Live Forever // A Liam Gallagher Fanfiction

Chapter Three

THE CHEEKY REDHEAD, POPPY, AND I DECIDE TO HEAD TO THE RECORD STORE. In a twisted way, she's one of the most trustworthy ones because most the words that come out of her mouth are straight bollocks and can't be trusted, so the rest is easily mistaken for bollocks. Especially the truth, which seems out of character with how little it comes out.

     Oh, and Poppy's right weird as well. She'll buy records solely based on their covers. She has a stack of records she displays above her bed because she likes the way the Grateful Dead logo looks. Now she's bent on acquiring "Dylan and the Dead" not because Bob Dylan is singing in it, but because she saw the cover in a magazine somewhere and thought it looked cool. That one will go right next to "Anthem of the Sun."
     It's a nice day, so what do I have to complain about? And besides, I wouldn't mind flicking through boxes of records.

     "Did you go to one of those house parties before school started?" Poppy asks.

     "Feels like I already do," I remark, glancing in the shop windows. A sucker for fashion, I am. One hippie-themed boutique serenades their windows with cloth banners adorned with psychedelic beads advertising their sale.

     "You wouldn't like it. They pass joints after the half-hearted guests leave."
     "Sounds like your kind of party," I say.

     "Though it's surprising because I know that Liam Gallagher goes to those parties every year. And every year you have something to say about the bloke," she says, casting a side-eyed glance towards me with a smirk.

     Like I said, cheeky.

     "Well, you'd have something to say about him too if you lived next to him for seven years."
     She chuckles and opens the door to the record store. "Coming?"

    

     I sift through Nirvana, Queen, Joy Division records. After some time, I'll make my way to the Velvet Underground side, where the records become more like Sinatra, Karen Carpenter and the like. The record shop has a calming atmosphere, like when you wake up on Sundays to sunlight, smell newspapers, hear a soothing acoustic guitar being strummed in the next house over. That is, until that acoustic guitar starts playing grunge instead of scales.

     I retrace my steps back to Nirvana. Kurt Cobain is something popular now; he unknowingly earned Ava and Sophia's support. They're something of music critics, preferring Queen's pop rock hits to anything heavy metal or grunge. It was a day when they accepted Pearl Jam as their new favourite.

     "Nirvana, eh?" Poppy remarks, the plastic bag at her side crinkling as she took the record from my hands. "Kurt Cobain is hot."

     "Did you find what you were looking for?"

     "Heard Liam is something of a Beatles snob. Maybe you should look at that display there," she says, her lips set in a grim line as she points to the stand by the front door.

     I roll my eyes to Poppy's snickering and lead the way to the front door.

     I tap my pencil against my notebook pages, agitated that I couldn't find anything to write about. It's funny how sometimes it's hard to stop and other times it's hard to start. What am I even at liberty to talk about? I want to write novels about things I barely know about, let alone have experienced. Blimey, it's hard to be a teenager.

     Wait.

     What the hell is that noise?

     My head snaps to the window where I can peep on Liam's room. I usually know it's him because I can hear the shite chords coming from his room at night or the equally shite rock music or this indicator, definitely the least coveted.

     Liam shagging a girl in the middle of the afternoon. Of course. Only he could pull it off.

     How long's he been at it anyway?

     I'm concerned about the next part anyway, something I definitely don't want to hear on this pleasant Saturday afternoon.

     "Hey!" I call, pushing my whole head out of the window. I rap on the weatherboard siding of our flat. "Are you his new bird? He was shagging someone last Wednesday."

     I wait for a second, then the sound of their exaggerated smooching ceases. The door slams shut a few moments after the yelling, then Liam leans out the window himself.

     "Close your window next time, you prick," he shouts and slams his own window.

     I smile, leaving my window open in sweet victory.

     It's funny. Of all things, girls are most afraid of other girls.