❝How many moments in life can you point to and say: 'That's when it all changed'?❞ ▬ Brooke Davis, One Tree Hill.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Okay, so, we rehearse every night from ten to eleven, in that abandoned warehouse near the edge of town. There are three other guys in the band: Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik, and Liam Payne. They're all great guys and I'm sure you'll get along well. Louis plays the drums, and he's a bit loud and crazy. Zayn is more laid-back and quiet, and he plays the keyboards. Liam's the sensible one -- but we're slowly corrupting him. Anyway, he's on bass. We all sing, but I sing the most because I don't play an instrument. Hey, don't look at me like that -- I'm the one who created the bloody band."
Harry stands with his hands on his hips, looking down at Niall and I; we're leaning against the peeling walls in the exact same place as when we first met, our bums pressed to the dusty floorboards. Niall is staring at Harry intently, hanging onto his every word; it's clear to see that he's extremely passionate about being in the band -- even though the offer has only been standing for about half an hour -- and doesn't want to screw up. I, on the other hand, am only half-listening; I'm too distracted by the text I've just received, which I'm staring at in shock, iPhone resting in my clammy hand.
It's from Cassidy. As in, Cassidy my old best friend. Cassidy who I haven't spoken to in years. My Cassidy.
I read it over and over again, unsure of how to reply. Before long, I've practically memorised the text; I could probably recite it in my sleep. It reads:
hey anna! it's your old bestie, cassidy. remember me? wow, we haven't spoken in years. i guess that's my fault... anyway, guess what! i'm moving back to bournemouth. london just wasn't for me. i dropped my uni course -- it was shit, basically. i'm coming back on thursday the first of august. let me know if you want to meet up! xxxx
I just can't get my head around it; any of it. It's been two days since the anniversary of my father's death and she hasn't so much as offered an apology or even asked how I am -- she couldn't have forgotten, could she? After all, she cried with me when he died. She was there for me when nobody else was; when my mother spent days curled up in the corner, weeping her heart to irreparable pieces, a ghost of the woman she once was, and I, a naive fourteen year-old girl, had no idea how to cope. And as for the not speaking in years part, Cassidy acknowledges that it was her fault -- I tried to get in touch but she wasn't having any of it -- but still hasn't said sorry. And now she wants to meet up as if nothing's changed? While Harry drones on about rehearsals and Niall nods like an eager puppy, I tap out an annoyed reply, my fingers becoming more rapid with each letter as my level of annoyance rises.
Hi, Cass. It's good to hear from you, especially after not speaking for TWO YEARS. Anyway, sorry, but I don't think I can meet up for another few months. After all, it was the anniversary of my dad's death the other day, and I haven't exactly been in the best of moods. Or maybe you didn't realise that people have feelings? I mean, you didn't really care about my well-being when you left for London and never answered my calls. Selfish little bitch. Anyway, I think it's best if
"Hey!" Niall says beside me, and before I can finish my sentence, he's snatching my phone from my grasp, peering down at the screen. He glances at me, his brow furrowed. "'Selfish little bitch'? You weren't seriously thinking of sending this, were you?"
I sigh. "She really hurt me, Niall."
"What's going on?" Harry asks, coming towards us.
"Nothing!" I yelp, grabbing my phone back. I delete my unsent text and lock the phone, the loud click echoing through the now-silent room. I throw a pointed look in Niall's direction. "I guess I should try to be civil," I say, as if the Irish boy really has changed my mind about sending the text; clearly he believes this, because he gives me a smug smile before turning his attention back to Harry.
However, deep down, I know that I was never really going to press send; after all, I'm lovely little Anna Winters, who never causes arguments, who never stands up for herself. Anna Winters can't even express her feelings to her own mother, let alone her old best friend; sending such a rude text would be highly out of character, and something she -- I -- would be ashamed of doing. Nevertheless, it did feel good to let my anger at Cassidy out in the form of a now-deleted text message; perhaps I should use the medium of iMessage as a venting method in the future.
Harry tuts and goes back to reciting the roles within the band; I furrow my brow, chewing my lower lip as I stare down at my mobile. It takes me a while to word my reply correctly, but I eventually settle for as follows:
Hiii, Cass. It's really great to hear from you! We haven't spoken in two years, right? That's crazy; time sure does fly. Anyway, you're moving back to Bournemouth? That's awesome. When you're settled in, we can go for a coffee sometime. We'll arrange something closer to the time! xx
Satisfied, and only slightly disgruntled, I press send. There. No going back, now.
"So, I'm going to give you some details about the triple B. It takes place on Saturday the 27th of July, which is exactly..." Harry pauses to count on his fingers. "Nineteen days from now. That's two weeks and five days. The contest begins at 8pm, and it's about 1pm now, so that gives us..." Harry pauses once more, muttering various phrases such as twenty-four hours in a day and nineteen times twenty-four plus seven beneath his breath. "Four-hundred and sixty-three hours until the competition. Which means... if you're taking away ten hours a day for sleep and eating and everything, two-hundred and seventy-three hours to rehearse. Got it?"
