Sasha's Secret

by Cathy Cassidy

  I’m high on the buzz of knowing I’ve got the breathing right, but then things slide sideways. Camille is looking at me, frowning, and I know I’ve tuned out again, lost a chunk of time. A sheen of sweat breaks out across my forehead and my face flares with shame.

  ‘Sasha?’ she’s asking. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, no … I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Must have been dreaming!’

  I won’t give in. According to the internet, zone-out moments happen because of stress, anxiety and depression. I can’t accept that … I won’t. I peel off the fluffy jumper and try to carry on, but my confidence has taken a knock and I stumble my way through the next few exercises, awkward and uncertain.

  ‘Just breathe,’ Camille says again. ‘You’re overthinking this. Take it from the top, but this time you and I are going to play an imaginary tennis match while you’re singing. Let’s take the focus away from the song, see if that helps.’

  ‘Tennis?’ I echo, confused.

  ‘Tennis,’ she says. ‘Let’s call it kinetic distraction. Trust me, Sasha.’

  She raises an imaginary tennis racquet, lobs an imaginary tennis ball towards me. Without thinking, I lob it back.

  Camille laughs. ‘Good! OK. Start singing – and breathe! That’s it!’

  Imaginary tennis somehow stops the panic pulling me down, and a few minutes in I’m singing well again, using Camille’s breathing techniques to really project. It’s exhilarating and it’s fun – and then it happens again, the black-hole thing, and Camille is looking at me, concerned.

  I haven’t just dropped the ball – I’ve lost the game, set and match. It takes a special kind of stupid to lose at imaginary tennis.

  ‘Camille … I’m sorry. I was trying my best, honest!’

  ‘I know you were,’ she tells me kindly. ‘We crammed a lot in, and we’ll do more tomorrow, but you’ve done well for a first session, I promise. You have a lovely voice, crystal clear and full of feeling. We just need to work on getting you to relax. You’re holding so much stress, sweetie – why is that?’

  Tears sting my eyes and I blink them away, determined not to show weakness, not now, not here. I won’t give in.

  I’m not even sure how I got into this mess … the stuff with the band seemed to happen so fast. One minute Marley was dragging me along to audition as a uke player, the next he was telling me I should be the lead singer. I went along with it, didn’t take it seriously … I thought it would be a bunch of kids jamming together, having fun, being friends. I thought there’d be no pressure … but of course it was never going to be that way, not with Marley. I sometimes think he has ambition running through his veins the way the rest of us have blood.

  I’ve tried so hard. I walked on to the stage at the big park festival and sang my heart out, even though I felt sick, even though I was shaking all over. Nobody seemed to notice – they told me I was a natural. The crowd went wild, and that didn’t seem the right moment to tell Marley I was struggling.

  I haven’t found the right moment since, and now I seem to be losing random chunks of my life every day, usually at the worst possible time. The sick, anxious feelings just get worse and worse.

  Camille is watching me carefully, thoughtfully. I’d like to trust her, but I don’t quite dare.

  I shrug. ‘I’m nervous, that’s all,’ I say. ‘I didn’t sleep too well … and so much depends on this week, doesn’t it? Maybe I panicked a bit. I thought I was getting it wrong, so I just … stopped.’

  I don’t know if this sounds plausible, but it’s the best I can come up with for now.

  ‘I’m not really at ease on stage,’ I admit, throwing in something honest. ‘Not like the others. I worry. I don’t want to let anyone down!’

  Camille sighs. ‘We all get that frisson of nerves before a performance,’ she says. ‘It’s natural – it gets the adrenaline going and helps us to pull out all the stops to create an amazing show. Most performers will tell you they’re nervous beforehand – but once they step on to that stage, they forget it all and love every moment.’

  ‘Not me,’ I say. ‘Not even close. Does it get any easier?’

  ‘Some people do get bad stage fright,’ she admits. ‘It’s certainly possible to overcome it. I’m sure we can help you, Sasha – leave this with me. I’ll have a think, and we can work on some techniques and tactics tomorrow. We can sort it!’

  I feel a whole lot lighter as I walk away.

