the same species . . . until now.
Ava suddenly grabbed the remote and cranked up the volume.
“Oh listen to this! The interview section of this show is terminally lame.”
I tore off a large slice of pizza and looked up at the screen. The band were now sitting on chairs that looked like mini-thrones in a posh hotel lobby. The surroundings were properly fancy but the band members, with their torn jeans, vintage tees and air of understated cool, looked ridiculously out of place amongst the oil paintings and swirly antique furniture surrounding them. The girl-and-guy duo who were doing the interviewing looked like they’d dressed especially to appeal to the band, not to mention their teenage viewers, but you sort of got the feeling that they weren’t wearing their real clothes and that they were maybe a little bit too old for the kind of banter and street slang they were chatting. Mind you, their masks slipped quite tragically with some of the questions they asked the three members of The Gloves, who by this point looked like they were about ready for a suicide pact.
“So do you have a glam-squad of make-up artists, hairdressers and stylists when you’re on tour?” the female host asked the singer.
Wren was wearing ripped leggings with more rip than legging and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. Her bleached hair with black roots was dragged back in a scruffy ponytail, and I’m no expert, but as far as I could tell she wasn’t wearing any make-up at all. In fact, she didn’t look like she even had the email address of a stylist, let alone had ever employed one.
“What do you think?” she answered, looking at the interviewer like she’d escaped from a high-security institution.
The male interviewer followed this up with equally rubbish questions to the guys in the band.
“So, fellas, what’s your routine when you work in the studio? Do you start nice and early or are you night owls? What’s the first thing you do when you get in there?”
“Crack open a beer,” one of the guys answered.
The interviewing duo wriggled in their chairs uncomfortably and we all rolled about laughing, the awkwardness of earlier evaporating fast.
“You are so right, Ava, this is the worst,” I said.
“Isn’t it? It’s meant to be aimed at us, this show. Youth!”
“Yeah, they don’t look as if they’re having much fun, the poor suckers,” Austin said.
I watched, fascinated, as questions, texts and tweets from the show’s viewers shot across the bottom of the TV screen.
The messages were all totally ignored by the presenters, and it was at that very moment, as I was ripping into a lump of garlic bread, that the idea happened. That tiny acorn that was destined to get bigger and bigger until it exploded and took me to where I am now. Of course! Why not? It was bloody perfect!
THE IDEA
So what was my brilliant idea? I hear you ask. Well, it was all pretty simple really, and after studying a few more music shows with dead-awkward interviews and a couple of TV chat shows where the hosts literally fell over themselves to be as sickly and likable as possible to all their celebrity guests, I was sure I was on to something. I mean, who wants to hear their favorite band answering the same boring questions over and over again in every music mag and on every website and TV music show? Those questions every interviewer is expected to ask and all the talent is bound to answer in the same way, because they’ve been primed by a press agent or manager. I’d seen it a hundred times and now I wanted something different. OK, so I wasn’t sure exactly what that was yet, but it would certainly include more involvement from the people actually buying or streaming the music—the fans.
It was the same with concert and record reviews and blogs. Sure,
they had their place, but wouldn’t it be great to hear reviews and comments from people who’d just walked out the door of a gig, rather than a journalist who went to the show because she was given free tickets but knew she wasn’t going to like it before she even went? And yeah, some of the entertainment channels were OK if all you were interested in was true-or-false dating rumors or the latest Kardashian family feud.
When I thought about that horribly bad interview with The Gloves, I realized that it was all those ticker-tape comments across the bottom of the screen that we somehow needed to focus on. The names without faces who wanted to know stuff and ask stuff. Was it a channel? Was it a website? I wasn’t sure yet. And yes, I know what you’re thinking. How were a bunch of teenagers from Hertfordshire going to get access to celebrities, bands and sports personalities? Good question. Well, we’d have to start small, of course: local bands doing shows in the area, and some of the older kids at our school who were training with local teams—that would be a good start, wouldn’t it? Then, once we were up and running, I could concentrate on how we might land some bigger and better scoops. At that stage, however, I had no fricking idea whatsoever.
Anyway, I didn’t say a word about my brilliant scheme that night at Austin’s or over the weekend. I needed to let it take shape and mature in my own head before I put it into words, and besides, I had to decide whether Austin, Sai and Ava were worthy of my input, especially after what had happened. I guess I kind of forgave them pretty quickly because I knew there was no malice in what they’d done and, at the end of the day, they couldn’t have known how much havoc the GODLYM0DZ tag had brought down on me back at my old school. One day I would tell them, but for now it was still too raw. So when I wandered in through the school gates the following Monday—still half asleep—I made the decision that I was going to keep the idea to myself for a while. Well, a few hours at least.
At the sound of the first period bell, two hundred students swarmed into the corridors like ants, talking over one another, shouting at their friends and slamming doors as they disappeared into their lessons. Now you won’t be surprised to hear this, but the sight of Ella Foster in the media production class, not dead from mild tonsillitis and looking more radiant than ever, very much lifted my spirits on that gray Monday morning. She was wearing a floaty white summer dress that stopped just above her knees, with a cut-off denim jacket, plus a tiny silver nose ring, which looked really amazing on her. When she beckoned me over, patting the seat next to her and inviting me to sit down, there was a moment when I thought my head might just explode. You see, up till then I hadn’t exactly been very confident where girls were concerned. To tell the truth I’d never really given myself the chance, and I certainly never gave anyone else the opportunity to get close. In the not-too-distant past when a girl started a conversation with me, my default reaction was to play it cool and stand-offish—probably a little too stand-offish if I’m honest, as most of them assumed I wasn’t interested. Of course I was bloody interested; what teenager isn’t?