I raise my eyebrows, impressed. Beside me, Niall's jaw drops to the floor, and he stares at Harry, completely dumbfounded. "Huh?" He says.
"I'll take that as a no," Harry sighs, slamming his hand to his forehead.
"I'm gonna need more than ten hours for sleep and eating and... me-time," Niall says, hugging his knees and shrugging innocently. Harry rolls his eyes and I bite back a giggle.
"I thought you said you only rehearse one hour a day," I pipe up, looking at Harry, and the curly-haired boy slowly removes his hand from his face.
"I know I said that, but we only have nineteen days to get Niall ready. You know what 'getting ready' means? It means learning songs, perfecting songs, working on stage presence, finding your role within the band... Nineteen days, Anna." All colour drains from Harry's face as if he's only just realising how short a period of time nineteen days is. For a few moments, he seems to fade out, staring into thin air as if his entire life is flashing before his eyes. But then, he snaps back to reality. "Let's get to work, Niall. I need to hear you sing."
As Niall nervously grabs his nearby guitar, Harry reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an old Biro pen; he squats down, brushing away a sheen of grey dust and drawing a huge 'X' on the uneven floorboards. He straightens up. "This is your stage, Niall. Stand on the X and perform for us. Don't be shy."
Niall is nervous; you can see it in the way he waits for an encouraging nod from Harry to make him hesitantly shift into motion, the way he wipes his obviously-sweaty palms on his jeans, the way he carefully and slowly inhales and exhales. He plants his feet on the black X, pushing one shaky hand through his thick, blonde locks. As Harry slides into a seated position beside me, I hiss, "Why 'X'?"
Harry simply smiles. "Because X marks the spot." I can't help but think of The X Factor, and how contestants are told to stand on a large X whilst performing. Is that what this is to Harry? Is Harry a cruel, critical judge, Niall the helpless auditionee?
Our unmoving eyes are fixed to the Irish lad and all of a sudden, I feel hopelessly sorry for him. At first, I consider getting up and disappearing into another room; leave this business to the boys to take off some of the pressure. But when Niall begins to shakily strum the first few chords, and I notice that his gaze hasn't left mine, I know in my heart that I must stay. Perhaps he needs me here. Perhaps he's already so comfortable with me that just the sight of me calms his nerves. That thought is weird: I never thought I'd be able to make such a difference to the way a person feels. Blue locked with blue, I give the smallest nod of my head, mouthing you can do it; just a second later, Niall's voice fills the room. It's like I'm floating all over again.
I recognise the song immediately, if not by the lyrics but by the tune and the gentle, Irish lilt of Niall's voice as the words leave his lips. Been a lot of places, I've been all around the world. Seen a lot of faces, never knowing where I was. On the horizon, oh, well I know I know I know I know the sun will be rising, back home.
"Oh my God," I whisper, and suddenly images are stabbing at my mind; the raging sea crashing up against rocks, the endless cloud-filled sky, a body, still and lifeless, lying bloody at the foot of the cliffs. This song is what prevented me from commiting suicide. This song... it saved my life.
It's beautiful, so beautiful that it brings tears to my eyes; or maybe it's just the thought that if this song didn't exist -- if Niall didn't exist -- I'd be dead by now that sends salty tears leaking from my eyes. The Irish boy is staring down at me as he sings, his lips pink and moving, his eyes bright yet filled with sadness. As the words float out of Niall's mouth and into my ears, I realise that the song depicts his life, and the terrifying truth that he may never return to Ireland; I've been away for ages, but I've got everything I need. I'm flicking through the pages, I've written in my memory. I feel like I'm dreaming...
Nevertheless, the song seems somewhat positive; in it's entirety, it defines Niall. His optimism, the way he finds light in the darkest situations. The way he can make a joke and bring a smile to my lips even when I've given up hope. The way he can look at me, for just a millisecond, and make everything better. The way he adores his home and wants to go back but can't. The song is definitely about him leaving everything behind, but the way he's penned it makes it seem as if he's on some kind of wild adventure; I guess finding silver linings is easier for Niall than for me.
As the song comes to a close, a tiny teardrop tumbles down my cheek and falls perfectly to the dust-covered floorboards beneath me. A silence descends upon us. All of a sudden I'm internally panicking; what if Harry didn't enjoy it? What if Niall isn't right for the band? His hopes would've been lifted up only to be shattered in Harry's reaction. However, my worries are eased instantly when one slow clap comes from beside me, and then another, and one more; Harry is clapping hard, grinning, cheering, jumping to his feet to congratulate Niall. The commotion pulls me to my senses and I get up, brushing the dust off the back of my dress.
"Brilliant! You're perfect! Did you write that yourself? You've got serious talent! Oh my God!" Harry beams, and Niall looks so happy that I could cry; the sides of his eyes are crinkled, his mouth wide and upper teeth visible in a delighted grin. He slings his guitar round his body, so that it's resting on his back, the thick strap across the front of his torso.
