I couldn’t get out of the dorm door at night without anyone noticing, but I had another idea.
After Lights Out, I waited as long as I could bear it, then crept into the bathroom, clicking the door shut behind me. My puffa jacket was stuffed inside my locker and I pulled it on quickly, then grabbed my guitar from its hiding spot in the towel cupboard and jimmied the window open. I slid the guitar out before me, keeping a hand on it to stop it sliding off the roof, and hauled myself after it. The jacket rose up, fat drops of rain falling on my exposed back, and I snagged my knee on a nail as I tried to get a grip on the wet iron. Clambering across the roof like a spider, I tried not to think about the ten-metre drop. As I yanked open the window to the storeroom on the other side, I finally let out my breath.
I checked over my guitar. My knees were soaked through and there was a hole in my pyjamas where the nail had torn them open, exposing my thermals underneath – wearing jeans to bed would have looked suss. With my guitar on my back, I crept along the corridor, down the stairs and out of the schoolhouse. Under the verandah, the thought crossed my mind that there might be no audition at all; maybe Carter was a teenage serial killer who lured unsuspecting foreign students to his lair with promises of stardom. I texted Ellie to let her know I’d taken her advice, even though she would have been in class at this time of day. Then I stepped onto the deserted lawn and walked down to the riverbank, using my phone as a torch.
There was no answer when I knocked at the boathouse door so I prised it open, groping for the light switch. The room buzzed with fluorescent light, showing neatly stacked rowing sculls along the walls and, at one end, a beanbag, two milk crates, a coffee cup repurposed as an ashtray, and a pile of out-of-date NMEs. I blew on my hands to warm them. If Carter was late, at least I had time to practise.
Outside, some idiot was hooning his speedboat down the river. Henley-On-Thames was a small historic town: there were speed limits on the river, especially at night. I tried to ignore the noise and started playing Led Zeppelin’s ‘Black Dog’ – a pretty standard blues riff, but tricky on an acoustic. My hand cramped through the solo – probably down to nerves and the cold – and I stopped to massage my palm, the muscles bubbling under my skin.
Someone called out, ‘Carter?’ and two boys about my age opened the door, blinking at the light. The guy who’d spoken had smooth, dark brown skin, a wide smile, and was holding a tube amp, which he quickly put down to shake my hand. ‘I should’ve known Carter wasn’t playing Led Zep.’
His fingernails were scrupulously short and clean. Ellie often said you could tell a lot about someone by their hands. ‘Are you guys in the band?’ I asked.
‘I’m Sam,’ he said. ‘Drums. This is Richie. He’s on bass, transportation and general tomfoolery.’
There was nothing about Richie that said ‘tomfoolery’. His hard-nosed face and blond fringe were more Ralph Lauren catalogue than sense of humour. He didn’t shake my hand.
Sam motioned to my guitar. ‘Don’t let us stop you.’
Richie flopped onto the beanbag and lit a cigarette, but I was too self-conscious to start playing again. ‘I’d better save something for the audition,’ I said. ‘What kind of band is it, then?’
‘That will depend a lot on the kind of vocalist we get. We’ve never got further than jamming together at Richie’s place so far. But Carter’s decided he’s gonna be a rock star, so what can you do?’
Richie laughed, causing smoke to come out his nose in a rush.
‘Has it got a name?’
‘Lady Stardust,’ said Sam, watching my reaction closely. ‘It’s one of David Bowie’s more obscure tracks.’
I liked that he specified it was obscure, like he was giving me a gracious reason not to recognise it – even though I did. Trent had started me off on Bowie in my first guitar lessons, before I’d hit puberty or understood the songs. ‘I love Bowie,’ I said.
‘Everyone loves Bowie,’ Sam said. Then he added, like a proper music snob, ‘Especially now he’s dead.’
I plucked out the opening bars of ‘Lady Stardust’ to prove I was a true fan, and he smiled that unguarded smile again just as the door swung open and Carter charged in. He was carrying a sixpack of Carlsberg and being trailed by five boys I recognised from my classes. At the tail end of the line was Verity, Carter’s sort-of ex, shivering in a little black dress, her legs so white they glowed against her mulberry Docs. Ava had obviously lost this round.
Austin, a long-haired guy from my Contemporary Music History class, headed straight over to Richie and bumped fists with him. The other boys stood along the sculls, trying to look casual, while Verity perched on the edge of a milk crate. ‘I didn’t know there was going to be an audience,’ I said.
Carter laughed. ‘They’re not your audience, sweet pea. They’re your competition.’ He nodded towards my guitar. ‘You know how to use that thing?’
To prove I did, I started playing a dirty ‘Voodoo Child’, a song so perfect it was like you’d been born with it in your veins. It never sounded as good on an acoustic, but the boathouse had a nice echo and Jimi Hendrix would always impress bona fide music nerds. Sam took the bait – but Carter’s face was closed.
‘Steady on, Jimi. Wait your turn.’ He turned to the line of guys. ‘Benton, you first.’
