•April 16th - 2 years later•
Georgia and I arrived at my sister, Kasey's flat in Los Angeles two nights ago. We're all driving down to Indio, for the Coachella music festival tomorrow morning. I'm rather excited, because I'll be able to get some great shots for the newspaper back in Sheffield, and this could potentially mean a raise for photos from such a large event. Plus, it's my 21st birthday weekend. So, it's a win-win.
Also, about four months after I'd met Alex, the boy from the Grapes, Arctic Monkeys blew up with their debut album. Since then, they've released two other chart-toppers, one of which came out only three days ago, entitled "Humbug". I'd always meant to catch a show of theirs one day to formally congratulate Alex on his success. However, I never seemed to have the time, and I honestly doubt that he'd remember me. Getting backstage is never an issue though since technically, I am a reporter.
Kasey walks out of her bedroom into the tiny living room where I sit, on her grey suede sectional with my feet propped up on the coffee table.
"Kara, can you come grab this from the top shelf?" Kasey struggles on a small step stool to reach for a cardboard box.
"Yeah, I'll get it." I take her place on the step stool and grab the box with ease.
"Thanks, Stilts."
Kasey had been calling me Stilts since I was around 13 when I bypassed her in height. She's 26 and five foot six, and now, at 20, almost 21, I'm nearly five foot ten.
Kasey begins to unfold the flaps of the box to reveal three ultra compact folding lawn chairs. "We're gonna need these at some point."
"Yeah, I guess. Why not just bring a blanket to sit on?"
"Trust me, Kara these will treat your ass much better," Kasey pats my arm.
Georgia walks in wrapped in a towel and shakes out her wet hair. "Ah, folding chairs! Coachella is gonna be sick, guys."
"Wash up now, apparently the rental house we're gonna be in has shitty plumbing," Kasey grabs the folding chairs and puts the box under her dining room table. "I'll be back, I'm gonna put these in the trunk of my car."
"Dude, I'm fucking excited about this trip."
"I can tell. You can't seem to shut up about it," I tease Georgia.
"We've got to see Vampire Weekend and Julian Casablancas... I heard Tame Impala are gonna be there too! Hm, also Fidlar, most definitely Smith Westerns, yeah. And-"
"What about Arctic Monkeys?" I blurt out.
"What about them? They're good, but I've got a priority list here, Kara," she shows me a folded piece of paper clutched in her hands.
I feel my face burning with both anger and embarrassment.
"Well, so do I, and I say that we put Arctic Monkeys at the top of our list."
"Alright, alright. Don't get your panties in a twist," she says sarcastically. "Why do you like them so much anyway?"
"They're just a great live band. Plus, I dunno, it seems like they've got their feet very firmly on the ground. They've just got that sort of appeal I guess," I scratch my arm.
Georgia looks at me like I'm full of it. "Mmhm, yeah. Seriously, just tell me why you like them!"
"That's why I like 'em, honestly," I fold my arms.
"Yeah, okay. Fine, we'll put them at the top."
I'm not sure why I'm getting so worked up about Alex. Chances are that if I'm even allowed to go backstage with my excuse of a reporter ID, since I'm writing for such a minor newspaper, I won't be given the time of day. And why in God's name would Alex remember me? We chatted for an hour at nine o'clock in the evening on a Thursday night. It certainly meant nothing to him; simply another slummed out girl having a rough night in a pub. I've definitely overestimated this trip for the past month, and now that I've begun thinking about the reality of this situation, the more I regret even registering myself as a reporter for a cheaper entrance fee. The probability of this going well in any way is surely a solid one in twenty-four.
**************
•April 17th•
"Jesus, slow down, Kasey!"
"No can do. I told Fletcher that we'd beat him there," she says as she swerves around a slow driver in a Kia Sorento.
"That gives you no reason to risk our lives!" Georgia squeals from the back as she grips onto the front seats.
"Oh, quit being a pansy. We're almost there."