  14

  Song

  ‘Are you even listening?’ Matt says.

  I blink and glance up at him, struggling to gather the threads of what I’ve missed and weave them into some kind of smokescreen to camouflage my vanishing.

  We’re sitting in the kitchen at lunch, a couple of plates of toasted cheese sandwiches in front of us along with two half-drunk smoothies. My band mates are scattered about the kitchen, chatting at other tables. I catch the tail end of a conversation about this morning’s studio practice – Lexie and Romy singing one of the voice exercises Camille has given them, Sami sketching, Lee grumbling that he’s a trumpet player and not a lyricist, so why should he have to do the songwriting workshop? No clues there.

  At the back of the kitchen, Mrs B is stacking the dishwasher, wiping down the zinc-topped table. She looks weary – the way I feel.

  ‘Sasha?’ Matt prompts.

  I make a guess based on Matt’s favourite topic of conversation: himself, his hopes, his dreams.

  ‘Of course I’m listening,’ I bluff. ‘I think I just got a bit carried away with the images you were conjuring up, that’s all. You’re going all the way to the top, Matt – I know you are! It’s so exciting!’

  Matt frowns. ‘OK. It’s just – you looked miles away there.’

  I nod and shrug. ‘I was. I was thinking … I mean, you’re so sure of the path you’re treading. It’s like you know exactly where you’re going – you don’t doubt it for a minute. Marley’s like that too, I know, but … I don’t think I am, Matt. When I try to think of the future, it’s just a blur. It scares me!’

  Matt’s frown clears and he’s back on track again, confident and in control.

  ‘Well, maybe you can’t see it, Sasha,’ he tells me. ‘But everyone else can. You have shedloads of star quality! Your voice is stunning and you look … well, you look amazing, you must know that. You’re the face of the band! Just wait, in a few months – or weeks even – your picture’s going to be on the cover of the music magazines and in all the papers!’

  The words are intended to reassure me, make me smile, but of course they don’t. Just the opposite.

  ‘It’s a great story,’ Matt pushes on. ‘Teen band hit the big time! There’s been nothing like this in decades … not these days, when new bands are put together like jigsaws by music managers with an eye for the main chance, or voted to the Christmas number-one spot after endless rounds on a reality TV show. No, the Lost & Found are different. You’re right on the edge of something huge!’

  I bite my lip. ‘But what if that’s not what I want?’ I ask. ‘What if I’m not ready for it? What if I never am?’

  Matt laughs. ‘Nobody ever feels ready for fame and fortune,’ he promises me. ‘Except Marley, maybe. And me! Look, I love that you’re so sweet and so shy, Sasha. Trust me, that just makes you more interesting!’

  He puts out his hand and touches mine, squeezing tightly, giving me the kind of melty-eyed gaze that makes me think I might faint.

  How come that when I’m given everything I thought I wanted I just panic? A shot at fame, attention from a cool boy – it’s all here for the taking, but what I feel is way, way out of my depth. I’m not sweet or shy, not really – just struggling.

  Matt reckons I’m not listening to him, but he doesn’t even try to listen to me. Nobody does. Maybe I really am invisible?

  I smile, and Matt relaxes, grins, releases my hand.

  ‘It’s going to happen,’ he tells me. ‘It really is! And you’re going to love every bit of it, Sasha �
� I’ll make sure of that!’

  Matt Brennan may be cute, but I’m not sure I believe a word he says.

  The songwriting workshop is cool. Ked tells us that it doesn’t matter what we do in the band – we all have something to offer. Inspiration is everywhere, he says, and with an open mind we can all learn to be creative.

  ‘A band that can write their own material has a head start,’ Ked declares. ‘It maximizes your chances of finding a hit song, a song with magic.’

  ‘Lexie is our lyricist,’ Lee complains. ‘I’m no good with words. I’m dyslexic – it’s all about the music for me, not words. I couldn’t write a poem – or whatever it is you want – to save my life!’

