be even more of a loser than Ray. Impossible, I tell myself. Then I think maybe he’ll think I’m a loser! That thought’s much harder to shake.
Bizarrely, the very moment I am paralysed by misery, Holly has been gripped by a renewed sense of purpose, like an anti-authority Girl Guide. Within an hour of stealing Sarah Andrews’ librarian’s pass, she has photocopied a hundred of our flier advertising for band members proclaiming “WANTED FOR GLOBAL TAKEOVER BY THE AMAZING BROKEN BISCUITS: WORLD’S ACEST DRUMMER/BEATBOXER. ALSO, ANY GUITAURIST WITH OWN INSTRIMENT. WORLD DOMINASION GARUNTEED. CALL OR TEXT NOW 07977…”
She proudly unfurls a copy on top of my uneaten lunch in the canteen, seasoning my inedible curry, rice and chips with her atrocious spelling. Holly’s convinced advertising like this will find us some bandmates but I’m too miserable to work out whether I agree.
“Dude, chillax,” Hol says, placing a conciliatory arm around my shoulders, “Operation Awesome is totally the key to Operation Who’s-the-Daddy! Think about it – we get rich, famous and wildly successful, then we get the press to do the hard work for us! Put out an appeal? Or hire a private investigator or something…” she tails off and I rub my eyes, managing a weak smile.
“Sure Hol. Whatever you say.” Even though I’m shattered, I haven’t slept in days. It’s like I’ve exchanged the traditional states of awake and asleep for one, long stretch somewhere in between. At home I say as little as possible while Mum fizzes away like an asprin, chattering about her wedding plans. At night I lie awake, staring at the fake stars on my ceiling.
Mum and Ray have decided on a June wedding. Three days into their engagement, the whole house is already overrun with catalogues, magazines and books called things like Wedding Planning for Dummies. Still in my pyjamas and barely awake, I sit at the kitchen table and plonk my cereal down on the top magazine in the stack before me. Milk sloshes on to the satsuma-tanned face on Celebrity Brides Revealed! I’m not sure I’d be as chuffed if I looked that much like an Oompa-Loompa on The Happiest Day of My Life™. Mum breezes into the room with all the upbeat industriousness of Snow White mid Whistle While You Work.
“Morning, Can!” she trills, unloading the dishwasher with the clatter of a one-man-band. “There’s so much to do! Nineteen weeks is such a short lead-time these days. I’ve got some fabric swatches coming over today and I was thinking maybe I could make the favours? Something crafty and cool?”
What is she on about? This has been Mum’s tactic the whole week. Keep asking questions, don’t wait for any answers and pretend everything is hunky-dory. I stop listening to the actual words and get lost in the music of her voice until I realise she is saying my name repeatedly. “Is it, Can? Candy? Candy! You haven’t forgotten. Have you?”
“Hmm?”
“It’s Glad’s birthday! The party? This afternoon at the Day Centre. You’re playing something?”
“Mmm hmm.” I had totally forgotten but am too tired to even feel bad.
“So you’ve got it sorted, yes? What are you going to play?”
“Debussy.” I think I say it because I’m halfway through a yawn that already sounds like his name.
“Right, then. Have a lovely day. I’ll see you at Glad’s. And so will Ray.”
I smile weakly. “Bye, Mum.”. She pulls on her old fur coat and click-clacks out the door into the weekend. Four inch heels and snow outside. If she’s not careful she’ll be going up the aisle on crutches.
I look at the clock: it’s almost nine. Hol is out of the picture today – her parents make her play in the church band on Saturday and Sunday mornings, so she’ll probably be mid-Kumbaya. I flip through my mental address book of social engagements, fabulous friends and must-dos. Blank. Blank. Blank. Debussy it is. I pad through to the front room and go to the shelf with my sheet music on it, although I could play Glad’s favourite piece in my sleep. It’s an easy choice, Clair de Lune.
I trudge upstairs, back to my room. It’s dark: the curtains are still half-drawn but the pale winter sun can barely make it through the clouds this morning anyway. Thick flurries of snow billow pointlessly towards the ground. It never lies round here – there’s far too much salt in the air. I switch on the lamp on my dressing-table and that’s when I see it. Lying on the bed is a large black oblong decorated by an enormous shining scarlet ribbon. A guitar case. A guitar. Like an idiot I look around, as if somebody is going to leap out of the corner shouting “SURPRISE!” while Party Poppers explode all over the room. I catch Iggy Pop’s eye in a poster and feel sheepish. Cautiously, I step forwards like I’m creeping up on a sleeping bear. There’s a small black envelope tucked neatly under the bow. I tear it open already knowing who it’s from.
Darling Girl,
Here is something from us to help make your dreams come true like ours have, M and R xxx
The heavy bow slides apart smoothly. I spread my fingers out and brush my hand across the word indented into the pitted plastic of the pristine case. Gibson. Reaching down I find four cool metal clasps. They flip up one by one like locks on an enchanted treasure chest. I notice that I seem to have stopped breathing. The lid weighs a ton. I lift it up a fraction, slowly pulling apart the weighty body of the case, forcing myself to breathe in, out, in, out…silently praying, Please let it be beautiful. Please let it be beautiful.
My first glimpse is of the retina-scorching electric-blue fur lining, which is – pretty unnecessarily – also leopard print. It’s so bright it’s practically neon. The room fills with a heady scent – musty wet-dog with an undertone of stale tobacco. I cough. Nestling in the bed of blue fuzz is the shabbiest, oldest, most scraped, scratched and beaten up, ugliest guitar you have ever seen.
Oh crap.
The guitar, or what’s left of it, is an old Gibson SG. Three strings stretch up its warped neck (there should be six) and the figure-of-eight body appears to have been in a war. Most of the glossy cherry-red paint that once covered it long ago has gone. Patches of bare wood stare up at me, bone through wounds. A series of deep gouges run diagonally below the bridge and indecipherable marker-pen scrawl, stickers and peeling glitter glue are everywhere, giving the overall impression of a psychotic five-year-old’s art project. Its elegant curves have been chipped and dented beyond recognition and two of the four volume and tone knobs have been replaced. One with a huge leather-covered button and the other with a badge that may long ago have borne a witty slogan but is now so utterly ruined that only three letters are visible. “G US”. As in “disGUSting”.
Ick.
Gingerly, I reach down and pick it up as you might a run-over cat at the roadside. I’ve been desperate for a guitar forever and now I’ve got one. Only it’s this one. Typical. I place the beast of a thing on my lap and – awkwardly – curl my fingers into one of the chord positions I managed to learn one afternoon on Hol’s dad’s church group guitar. Being very religious, Alan would only teach me hymns. I decide to start with Victory in Jesus. I hit the first chord, an atonal G that sounds like the wail of a depressed cat. Sticking my tongue out in childish concentration, I make a B chord with my left hand and strum with my right.
KAKAKAKAKBBBLLLOOOOWWWBBBAAAABBBOOOOOMMM MMM!!!!
There is a huge explosion – a deafening blast, accompanied by a blinding flash of light that throws me back against the wall. Everything is plunged into bright white