After another 20 minutes of reckless driving, we arrive safely at our rental house, which is around 4 miles from the festival grounds.
As soon as we park, Georgia nearly throws herself out of the car.
"What are you doing?" Kasey pokes her head out the driver's window.
"I need to walk around for a bit."
The rental house is a large, two-story stucco abode with highly-placed windows and a heart-shaped pool in the backyard. Most of the foliage used to cover the patchy, dry front lawn is made up of succulents, though a couple of malnourished palm trees grow randomly in bunches.
"Help me get these bags out of the trunk, will you?" Kasey struggles with one of the smaller suitcases.
Georgia and I grab the rest of the bags and shuffle inside the house, bruising and banging our legs on the way in.
There's a rather lovely abalone chandelier hanging above the staircase, which is surrounded by a mirrored wall with a sturdy glass and shell railing.
"Kas, how much did you pay for this place? It seems pricey," I stroke a part of the shell mosaic on the wall beside me.
"It was $220 per night. Actually pretty cheap, but really only because of the location and plumbing."
"What's wrong with the location? We're four miles from the festival grounds and on top of a hill!"
"They couldn't sell this house because it's on top of a hill. Apparently, people hate the idea of driving back and forth up and down a mountain every day."
"That's ridiculous! Damn, we got lucky on this place," Georgia throws her backpack onto the kitchen counter.
"Hey, hey! That doesn't mean you can treat the furniture like shit! Anything we break, we have to pay for."
Georgia slowly removes her bag from the counter with flushed cheeks.
From outside, we hear a car door slam and feet running towards the open door of the house. Fletcher and one of his friends burst through the doorway.
"DAMNIT! How long have you guys been here!?" He throws his bag down on the kitchen floor.
"Five minutes?" Georgia pops open a can of Dr. Pepper.
Fletcher curses to himself. "Hey, well anyway, this is Hartford. He's one of my old friends from UCLA."
"Nice to meet you, Hartford," we all chime in together.
"So, who gets which room?" Fletcher sits on the steps.
"Kara and Georgia get the main one upstairs, I'm taking the other one up there, Hartford can take the guest room, and you can either have the couch or the bed that slides out from underneath Hartford's."
"I'll take the slide out," he rests his chin in his palm.
"Alright, everyone go put away their shit so it's one less thing to worry about for tomorrow, and don't forget to pack your backpacks or whatever you're taking with you down to the festival grounds," Kasey dunks an empty water bottle in the trash can.
I drag my suitcase up the stairs to the master bedroom.
One wall is practically a giant window, and the other two have narrow slit windows in them. It's all incredibly midcentury modern.
With a bit of struggling, I plop my bag on top of the bed's duvet.
First, I just need to plan out where to put everything, where Georgia's stuff will be, and how I've got to make sure it's kept separate.
There's a knock at the door.
"Come in."
Hartford walks in carrying Georgia's suitcase, with her chuckling behind him.
"What the hell, Georgia? Can't you lift your own shit?" I hiss at her while Hartford's on the other side of the room.
"Shh!" She signals back. What she meant was, 'Don't ruin this for me!'
"Over here's good?" he sets the suitcase beside one of the large windows.
"Yeah, thanks for your help, Hartford," Georgia bats her eyes and twirls her hair.
"No problem. Kara, do you need help with anything?" Hartford looks over to my bag and back at me.
"Nah, I've got everything. Thanks, though," I cross my arms indifferently.
"Alright, sounds good," Hartford waves on his way out, and Georgia shuts the door behind him.
"You're ridiculous," I laugh at her.
"He's smoking hot. How can you not be ridiculous around him?" she leans in to whisper something to me. "Did you see his ass?"
I ignore her last statement and continue unpacking.
