A/N: It's been 2,000 years since I've written anything but here we are. If there are any typos or whatever just let me know. Overall feedback would be greatly appreciated as I have no idea what I'm doing anymore. I hope you enjoy anyway. I'm pretty excited. Oh, also, Haven is a working title because I don't know what to call this yet, you know how it is.
A droplet of sweat slid down the side of Jasmine's face. She wiped it away with one hand, water bottle in the other. The house was in sight, she couldn't stop running now, as much as her legs wanted to. Her feet thudded on the pavement, and she was surprised nothing cracked underneath her stride. The gate to the driveway caught her as she stopped. Her water bottle clattered to the gravel. She leaned down, lungs heaving, legs burning. She panted like a dog, sweating like a pig. Strands of hair were plastered to her face, but flew away in wisps at the back of her head, long ponytail swinging as she righted herself. Then the euphoria hit. She luxuriated in the stretch as she picked up the bottle. The endorphins made her muscles feel malleable, ready to run again, but the air told her to stop. She obeyed.
Jasmine needed to shower. Her parents weren't home. They often worked weekends at the shop, so she had the house to herself to train without anyone watching. She shook out her limbs and pulled off her top, using it to wipe away the moisture on her face. The bathroom mirror watched her peel off her leggings. She whipped back the shower curtain and paused. In the bottom of the bathtub, a little energy bar lay, waiting. Jasmine had put it there before she left, but it still left her fizzing in the stomach. The plastic crackled as she sat on the edge of the bath and snapped the bar in half, swallowing one half and placing the other back into the packaging. It didn't taste of much.
The hot water scalded her back at first, but she melted into it, the white noise of the water lulling her into security. She imagined the pink skin of her back, the rope of her spine reddening with the heat. Swaying, she watched foam from her shampoo slip down the curtain. She avoided the shower gel for as long as she could. It smelled like apples and sharp tea tree. Jasmine let it foam up along her skin, pressing hard to feel the muscle, letting her arms snake through the water, washing it all off.
Her towel was rough, and she patted her face dry quickly, glaring into the mirror. She yanked it through her hair, dropped it onto the floor. The jumper she put on was soft and big, swamping her, big patches of darkened fabric on her shoulders, damp. On her way out, she picked up the other half of the energy bar, pulling it out of the packaging with her teeth. Her tongue felt like sandpaper.
Her room was clean. She inhaled that air and savoured it. The bed squeaked as she collapsed onto it, sprawling out long limbs. There was a time in her life when she couldn't reach end to end of that bed, a little girl stretching her legs across the whole thing and still not managing it, hoping week by week that she could make it. Back in those days, the bed sheets had been decorated with little embroidered ballet shoes, and she had liked to trace them with tentative fingers, smiling. Jasmine's ballet shoes weren't on her bed anymore, but tucked safely into her dance bag, ready to go. She had dreamt of being this age, and now there she was, legs aching.
When she got bored of daydreaming at the ceiling, Jasmine checked her phone. Tia had messaged her.
Do you want to go to Haven tonight? Someone from your old school is playing.
Jasmine sat up, racking her brain. She couldn't remember anyone with particular musical talent going to school with her. Not anyone who would play at Haven anyway. Who?
Maisie Marriott.
I don't know who that is. Jasmine frowned. Had she ever met a Maisie at school? She didn't think so.
She could imagine Tia rolled her eyes in the way she'd done for as long as she could remember. She'd taught Jasmine to do it too, years and years ago in Tia's little box room at the back of the house, telling her not to say anything to their parents. Jasmine had been sworn to secrecy about how she'd learned that attitude, but it was still pretty obvious. Tia's response made her uneasy. She was in your year. I remember her. She sung in your leaver's assembly. Do you really not remember?
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.
"What?" Tia said, catching the look on her face.
Jasmine shrugged. "It's not what I was expecting."
"We're not here for him," she replied, "but still, look at him play."
His voice wasn't elaborate, but his fingers were moving swiftly, painting a picture across the strings. His wrist twisted gracefully under the light. She wanted to trace his bones, grip on and feel it move. He wasn't even looking, a second nature, something he'd done a million times before.
When he finished, the applause drowned out his gratefulness. As he left the stage, he glanced out at the crowd again. He must have been looking for someone, but Jasmine knew that the stage lights always made that so difficult. It turned people faceless, into the writhing monster she had seen before.
After half an hour of interlude music, Jasmine's lower back was aching. She leaned forward to relieve some of the pressure. More people had turned up, thickening the air. Someone else's sweat was on her arms.
