I was setting myself up in the rehearsal room during Chapel period, the muffled sound of hymns rising from the auditorium below, when Carter poked his head around the door.
‘I thought you might be here,’ he said. ‘I was wondering where you sneak off to every day.’
‘I figured I need all the practice I can get.’ I didn’t need to tell him that the Regattle was only five days away. Whenever I thought about it, my breath came up short.
‘I have a favour to ask,’ he said, loosening his school tie and leaning against the piano. ‘I was wondering if you might help me with some of the riffs.’ His voice wavered a little. I was surprised – the rest of us usually treated his lack of musical proficiency as if he had shaving cream on his chin and we thought it would be impolite to point it out.
‘No-one else needs to know,’ he said, and he sounded almost helpless. ‘You’re so good,’ he added.
‘Hey, I’m only good because I’ve been having lessons since I was eight,’ I said. ‘And I’ve spent the last three years fixated on getting into the academy.’
He smiled. ‘And is it everything you thought it would be?’
I returned the smile. ‘Well, the extra-curricular activities are great.’
We drilled the solos, stopping every few bars. In between the songs, he talked about his dad, who had left his mum two years before, around the same time my mum had walked out for good. He had an older sister who was studying Medicine at university, following in his mother’s footsteps, and he dearly wanted to follow in his father’s – although his passion was rock music over jazz.
But our newfound friendship didn’t follow us into our rehearsal that night: he was just as focused as he’d always been. And while we were all frustrated that our songwriting attempts were failing, Carter took it the worst.
‘Sodding awful,’ he said, tossing my notebook back into my lap. We’d been trying to find some lyrics to go with an underwritten riff Sam had come up with and, idiotically, I’d let Carter flick through my notes. ‘Not a single decent line.’
‘I don’t see you coming out with anything,’ I said.
‘I’m not the one who’s been playing guitar since they were eight. You’re the one with all the experience.’
His words went right through me. I’d missed calling Ellie the last few nights because I’d been so knackered after rehearsals, and today I’d almost fallen asleep in my Classical Composition class. I wanted to remind him that I hadn’t spent my usual Chapel time today on songwriting because I had been busy teaching him how to play guitar, but I bit it back.
‘I told you, man, if we were going to have a bird we should’ve given it to Verity,’ said Richie from his beanbag throne.
‘Shut up, Richie,’ said Sam. ‘You were outvoted on that one.’
My cheeks were hot. We’d never discussed the audition.
Carter turned to me. ‘Why don’t we just use the songs you’ve already written? The ones you were playing when I first met you.’
I hadn’t even shared those songs with Ellie – I hadn’t made it through one for long enough without crying. ‘Those are private. And aren’t we supposed to be writing together?’
Behind the drums, Sam was flicking his head between us like we were a tennis match, his sticks on top of the snare.
‘You wanted to be the frontman, you should act like one.’ Carter’s eyes darkened. ‘That Supernova award you want so much isn’t going to happen on its own, you know.’ He marched out the door, pulling his cigarettes from his back pocket.
Richie rolled his eyes. ‘Just when it was getting interesting,’ he said.
My tears were just below the surface. I thought of the knowing glances he cast me at breakfast; the way his gaze followed me when I sang, like he was trying to figure me out. We’d shared a real buzz as we’d unknotted the songs together in Chapel period today, too. Had I really been stupid enough to think it meant we were becoming friends?
I flipped the notebook open to reveal pages and pages of my sodding awful lyrics. One couplet leapt up at me:
You have always been Mr Cool
And I am an extraordinary fool
God, how embarrassing. Did Carter see that? Turned out he was right. I tossed the book onto a milk crate. ‘I didn’t think it would be this hard.’
‘He needs to be more patient.’ Sam looked over at Richie. ‘Maybe we all do.’
Richie threw him a look. ‘We don’t have that much time,’ he reminded us. ‘Regattle is on Saturday.’
Even without that deadline, it wasn’t like I had all the time in the world. I was already nearly halfway through my exchange. ‘Whenever I try to write anything in front of you guys I get self-conscious,’ I admitted. ‘And my lyrics are … sodding awful.’
‘You mustn’t take that personally,’ said Sam. ‘One of Carter’s endearing qualities is his brutal honesty.’
‘He has more than one?’ I said. Even Richie laughed, and I felt like I could breathe again.
‘If you think you can write better by yourself, you should try that,’ said Sam. ‘Maybe we should call it a night and all come back with something to work on tomorrow.’
I started hunting in my coat pocket for the KitKat I’d half-finished yesterday and went over to the door. ‘I’ll go and tell Carter. But I bet he won’t like it.’
The sound of the river rushed up to greet me as I left the boathouse, and I could smell cigarette smoke coming from beneath the willow. Stepping under the drooping branches was like entering a cocoon. The light from the boathouse window was very dim out here and I had to squint to make out Carter’s expression. I held out the chocolate as a peace offering and wondered why I was apologising when he was the one who’d said my lyrics were bad. ‘We’ve got a new plan,’ I said.
He broke off a KitKat finger and took it between his teeth. ‘Oh yes?’
Sarcasm wasn’t much of an improvement, but at least he’d wound down. I twined some leaves through my fingers as I told him Sam’s suggestion.
‘I want us to write together,’ he said. ‘That’s what all the greats do.’
‘Well, it’s not working,’ I said. ‘Would you rather we had the perfect process with no songs to show for it, or that we actually had something to perform on Saturday?’
He took another drag and considered this. In the distance, a boat chugged by, setting off the ducks. ‘Show me your hands,’ he said.
I held them up so he could see the blisters on my fingers, which were white and raw, close to popping. He took hold of one and I flinched.
‘They look bad,’ he said. He traced a circle over my palm.
I suddenly realised what this was and let out an incredulous laugh. ‘Are you tuning me?’
He looked uneasy, but didn’t deny it.
I pulled away from him. ‘Carter. Please. How many girls do you need?’
He blinked. ‘I didn’t mean it like that …’
‘Verity might fall for this stuff, but it doesn’t work on me.’
‘Oh, yeah, you’re not into blokes, are you?’
I laughed again, reminded of Austin’s cruel remark after my audition. ‘Seriously? The only possible reason someone wouldn’t fall at your feet is because they’re not into guys?’ Richie and Sam would be able to hear us, even over the sound of the river, but I didn’t lower my voice. They might as well hear this. ‘I am into guys. It depends on the person. But I’m not into players.’
‘Verity’s not my girlfriend,’ he said.
‘I don’t care if she is,’ I said, my voice hard. ‘I don’t care what you do.’
There was silence as we stared at each other. I was the first to look away. Then he said, with a slightly raised eyebrow, ‘Are you really into guys?’
I rolled my eyes. Kids at this school seemed to be living under an academy-shaped rock, as if the world still adhered to the gender binary, as if the internet had never been invented.
He nudged me. ‘So I am in with a chance, then?’
I was glad our fight was over. ‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘You should try olive oil on the blisters,’ he said, and I had the unsettling thought that I was playing a game without knowing the rules.