Georgia is the epitome of flirty. She's even got the perfect looks for a flirt: long, honey blonde hair; large green eyes; a seemingly perpetually excellent manicure; she's around five foot six and has curves in all the right places. Whenever I'm with her at parties or in pubs I feel unusually lanky and awkward, as my body is as straight as a board. I've got no interesting curves and my layered brunette fringe looks strawlike in comparison to her endless golden locks.
"Oh, c'mon, Kara, you're no fun!" Georgia punches my arm.
"Sorry, a guy's ass doesn't really attract me?" I mock her.
The extra rolls of film I brought for the festival fall out of my bag into the shag carpet.
"Shit."
"Are you here to be a reporter?" she sighs loudly. "Are you going to be boring the whole time? 'Cause you can't be... your birthday is Saturday and we have to do something fun!"
"I don't like doing big things for my birthday, being here is enough. Also, I'll have you know that my position as a reporter will get me backstage for most of these performances," I fold my arms and smirk at her.
She quickly shuts her mouth. "So like, you're definitely going to take me with you right?" she tries playing off her previous insult.
I simply raise my eyebrows. "Help me pick up these rolls, will you?"
"Sure...but like you ARE going to take me with you...?"
"Just leave it for now."
***************
•6 hours later - 1:53 AM, April 18th•
I sneak downstairs to get a drink of water. Everyone's asleep, I assume.
The kitchen tile is cold underneath my feet, which have been baking and staying warm underneath my duvet for the past hour.
Without success, I try to make as little sound as possible, but somehow manage to clang drinking glasses together, squeakily twist the faucet, then accidentally make the water pressure too hard and proceed to splash water onto the floor.
"Kara?" My brother walks out of his room holding a throw and his pillow.
"Fletcher? Why are you still up?" I stand up from trying to dry the floor.
"I should be asking you the same thing," he flings himself onto the couch. "Couldn't sleep with Hartford snoring in there."
"Ah. Yeah, I can hear him from upstairs. You excited for tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Who are you going to see first? Let me guess... Arctic Monkeys?" he chuckles to himself.
I perk up from the counter. "Yeah. You know I, uh, since I'm here for the Sheffield Star, I'll probably be able to get backstage beforehand."
"Hm, sounds interesting. If you want to chat with the band-- including the frontman, you should go back there by yourself," Fletcher puts his arms behind his head.
"What are you getting at, Fletcher?" I tug on the collar of my shirt.
"C'mon, Kara. I'm not an idiot. For the past month, you've just been hyped up about this whole thing. I know you have a thing for the lead singer."
"That's ridiculous! I'm here strictly for business, Fletcher. I just need a story from Arctic Monkeys since they're Sheffield natives," I ruffle my hair.
"You and I both know that's not true. All you've been talking about is seeing this specific band. And, well, after seeing the guy myself, I can surely say he would be very attractive to someone like you."
I swallow a lump in my throat.
"Just tell me the truth, no use in lying. Have you met this guy?" Fletcher leans forward on his arms.
I hesitate to respond but sigh and oblige. "It was two years ago in the Grapes. He came and sat down beside me and we talked for a bit. He had to leave because he was on his way to a gig; though, this was all before he made it big."
"What's his name?"
"Alex Turner."
"Sounds like the name of a knobhead."
"Oh, just because he's English you feel the need to insult him with British slang you've picked up?"
I'm able to see Fletcher roll his eyes in the dark.
"Go to sleep. Maybe I'll tell you more in the morning," I take my glass and begin heading upstairs.
The fact that Fletcher knows about Alex frightens me. Am I really that much of an open book? It's almost like he knows more about my feelings for him than I do; and that frightens me even more considering the fact that it's like I can hardly read myself.
I slip quietly underneath the duvet while Georgia nearly rolls off the side of the bed onto the carpet. For a moment I'm tempted to push her for more space-- she's taking up roughly three-fourths of the mattress.
The whole reason I walked down for a glass of water in the first place is because I couldn't sleep again. I'm always kept up by my thoughts, and now that I know that my own brother has me found out I have even more to keep me awake.