For a Song [#Wattys 2015]

Chapter 3

Hilly

The house was too big for the three of us. Funny because when I was younger it had always felt cramped; trying to find space amongst my parent's papers and books was a nightmare, and I can remember sulking in front of the TV, trying to concentrate on the morning cartoons while my dad went rifling through essays or clack-clacking on his keypad, mum holding loud consultations over the phone, my little brother Ralph bugging me to play Xbox. After Izzy died and Mum was gone though, those of us who remained sort of retreated into our own little corners, leaving the rest just cold and hollow.

Honestly, I didn't have much intention of telling Dad about the song at first. I guess it was naive, but I figured I could fix it by myself, that somehow I could get the whole situation to go away quietly and Izzy's song would slip away quietly like the rest of her. I could lie and say I was doing it to be kind to him; he never talked about Izzy or about what happened with Mum much so you had to assume that it was painful. But that's not why I kept quiet and I know I'm not supposed to lie about anything right now. I swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

And the truth is I didn't know what to say. It felt like any conversation we had would be hard and weird and awkward so in the end saying nothing was just an easy way out. Plus, in this perverse way it felt good to have a secret with Izzy again. Like when we'd whisper things in the back of the car- stupid conversations that only really mattered because no one else knew what they were about, that made me swell up with pride because my cool big sister was deigning to share anything with little old me.

As I predicted, Dad was still at the University even though I doubt any student would have been caught dead in the law building at the weekend. But he liked to make himself available I guess. I remember once being pulled aside at this terrible party my mother hosted during her 'getting my life back on track phase' (a phase which she took to the extreme with a new haircut, a new job, zumba and spin classes and eventually decided that we, the old family, belonged on the scrapheap with the baggy clothes she'd gotten too thin for). Anyway, at this party one of the other tutors pulled me aside, called me 'Izzy's sister', of course and said that my dad was one of the most dedicated teachers ever- that his students adored him. Like Robin Williams in Dead Poet's Society or whatever. Like a second father.

I could have laughed at that. At home, dad had never made me feel the impulse to stand on a table and shout 'Oh Captain, My Captain'. But maybe after his students, after Izzy he was just all dad-ed out and didn't have enough left in the tank for Ralph and me.

Ralph. I'd tell Ralph because he deserved to know. My little brother who'd grown up in the shadow of Izzy being sick- I bet he couldn't even remember how it was when she was well- and then Mum leaving and Dad retreating into his University shaped shell. But he wasn't home the first day I heard it so that just left me.

And I couldn't escape the song even if I wanted to.

So I think it's been pretty much established that I like--liked-- The Scale. It certainly helps the other side to say that I was either some fantasist who heard something of herself in a song the way that thousands of other people have done about thousands of other songs long before I was born or some machiavellian schemer who concocted this idea to get close to the band no matter how warped a reason it was. But no, I won't deny it. Because it made it worse.

As soon as I turned on my computer my twitter feed was jam packed with reactions and photos in a way that it wouldn't have been if I wasn't following a bunch of groups and fellow fans. At the top of my feed was an interview, the tagline being The Scale Speak on New Single and of course I had to watch it.

It's evidence now. The words have been transcribed and picked over and analysed but back then it was all new to me.

The band was sitting on a sofa being interviewed by a chipper, pretty presenter called Karina Chophra who I recognised from an English music channel. Emily, the drummer was the furthest away from the interviewer wearing a sleeveless vest tied up around her midriff looking slightly bored. She always spoke the least in interviews, red lipstick lined mouth pressed together but her outfit was already being squealed over by fans online. Ray, on bass guitar was next to her- very skinny in that heroin chic way of his, shifting slightly every now and again to get comfy and looking out at the interviewer through sad, sensitive eyes. Jon, the lead guitarist, the real musical talent and de facto 'leader' according to a lot of fans came next and he'd chime in every once and a while but it was Dylan Dorian who sat closest to the interviewer, who'd be the one to field the questions and dominate the conversation, like always.