"So, you liked it?" He asks nervously, his smile swiftly turning to an anxious bite of the lip as he awaits Harry's response. All the while, I lean against the wall; I feel stupid for crying, so I quickly wipe my cheeks. Luckily, the boys don't seem to notice.
Harry simply grins. "Welcome to One Direction, Niall."
♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫
King Midas is commonly remembered, in Greek Mythology, for his ability to turn everything he touched to gold; as Niall and I amble back to my place, I wonder if the summer light retains such an power; after all, it gives Niall's hair and skin a lovely golden hue, making him look like a piece of treasure -- all of this is what runs through my mind as Niall rambles on about how excited he is to be one fifth of a real band.
I'd be annoyed by it, because he's been talking about the same thing for the past hour, but I'm too happy for him to care. Besides, I'm infatuated by him, and when you're infatuated with somebody, everything they do, everything they say, makes you feel wonderful. So you don't really mind that they keep repeating the same phrases over and over again. You simply appreciate the fact that they're sharing their thoughts with you.
Our plan is to head home and have lunch, then spend the day chilling, with Niall staying over again. Surprisingly, Harry said that Niall could have the rest of the day off; tomorrow they're to begin rehearsals. However, our plans are shattered when we arrive home and I twist my key in the lock, knowing instantly that something is different.
I can smell bacon. Why can I smell bacon?
"I really didn't expect Harry to react the way he- ooh, bacon!" Niall exclaims, wrinkling his nose and sniffing around like a puppy. "Wait... is there somebody home?" He frowns.
"I don't know," I hiss. "My Mum should be at work." I take a deep breath, opening the door. "You go upstairs; I'll check it out. Stay quiet, okay?"
Niall wordlessly nods and we step inside, our hearts in our throats. When Mum comes storming out of the kitchen, eyes on us, there's no time to react; we're both so startled and terrified that we freeze on the spot.
"I knew it!" Mum snaps, marching towards us. She grabs my arm, and though it doesn't hurt, I wince. "I want you to explain to me why you thought it was okay to invite this boy to sleep in our house last night, when I never gave you permission to do so."
"Mum," I breathe. "He never-"
"Yes, he did. Two cups of tea? Two cookies? Two crumb-covered plates left in the sink this morning? Half my lemon shower gel missing? Sounds of laughter late last night? All the footsteps? Do you think I'm a bloody idiot?"
"No, Mum, I just... listen, I-"
Niall takes a step closer to my mum, his face kind. "Maybe I should introduce myself. My name is Niall Horan and I recently became friends with your daughter. She's a lovely girl. You should be proud of her. Anyway, I needed a place to sleep, and she offered. That's all."
"You're the boy she was talking about," Mum says. "Niall." She practically seethes the name, as if she's talking about a sworn enemy, and I swear I can see a couple specks of spit flying from her chapped lips. Niall has the decency not to wipe his cheek, where one of the specks fell, and surprisingly remains smiling.
"Mum, don't-"
"She said she really liked you, you know," Mum says to Niall. She folds her skinny arms across her chest.
"Did she?" Niall asks, his face brightening.
"No, I just said you were really sweet," I say quickly. Niall's face falls and I instantly feel bad; my fingers find their way to his exposed arm, tracing his freckled skin. "But I do really like you, Niall. I do. You're a great friend."
"You too," Niall says softly, but there's a hint of sadness in his gorgeous voice; I know exactly which of my words put such pain there -- friend. As in, we're just friends. Nothing more.
"Listen, Anna," my mum lowers her voice, pulling me aside; I'm forced to let go of Niall's arm, and I helplessly throw him an apologetic glance. "Do you remember what I told you?"
I know exactly what she told me. She told me to stay away from Niall because, if I fell for him, I'd only end up heartbroken like her. "You told me not to see Niall anymore," I whisper, before bringing my voice to a normal volume. "But here's the thing, Mum." I clear my throat, clenching my fists, inwardly chanting the same mantra over and over again: You can't control me anymore. I'm finally happy. You can't control me anymore. "I'm happy, okay? I'm happier than I've been in five years. And it's all thanks to Niall. We're friends. Good friends, even though we've only known each other for a few days. And if in the future, I do end up falling for him, then I'm going to let myself. Because this is my life."
I can't believe I'm doing it. I'm finally standing up for myself. Now that I've started, I can't stop. "I know it's hard for you, Mum. But it's been five years. You have to let Dad go. You have to accept that he's not coming back. That chapter of your life is over. Are you ready to write a new one?"
I stare at her, awaiting some kind of response. Her meadow-green eyes are full of pain, her expressive eyebrows knotted together in a mixture of confusion and disbelief. A long, uneasy silence falls upon us. Eventually, with a voice so broken and ragged that it's almost unrecognisable, she speaks: "I'm going back to work. I came home to have lunch with you but... never-mind. I've made bacon, as you can probably tell. Goodbye, Anna." She grabs her handbag from its hanging position on the banister, and slings it over one bony shoulder. "It was nice meeting you, Niall," she nods as she passes. Niall remains silent.
The slam of the door signifies her disappearance and, my eyes trained to the floor, I mutter, "So, that went well."
Niall doesn't say a word.
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