Tia nudged her, grinning. "Soon," she said. Jasmine imagined what it was like under her sister's skin, buzzing restlessly waiting for someone to come and sing for her. Jasmine kind of just wanted to go home, or at least open a window. There weren't actually any windows, she realised.
The person beside her let out an ear-splitting scream as everyone started to applaud again. A girl had her back to the audience, leaning over a guitar, ruler-straight ginger hair raining over one shoulder. She tuned the guitar and turned around to the mic. Her face was soft, that was the only way Jasmine could describe it, like the embodiment of cotton wool, smooth and round. The spotlight caught the contour of her cheekbone and she whispered into the mic, testing, flashing little white teeth when the audience responded.
"Hi," she said, voice gentle, a little thick, like Tia when she drank too much whiskey with Caleb, "I hope you liked George!" Her dress hung around her, a pink floral fabric breezing by pale knees, angled together. Jasmine wanted to reach out and push, just to see if she'd give way. Maisie spoke some more, but Jasmine wasn't hearing words, just a small voice.
Then, she started playing. The room itself held its breath. Maisie tapped her foot along, steady as a metronome. Jasmine watched as she inhaled, imagining her chest expanding, letting all the air in. And this big voice came out. Jasmine blinked. A huge voice, loud, controlled, no more cotton wool, more like a canvas, a little rough but overall woven together meaningfully, stretched out to paint on the real picture. Maisie closed her eyes, let her lungs sprawl out a note held for as long as it took for the chord to ring out. She opened her eyes, a glint in them as she moved her lipsticked mouth closer to the mic. The guitar strap slid across her body as she pushed it back, clutching the mic in both hands. Music started playing alongside her. She bounced along to the beat, voice sliding smoothly into each word. The bass in the speaker rattled Jasmine's ribcage. She wasn't thinking, just listening to the music surrounding her, waving at her from everywhere she looked.
Tia caught her sister's eye, smiling like she'd won something. "Remember her now?"
"I wish I did."
Jasmine heard in Maisie's voice what she felt when she mastered particularly complicated choreography. Power. The idea that her body was doing something that not everybody's had managed. The sense that there were hundreds of hours behind it, the backstage practice, the technique, the passion. The crowd around her knew the words. Maisie glowed like she could hear every single voice in the building and still knew she was the best one. She was strangely aggressive, throwing her words into the mic, scraping in breaths when she needed to, hair swirling and shimmering in the light. She never squinted, always stared the audience straight in the eyes, face morphing into performative expressions only she knew the answer to. Maisie found lines she liked in the songs and half shouted them from her throat into the world. It felt like she was singing to nobody but Jasmine, but Jasmine didn't know who this girl was. She didn't remember seeing her sunny hair in the hallways, or her friendly face in a classroom. She wanted to know her now.
Maisie thanked everyone for coming, her voice returning to its gentle state, like she'd never hated anyone in her life. She swept her hair back over one shoulder, pulling a hand through the tangles. All her songs had been bitter, spitting out words like lemon seeds, but this girl looked like she was made of sugar and just as easy to dissolve. Jasmine had turned to leave, but behind her, the mic screeched.
"Hi again," a voice said, a little too loud, laced with something, "it's me." George wiped his forehead as Maisie watched him, hands drawn together. "What about one more song from Maisie!" he turned to her. "You forgot the love song."
Jasmine imagined a storm cloud above Maisie's head, something to reveal that actually she hadn't forgotten anything. She picked up a bottle from the floor, crystalline water distorting her face as she sipped. George stood, shifting from foot to foot, naked without his guitar. She turned to him, flyaway hairs framing her face. Then, she grinned, swinging her guitar back around herself. Everyone stood, just staring. Maisie's lyrics were sickly, but her voice didn't quite have the same tinge to it. Before, Jasmine had pictured it as a deep burnt orange, a luxury. This time it was bright red. George grinned at her. Her face didn't change when he leaned into the mic and started singing too. Their voices danced around each other, somewhere between intertwining and fighting. He wasn't as contained as before, fading in and out of particular notes. Maisie could probably smell his breath. When the song finished, Jasmine's legs were lead. Her lungs were empty, eyes dry from not blinking.
"Thanks everyone," Maisie said, walking off stage. George turned fully to the audience with the mic standing awkwardly next to him, watching everyone as they funnelled out to the exit. Jasmine and Tia waited as everyone streamed around them. He raised his chin, harsh light washing out his face as he turned away and followed Maisie into the wings.
"That's her boyfriend," Tia said as they got into the car.