  ‘Hey,’ Ked tells him. ‘This isn’t a lesson in grammar, I promise you, and I couldn’t care less about your spelling. All the ideas sheets we produce today will be anonymous, anyway, if you want them to be. They’re starting points, that’s all. I’m not looking for lyrics – just raw ideas. Imagination. Wordplay. The chances are it’ll be Lexie weaving her magic with your ideas – and Marley bringing them to life with tune and melody, but this is your chance to contribute too!’

  ‘Suppose I’ll give it a go then,’ Lee says, looking nervous.

  ‘Good man!’ Ked grins. ‘OK! Take a sheet of paper and write down a word that means something to you, then create a spider chart of words or phrases you associate with that word. No rhymes, no verses, no stress! Don’t take it too seriously – just see what happens.’

  Marley shrugs and takes a marker pen and a blank sheet of paper from the pile. He writes the word STAR in capitals in the centre, then adds lines radiating out to other words – fame, fortune, destiny, pop legend, gold disc, rock icon. It’s not hard to see how his mind works – it’s kind of one-track, but that’s OK. He’s broken the ice, taken the pressure off.

  The rest of us take marker pens and sheets of paper, and find somewhere to sit and think. I choose a quiet corner of the room and sit cross-legged on the stripped pine floorboards, wondering what on earth to write. When I look at the page again, I somehow know that time has slipped sideways again and for just a few moments I was somewhere else, somewhere unreachable.

  Just for a moment, I disappeared.

  I pick up the marker pen and write the word disappear, and I have no problem finding more words and phrases to scatter on the page around it. When I’ve finished, I fold the sheet into quarters so nobody can see what I’ve written, and add it to the growing pile of papers on the table. It feels like an SOS signal, but hopefully in code. Nobody will have a clue what it means.

  I must have missed the next instruction, because my band mates are digging into the piles of glossy magazines, cutting out words and images. I select a couple of fashion mags, a sheaf of plain paper and some glue and scissors, then retreat to my corner. Inspiration doesn’t strike, and I find myself flicking through the beauty pages. Mum buys magazines like these, and both of us love reading about new products and techniques. I have a whole scrapbook at home of my favourite make-up looks.

  I glance up guiltily. Lee is busily cutting and pasting; Bex is rearranging chopped-up sentences, an expression of intense concentration on her face; Sami has gone off-script and started making a collage of images and words combined.

  I go back to the beauty pages, slice out a page of a beautifully made-up model, her skin satin-smooth, her lips like red velvet. What now? There are ads for face masks, for concealer, lipstick, eyeshadow, foundation, liner – and dozens and dozens of features on how to use them to best effect. There are a million different ways to make a girl look better, braver, more beautiful, to hide her flaws, her imperfections, herself.

  How many ways there seem to be for a girl to hide.

  I snip out a few words and phrases from the ads and articles, play around with them and finally glue them on the face of the model. It’s not a song, that’s for sure, and I don’t think it’s a poem.

  It feels almost like a cry for help.

  15

  The X Factor

  Whatever the X factor is, I don’t think I’ve got it. I’d rather crawl under a stone and hide than stand up and perform solo in front of Ked, Camille, my band mates and assorted others, but it seems I have no choice. Ritual humiliation is firmly on the schedule.

  ‘It’s just a bit of fun,’ Ked explains over dinner. ‘A bonding exercise. It’ll help Camille, Mike and me to get to know you better, see what makes you tick. I want each of you to introduce yourselves – tell me a bit about what drives you, what matters to you. Then do a short solo turn that means something to you – Mike can sort you a soundtrack. There’ll be no marking, no competition – I just want to find out more about you as individuals. Give it all you’ve got!’

  All I’ve got is a gut full of fear.

  ‘I don’t have a single idea,’ I whisper to Matt, picking listlessly at a plate of Mrs B’s pasta bake. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Me? Nothing!’ Matt says cheerfully. ‘I’m not in the band, remember! I plan to blend into the background and take notes on the rest of you!’

  ‘Not helpful,’ I growl.

  Matt shrugs. ‘Just pick a song you like, something relevant,’ he suggests. ‘D’you have any favourites? Lady Gaga? Ariana Grande? Rihanna?’

  I almost laugh. Matt’s way off the mark when it comes to my musical taste, but there’s no reason for him to know that I like sixties stuff. I know he’s only trying to help.