For a small guy, Benton had a big voice: quite high-pitched, melodic and lilting, and it suited his audition song – ‘Undercover Martyn’ by Two Door Cinema Club. Austin went next, doing Imagine Dragons. The other three guys did Razorlight, Hippo Campus, and the 1975. None of them played guitar. And despite their haughty, honed presence, they all made the mistake of singing the songs exactly as they had been recorded by the original artists. What was the point of covering a song if you didn’t add your own special touch to it?
My mind whirred through my own options. My favourite audition piece was Hozier’s ‘Take Me To Church’; I always nailed it, and I’d intended to sing it tonight. But the boys had chosen similar indie tracks and I wanted something to stick in Sam’s mind, something to wake Richie up from his boredom and, above all, something to wipe that neutral smirk from Carter. I thought about the kind of song they’d probably all claim they hated, and went for it.
Hey you, standing by the jukebox
Cool kicks, jeans and a white T-shirt
Choose a great song for me to dance to now
You look so fine you make my heart hurt
‘Rock You All Night’ was Perfect Storm’s biggest single, an unapologetic pop song. I’d put it on my audition tape for the academy because it showed off the outer limits of my vocal range and I’d hoped the Addie Marmoset connection might work in my favour. It was about as far from the guitar-driven indie songs the other guys had chosen as you could get.
All eyes on me now as I take to the floor
And the music starts up and it’s gonna be all right
I don’t want to think about the day anymore
All I want to do is rock you through the night
But I wanted to do something different with it, to show I could be versatile. I slowed it down into a heartfelt ballad. Under the harsh lights, with just an acoustic guitar for backup, there was nowhere to hide. I rose up to meet my nerves, let them enfold me, and Carter and Sam and Verity and the boys faded away.
And if you ever want to do it again, baby
If you ever feel like we’ve just come so far
Just turn up my favourite song, yeah
And I will be right wherever you are
I focused on making the words my own. I sang for home, for the way Ellie’s voice on the phone sliced right through me. It became a melancholic song of lost love rather than the upbeat track it usually was.
My fingertips were swollen and my skin crawled with nine sets of eyes as I drew out the last chord. Carter, Sam and Richie hadn’t clapped for any of the other singers, but it still felt weird to finish a song to silence.
‘Thanks,’ said Carter, all business.
I took off my guitar. ‘So when will you choose?’
‘Steady on,’ he said. ‘We haven’t heard everyone yet.’
I looked along the line of boys. We’d all performed. Then Verity clambered to her feet, tossing her blonde curls over her shoulder, and it suddenly made sense: the look-at-me outfit, the steely expression, the feigned confidence. I shuffled aside, sure that the wet hem of my pyjama bottoms was visible below my coat.
Her backing track came through her tinny phone speakers. Muse, ‘Plug In Baby.’ It required the kind of vocal range I wouldn’t even attempt alone in front of my mirror. She bopped a little to the beat. The boys shifted along the wall.
Her voice was effortless, as if all she needed to do was open her mouth and let the true, pure sound out. She scaled every note. When it came to the chorus, her voice filled the whole boathouse. Addie Marmoset couldn’t have done it better.
At the end, Carter clapped three times and I burned with defeat.
‘All right everyone, get back to bed,’ he said. ‘We’ll let you know tomorrow.’
I told Sam it had been nice to meet him and waved at Richie, who might have been asleep with his eyes open for all the attention he paid me. As we filed out, Carter touched Verity’s waist and said, ‘Trust you to choose a song by my favourite band.’
‘That’s an unfair advantage, that is,’ said Austin, his eyes flashing. ‘Not everyone’s knocking boots with the guitarist.’
Verity flinched and a wave of anger crashed over me. I hadn’t exactly warmed to Verity but she had left us all in her wake tonight, fair and square.
‘You can’t claim nepotism here,’ I said. ‘She blew the rest of us away.’
‘You would say that,’ Austin sneered at me. ‘You like girls, don’t you? You’re probably as distracted by those legs as he is.’
I coughed in surprise and my breath steamed in the cold air. There was a sharp silence and then Carter said, ‘Green’s not your colour, Austin,’ and closed the door behind us.
A ball of disappointment settled in my chest as we trudged across the wet lawn. Maybe I’d seemed like a big deal at Maroubra Beach Public School – maybe I’d even convinced myself that I had what it took to make a career out of music – but there hadn’t been anyone as good as Verity there. Addie Marmoset was fifteen when she won the spot in Perfect Storm: I was already a year older and I’d never done anything.
Austin found a key hidden beneath the verandah and let us all into the schoolhouse. Before the boys peeled off to their dorms, Benton gripped my arm. ‘You totally had it before she got up there,’ he said. ‘I just thought you should know that.’
I threw him a watery smile and followed Verity up the stairs. ‘Where did you learn to sing like that?’ I whispered as we reached the dorms.
She tossed her curls back. ‘Oh, babby,’ she scoffed, and I flinched; I’d never heard the word before, but it clearly wasn’t a compliment. ‘It’s not learned,’ she said. ‘You’ve either got it or you don’t.’