So I’d decided it was going to be different this time. The new me was still going to be cool, of course, but I was ditching the stand-offish stuff. That part had to go, you know?
“So what’s up, Jack Penman?” Ella said as I sat down, throwing my textbook on the table.
“Not much. Are you better now?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “Ready to get started on this project we’re doing together—have you had any amazing ideas?”
The truth of the matter was that I’d been so chuffed at the prospect of having Ella as a study partner that I hadn’t paid attention to the detail of the assignment. Sure, I’d glanced at it once, but it hadn’t really sunk in.
“Er . . . nothing mind-blowing,” I said.
I quickly fumbled in my folder for the slip of paper Mr. Allen had given us the previous Monday, speed-reading it so I wouldn’t look too much of an idiot when Ella started spurting genius ideas. The crux of it was pretty simple: to devise, film and edit a video that we felt had something to say as well as being dynamic and well executed. There was no real restriction on topic, style or content; it just needed to be informative in some way.
“So what do you think?” I said. “You’ve been in this class longer than me, you know what Mr. Allen’s looking for.”
“It’s funny,” she said. “I worked on a project with similar guidelines when I was living in Hong Kong . . .”
“You lived in Hong Kong?”
“Yeah, my dad was there with his business for ages so we all went. I went to the American international school there. My dad’s in international banking, so we’ve been dragged all over the place.”
Well traveled as well as intelligent and beautiful; maybe that was what set her apart from the other girls. Ella Foster was becoming more intriguing by the second.
“Anyway, on this project, a couple of the students interviewed the teachers and lecturers about their take on the kids they taught,” she went on. “It was, like, their real thoughts on the way the students behaved, good and bad. The students doing the project managed to get under the teachers’ skin and drag some home truths out of them, so it was really interesting. It caused a bit of a stir actually, because a couple of the older teachers who didn’t have much to lose really laid it on the line. Some of the stuff they said was pretty full-on.”
“So what happened?”
“I actually think it made a lot of the kids think about the way they behaved and how it affected other people,” she said, “but only for about a week.”
When she laughed, her face lit up and I felt something strange happen in the pit of my stomach.
“So do you think we could do something like that, Jack Penman?” she said, hopefully.
I wasn’t sure that interviewing teachers was totally my bag, and God knows what they might say about some of the kids in this school, but I figured I’d go along with it if Ella thought we could make a go of it. At least it would be something that none of the other kids in class would think of.
“Look, if we can come up with some questions, I can handle the interviews; I’m happy being on camera,” she said. “But we only have a couple of weeks to finish it, so we’ll have to spend quite a lot of time together, if that’s all right with you.”
She flashed me that brilliant smile again, and I was about to tell her just how all right with me that was when I felt something tap my shoulder from behind. Looking down at my feet, I discovered a screwed-up scrap of paper, and when I turned around to find out where it had come from, I came face to face with Hunter, his eyes burning into me with some kind of warning look.
What the hell was this guy’s problem? What was I doing to warrant this unwanted attention? I shook my head dismissively, turning back to Ella, who hadn’t even noticed what was going on.
“You OK?” she said. “You look a bit distracted.”
“Yeah, all good,” I said, deciding it was best to ignore Hunter altogether. “Let’s just get on with planning our project. I’m looking forward to this, Ella Foster.”
After class, I said goodbye to Ella and we parted ways and walked in opposite directions along the corridor. That was when I had my first real one-on-one encounter with Hunter, who stepped out in front of me as I headed toward my next class.
“So, new boy,” he said.
“So . . . what?”
I was trying to sound casual—bold even—trying to stave off the memories of Dim and Dimmer kicking the crap out of me on the bus home that afternoon. It wasn’t easy. There was something slightly disturbing about this bloke. Even when he was smiling, you got the feeling it might be because he’d just pulled the wings off a moth. Yet for some strange reason he seemed to be quite a popular student within the school. I thought back to what Austin had said about him being loaded, and figured that must be the reason.
“Can I help you?” I said.
“Maybe,” he said tauntingly.
He was that weird, dangerous mix of what some people
might call good-looking but with a touch of evil thrown in. Not to be trusted, you know?
“So what have you heard people saying about me, new boy?” he said. “Anything much?”
“Some stuff,” I said. “I really haven’t taken much notice.”
I went to sidestep him and move on, but the douchebag anticipated my move and mirrored it, so we were face to face again.
“And do they say bad stuff or good stuff?” Hunter said. He looked amused. “It’s all right; I’m not going to hit you or anything.”
I shrugged like I didn’t care either way, but I felt relief surge through my body—as the old saying goes, I’m a lover not a fighter. All the same, I was ready for him if he did come at me. I may not be violent by nature, but I certainly wasn’t going to cower away from any more dumb thugs either.
“What about Ella? What does she say about me?”
The shock of hearing Hunter even speak her name made me go slightly cold. Why did he care what Ella said about him? Were they friends? Did he have some sort of crush on her? Was that what this was all about?
“She hasn’t mentioned you, funnily enough,” I said. “Now if you don’t mind, I don’t want to be late for my graphics tutorial.”
He grinned at me, and for a moment I thought about those poor little moths without wings.
“I haven’t made up my mind about you yet,” he said, “but I’ll be keeping my eye on you, new boy. Jog on.”
He stepped aside and I moved forward along the corridor. Do me a favor, “keeping my eye on you”? Who did he think he was, one of the Kray twins? I reminded myself of Austin’s words of warning to me on my first day at St. Joe’s: that Hunter was one to watch out for, one to avoid.
