Haven

1. JASMINE

Year eleven had been a difficult time for everyone involved. No, I don't. But anyway yes, I'll go if you're inviting me. 

-

"How are you doing?" Tia said, hours later, as Jasmine climbed into the car. It smelled hot, the air thick and dusty. 

"Good, you?" Jasmine fussed around in the glove compartment for the sunglasses she knew would turn up somewhere underneath the random crumpled paperwork. She still squinted in the low sun that peaked through the gaps in the buildings ahead.

Tia waited for the click of her sister's seat belt before pulling away from her childhood home. "I'm bored by myself, to be honest. Caleb's gone to visit his parents for the weekend."

"Is that why you invited me out?"

Tia nodded, eyes on the road. She put the window down a little bit, releasing a whoosh of wind across her hair. She spat out a strand that had managed to creep its way into her mouth. "That and I just really want to hear Maisie. Apparently she's really good."

Resting an elbow on the car door, Jasmine said, "Are you sure she was in my year?"

"Pretty sure," Tia replied, "she's nearly twenty now, so I'd imagine so."

Jasmine shrugged, watching cars whip past, imagining herself running alongside them. She glimpsed herself in the wing mirror, lifting the glasses and prodding at the shadows under her eyes. "Have you got any concealer?"

"Not in here." Tia twisted herself around as she tried to reverse into a space, next to a big orange van with rusted handles. "Do you need some?"

"No, it's fine."

It was dark inside the building, some coloured lights lining the edge of the ceiling so people didn't fall over, and some proper lights by the bar, illuminating a bartender who looked like they were ready to chug whatever he was holding out towards someone who'd stopped listening. 

Tia followed her eye line. "Do you want a drink?"

"No," Jasmine said. She cut herself off before she said I'm not allowed. "But I'll come with you if you want one."

"Nah, I'll need to drive you home."

"Right." Jasmine had stopped looking at her sister and was scanning the crowd. She didn't know anyone by the blurry silhouette they made in front of her. They fused into a many-limbed monster, collectively squirming towards her. Someone had managed to find a balloon, and it made its rounds through the group, floating up and now in the coloured lights. An applause erupted, thumping hands and whooping shouts bringing her forwards to watch where the spotlight was glaring. Someone wandered onto the stage, screwing his eyes up into the beam of light, clutching a battered-looking acoustic guitar. Jasmine admired its uneven shine, the way the light caught on its edges, followed the curve of its body, the bones of its strings, before she looked at his face. He didn't seem that special, she'd seen lots of boys like him before, and they all liked to play their guitars at moments when no one really cared to listen, like in the lunch hall at school, or in the cafe at college. To be fair, she hadn't seen one of his type in a while. He was a bit pointy, she supposed, pinched nose, small chin. Tendrils of curly hair hung around his forehead, casting a dark shadow just above his eyebrows. She watched his eyes scan the crowd before he grinned.

"Hey guys," he said into the mic, "I'm George. I'm super happy to be here for you all. Maisie will be on after me, don't worry." He laughed to himself, and there was a smattering of applause. His voice was smooth when he spoke, pretty deep; he could have been a few years older than he looked. His hands settled on his guitar, cradling it like a baby. He gazed down at it, and started strumming. Tia and Jasmine glanced at each other, waiting for him to sing. Jasmine recognised the song, but she couldn't place exactly what it was called, something she'd heard on the radio years ago. George opened his mouth and Jasmine's eyes widened. His voice wasn't anything like she'd expected. He sung without the strength of his speaking voice. It was wispy, travelling towards her like smoke from a cigarette. She stood there, watching him, listening to his pitch rise and fall. His volume never changed.