For a Song [#Wattys 2015]

Chapter 7

Hilly

"What do you mean he's here? Here...in our place," I repeated, mouth agape.

For the past few days I'd felt like it was Izzy haunting me, her words and music on the radio following me around- but it seemed like it was Dylan Dorian too. As if the two of them had gotten all wrapped up and intertwined with one another. She spoke and it was in his voice, he'd stolen the song from right out of her throat and when Girl Frankie told me that Dylan Dorian was supposedly in the building, I craned through the windows and half expected to see my sister there, long blonde hair all in a halo around her head, wearing white and her guitar on a strap sitting near to her hips.

"I'm going to play. I will. Just not tonight," I imagined she'd say. "The songs aren't ready yet."

And the sucky part is that, only a week ago I would have been utterly thrilled at this rumor. I would have lost my mind at the thought that a bonafide rockstar was in our midsts, craning my head to get a look at him up close, trying desperately to summon up the courage to get him to sign one of the napkins at the bar before failing because- I'd tell myself- he was probably tired of all that, probably didn't want to be bothered by the likes of me and then clamming up at the very idea of me and Frankie fumbling our way through a couple of songs in front of him.

But that was a week ago. As dead and buried as the rest of the past.

"What are you gonna do?" Boy Frankie asked me, incredibly warily.

What was I going to do? One or two scenarios flashed through my mind . I could find him and slam my fists down on his table and demand the truth, demand to know why and how he'd stolen my sister's song. At which point he'd burst into tears, break down in front of me and say yes, oh yes, it was all true or stand up, sneer and laugh maniaclly like a super villain and say you caught me, I did it, and I'd do it again god damn it! "Something," I told Frankie boldly and darted through the doors before either of the Frankies could stop me.

My intent was to move swiftly, before my brain could catch up with my body and I could really sit back and consider the utter stupidity of what it was I was actually intending to do. However, this plan was thwarted by the sheer volume of people in the Earth Cafe, leaning all along the bar, crammed around tables and in the floor space, a few of the hippie types even sitting on the floor in front of the little raised platform.

I looked around scanning the crowd. There were the usual irregulars in band t-shirts, young guys in suits who must have come straight from work, punks in the corner laughing loudly to themselves and bland indie types at the bar, talking intently to a lady with short spiky hair and a flowing dress. Dylan Dorian would be easy to spot, I figured. As if all the lights in the room would somehow turn towards him and the people around him would part slightly. He'd be dressed impeccably, talking audibly, leaving it easy for me to approach him. But I looked and I looked and I couldn't find him. Like the way sometimes I found myself looking for Izzy in crowds too.

And somehow, The Frankies managed to find me easy enough. "I can't see him at all," I confessed dimly.

"Maybe it was just people talking horseshit," Girl Frankie suggested. "Like the time people were insisting The Arctic Monkeys were in here on a Thursday afternoon drinking snake bites when they so blatantly never were."

"Thank God for that," Boy Frankie breathed out, not even bothering to disguise his relief.

"We're here. Might as well stick around for the show, Right? I mean we did practise. "

The Frankies clearly thought that the danger was over with and didn't have a problem now. Soon after we'd shifted to a side of the room, awkwardly maneuvering our guitars around bodies and grabbed a few ciders our MC for the evening stepped on stage. There were whoops and cheers from the regulars in the back and polite smatterings for those who might have just popped down for the first time to see what the open mic was all about.