Love/Fail

Chapter 3

The closest I came was coming across a busker who was playing an old Beatles hit on his guitar. I'll dance! I could dance in front of the busker, be awful, and have started my fail project with a bang.

But just as I stepped up in my skinny jeans and chunky boots, he finished playing. He looked at me expectantly, and I was so mortified, I dropped five dollars in his case and fled.

It grew late, but I still didn't want to go home. Not that I didn't love my dad, but my plans were so haphazard and I was in such a state of flux, I knew he'd only worry. I needed to accomplish something before I left the city. How hard can it be to fail at something?

Needing distraction, I made my way to my favourite indie theatre and settled in to watch a random Belgium film about pensioners in nursing home thwarting the Nazis. Even old people are accomplishing more than me, I grumbled internally as it finished.

Outside, it was late, past eleven. Time to head home. As I headed for the station, I noticed a lot more foot traffic than usual along Exhibition Street, and a glut of people hanging around outside Her Majesty's Theatre.

Two girls in mini-skirts shoved their way past me, their hems so short, I feared for their butt cheeks in the cool night air. "Oh em gee!" exclaimed one. "I can't believe they're doing a surprise concert! They're so bad-ass!"

"I know, right? Hurry, we can still catch him at the stage door!"

Concert? I paused mid-step. When I'd been in uni, a bunch of my friends tried to sneak in backstage at a Something for Kate concert. I'd freaked out, of course. "No way, you guys! We'll totally get busted!"

"Come on, Mia! Live a little!"

They'd done it without me, and rather than getting caught they'd ended up having drinks with the band, while I'd gone home by myself, forced to listen to the story for months afterwards.

I didn't know who was having a secret concert and it didn't matter. Here was my chance to fail spectacularly – by attempting to crash backstage. By the look of the hundred or so people milling around the stage doors, there was no chance I could pull it off, and my attempts would probably be witnessed by a lot of bystanders.

I smiled. Perfect.

But I couldn't just waltz up, ask to go in, and be rejected. I needed to put some effort in, so I'd feel the sting of failure – otherwise, I'd be able to justify that it wasn't a real fail because I hadn't really tried.

Thinking quick, I pulled my hood up and tugged it low over my face. In the alley opposite the theatre, there was a discarded cardboard fruit box with a lid. Swiftly, I plonked my bag inside, using my pen to scribble the name of the theatre on the top, along with the words, Special Delivery.

Fear and exhilaration flooded me in equal parts as I crossed to the theatre and moved to the stage door. A giant bouncer stood there with arms like giant deli sausages, and he growled as he dealt with the people surrounding the entrance. "I keep telling you, ladies, you're not getting in. You'll see the band when they come out."

The two girls who'd knocked into me before sulked loudly. "But we missed out on the concert! And his tweets said he'd be doing a meet and greet!"

"I don't care who tweeted what – no dice." He turned to me. "Yeah?"

"Organic fruit delivery for the dressing room," I said in my most bored tone. Inside my chest, my heart was thumping so hard, I thought it might just break loose and go flopping about like a stranded fish.

The bouncer squinted at the address on the box and I waited for the rejection, for the request for credentials I didn't have, for the inevitable humiliation.