What He Left Behind

Fourteen

A week and a half later, I go to Adam and Harvey's once I finish tutoring, ready to crash another band practice. I've attended so many now that I think I've achieved official super-fan status. The guys write some songs while I help to sort out boxes of merchandise for their band which has just been delivered. I persuade Charlie to let me steal a shirt, after convincing him it will serve as free advertising for them. Besides, official super-fans should be entitled to some perks, right?

During the evening, Charlie's busy being the driving force behind the song-writing so I spend a lot of time with Stan instead. I like Stan. He's hilarious. He tells me stories about all the stuff he and Charlie get up to, and about all of the trouble they have gotten into. I noticed quite early on the difference between Charlie and Stan and it's only become more evident as I've got to know them better. The pair of them are both troublemakers – there's no doubting that. With Charlie I don't think he can help it. He's dark and brooding and always caught up in his own head. Trouble seems to find him, like it's a shadow that's followed him around all his life and has no plans of disappearing. Stan is more of a mischievous kind of troublesome. He's goofy and light-hearted and I can see how the duo balances each other out.

At around 10.30pm, Charlie decides it's time to make a move.

"Are you sure your family don't mind me staying over?" I ask him as we begin the walk back to his.

He smirks. "It's all good, they like you," he reassures. "Besides, I need to run something by you."

"What's that?"

"You'll see."

When we reach the house, Charlie opens the door to eerie silence, the two elder Hemmingways either asleep or out. We take off our shoes and go straight upstairs.

More relaxed in Charlie's house now than I was that first night, I push the door to and sit down next to Charlie on the bed, stretching my legs out over his, just as an excuse to touch him. Charlie lights up a joint of weed, opening his bedroom window to exhale the smoke out of in a feeble attempt to reduce the smell. It's in vain.

Outside it is dark but I can see a trail of streetlights leading all the way down to the main road, which is congested as always. There is the ever present hum of traffic and the distant wail of sirens that reminds me a lot of Detroit. The street right outside is empty of people, most of them either gone to bed or already headed for the clubs and bars downtown. It is weirdly peaceful and I feel content, or perhaps I've just inhaled too much smoke from Charlie's blunt.

"What are you going to show me?" I ask again, growing impatient with the pungent odour that will no doubt cling to my clothes and hair and lead to a serious conversation with Miss McKinley tomorrow morning.

"It's this song I wrote," he begins, finally putting out the joint, "It's not great, so I need your help to tweak it a bit. I'm not even sure if I'll play it to the guys to be honest; it's kind of personal. I trust you."

I smile, a sort of nostalgia setting in. It reminds me of the days Austin would ask for my opinion on things, back when he still listened to it. Back when he was still alive for me to even give it to him.

"Okay, let me hear it." He takes a deep breath and hesitates for a second, his fingers dancing nervously over the chords of his guitar. Eventually, he starts to play a song that is a thousand worlds away from anything I've ever heard him play before. It's not an angry punk song or a catchy pop tune or a mysterious emo piece filled with cryptic imagery. It's stripped back and raw and honest and beautiful. He sings about his mom leaving and how lost it made him feel, and about his brother's drug addiction and how he hates seeing him like that. It's possibly my favourite thing he has ever written. Charlie has a way with words; his music is the best way I know to truly understand him. And I love anything that helps me understand him a little better. It's like finding another clue to solving the infamous mystery that is Charlie Hemmingway.