Chapter 1.
Little girl you got me staring odd,
Or was that just a telescopic camera nod?
He’d been watching her for a while. It was something he enjoyed, people watching. Just standing or sitting somewhere out of the way, somewhere people wouldn’t notice him, where he could blend into the background. It wasn’t something that was easy for him to do, obviously. You can’t really blend into the background if you’re in a band, as much as he’d like to half the time.
As grateful as he was for all the fame, fortune and getting to do what he loved whilst making a living at the same time, Pete couldn’t help but think how different his life would be if they’d never had their big break, never sold albums, never toured America. What would he be doing now? Probably sitting around at his parent’s place, writing songs that were never going to become anything, or maybe he’d have a job - some pointless, menial chore that he’d never be happy doing and would never enjoy.
Pete fixed his attention back on her. She’d changed position, he noticed, now her legs were crossed beneath her, guitar resting in her lap. What was her story? Why was she spending her afternoon sitting on the ground, strumming away at a beat-up guitar, singing the typical crowd-pleasing songs all buskers seemed to sing – Oasis, The Beatles, maybe a bit of Radiohead, sometimes Nirvana. Maybe she was a drug addict living on the streets, performing to be able to score her next batch of heroin? But no, he discarded that idea almost immediately. Her hair was too shiny and clean and her jeans, although ripped, weren’t dirty enough for her to have been living on the streets. Maybe she had a child, and couldn’t afford to pay for it with just her normal day job, or maybe she was even a spy or a detective or something just as exciting.
His mind was wandering once again. He watched as a distracted mother with two young kids, a girl and a boy, stopped in front of her. The kids seemed enthralled by the girl, their eyes wide as they listened to her voice. She noticed they were in front of her, and smiled at them. Pete was too far away to hear exactly what the girl said to the children, but couldn’t resist a smile appear on his face as she began to sing the familiar lyrics to Do-Re-Mi from that musical The Sound of Music. No one would ever put Pete down for a musical kind of guy, but there he was, humming along with the words and tapping his feet. His smile widened into a grin as the kids looked at each other excitedly at hearing the change of song, and he thought he could hear the shriller tones of the young girl joining in.
The family moved off, dropping a few coins into the open guitar case on the floor. She smiled her thanks and went straight into another song. Pete glanced at the watch on his wrist. He should probably be getting back home now; his friends would be waiting for him to order take-out for dinner. He glanced once more at the girl, and immediately decided to stay a little longer. She’d piqued his curiosity, this red-headed girl. How long would she play? When would she go home – if she even had someplace to call home? Before dark? Where? Alone? With someone else? Was someone waiting for her?
And then his head snapped up. “Joke me something awful, just like kisses on the necks of best-friends, we’re the kids who feel like dead ends.” His gaze focused on the girl again. She was singing one of his songs. One of the songs he’d spent time writing, during one of those nights he’d been lying wide awake for hours on end, wishing with every part of his body for sleep, but never quite reaching it. He always said he had his best ideas at ridiculous-o’clock in the morning, after a night of tossing and turning and fitful bouts of sleep. “And the record won’t stop skipping, and the lies just won’t stop slipping.” That line always struck a chord with Pete – it was a personal thing. All his songs and lyrics and poetry and whatever other crap he decided to scribble down, be it in a blog entry or on a napkin in a diner, were personal. They were his thoughts, just his, straight from his mind.