  ‘I really like that Skeeter Davis song,’ I say. ‘The one about the end of the world. I could maybe do that?’

  ‘Cheerful,’ Matt quips. ‘I’ve never heard of Skeeter Davis or the song, but then you’re more of a muso than I am. D’you know it well enough to sing?’

  ‘I think so … it’s one of my gran’s favourites. She taught me to sing it. It’s really sad!’

  Matt steals a forkful of my pasta. ‘Do you want to sing a sad song?’ he questions. ‘Some old thing your gran used to sing? Maybe pick something a bit more upbeat, modern?’

  I’m determined, though. I run over to ask Mike for the backing music.

  ‘Nice choice,’ he says. ‘Sucker for a sad song, me! I’ll get that set up, no worries.’

  No worries … if only.

  In the end, the X Factor evening is fun – or it would be, if I wasn’t scheduled to go last. My stomach is in knots as I watch the others perform, but I can’t help smiling at their efforts – I can see this is a fun, informal ice-breaker, but still, I can’t help feeling scared.

  Marley gives himself such a hyped-up intro that the rest of us can’t help laughing, and he chooses to sing an old Carpenters song called ‘Superstar’. Marley is playing it for laughs … but, as always with him, there’s a streak of ruthless determination in what he does and we all know it. His little brother Dylan is next, explaining that he just loves music – it’s all he’s good at, all he cares about. He plays a long drum solo, possibly of his own creation, and it’s brilliant.

  Lexie says that songwriting has given her a way to express some of the difficult stuff inside her. She says she’s a rescuer, but that the Lost & Found has actually rescued her … I can’t help wishing I felt that way. Mike puts on the backing track of ‘Library Song’, because she says that’s the one that started it all. She sings backing vocals and plays tambourine, and it’s fantastic … I think Lexie is actually the heart of the band. And if she’s the heart, Sami has to be the soul – his introduction is a short, simple thank-you to the band for being a lifeline, a lifesaver. He plays a gentle flute solo that makes me want to cry – it’s so beautiful.

  Bex goes next. If I had to pick a role for her within the band it’d be the conscience – Bex challenges Marley on his wilder flights of fancy, tells it like it is. She talks about having a rough start in life – she’s in foster care, so I’m guessing there’s something sad in her past – but claims that nothing will stop her getting to the top in whichever career she picks. ‘Right now, I’d like it to be music,’ she says. ‘Bu
t when I retire from the band, I’ll be a lawyer or an author, maybe …’

  Mike puts on a Green Day backing track for her, and she plays an earth-shaking bass guitar solo.

  Lee and George both reckon they hadn’t found a real purpose in life until they joined the Lost & Found; Lee does a ska-style trumpet mash-up with some fancy dance steps, and George does a jazzy cello solo. When Happi steps up for her turn, she talks about her strict, religious parents and her dream of being a mathematician … as long as she can fit it in with being in the band! She plays a haunting classical violin solo.

  ‘You’ll leave those guys standing,’ Matt says as Happi leaves the stage and Mike starts setting up for the next act. ‘No contest!’

  ‘It’s not about that,’ I argue. ‘It’s just a bit of fun …’

  Matt shakes his head, as if he knows better than me. ‘You should make an effort, maybe lose that jumper, let them see your figure …’

  A little ache of hurt joins the panic in my chest. Nobody else has changed for this – we’re all in jeans and jumpers and hoodies, the mismatched, casual clothes we’ve worn all day. I’d thought I looked good – apparently not.

  ‘It’s not a performance,’ I whisper to Matt.

  ‘Everything’s a performance,’ he replies, and I sigh because he has no idea just how true that is.

  Romy is on stage now. I know how shy she is – I’ve tried to help her with her self-esteem … that’s how we first bonded and became friends. Tonight she seems completely at ease as she tells everyone about her difficult home life and how everything has to revolve around looking after her mum. The band has opened new doors, given her a glimpse of a future she’d almost stopped hoping for. Romy plays her violin fiddle-style and sings an Irish ballad, and I’m so proud of my best friend I could hug her.