Forever Phoenix Page 6

  I put my phone away with a sigh.

  ‘You’ll be perfect,’ Grandma Lou is saying. ‘Different is good, don’t you see? A carbon copy of Sasha would never be as good as Sasha herself – they need someone fresh. You have an amazing voice, a strong, quirky, memorable voice, and that’s what they need – the rest is detail. You’ll learn the songs, or they’ll adapt them to suit you, and you can all move forward together. They’re great kids, and so talented … and now they’ve got you, the sky’s the limit! I’m so proud of you, Phoenix – it took courage to audition, I know. You put on such a brave face for the world, but inside you’re not confident at all, are you?’

  I force a smile. ‘Better to put on a brave face than show your weaknesses, right? I don’t want to be hurt again, Grandma Lou …’

  My beautiful gran falters, her face suddenly serious. ‘What do you mean, sweetheart?’ she asks. ‘Who hurt you?’

  I almost laugh out loud. Where do I start? With parents who didn’t love each other enough to stay together? With Dad, who told me he’d always be there for me, then dropped me like a hot potato once Weird Wanda came on the scene? They high-tailed it off to Dubai and proceeded to replace me with two squalling toddlers called Drake and Dara. Dad hardly even bothers to FaceTime now. I’m yesterday’s news.

  As for Mum, she’s colder than the Arctic tundra … sometimes I think that disapproval runs through her veins instead of blood. Even if I had burned down the school, it wouldn’t have warmed her up.

  ‘Dad … and Mum …’ I whisper. ‘Same old, same old.’

  Grandma Lou looks stricken.

  ‘Perhaps we’re all doomed to hurt the people we love the most,’ she says. ‘When Vivi was a child, I’d have done anything for her, anything at all – but I didn’t understand her. Instead, I saw some version of how I had been at that age, a child who loved freedom, travel, art, music. I thought I’d given Vivi an idyllic childhood, but she didn’t see it like that. She wanted routine and boundaries, the things I couldn’t give her.

  ‘By the time she was ten, she was campaigning to go to boarding school. We looked at some wonderful artsy ones, but Vivi picked out the strictest school ever. She was top of the class in her all her subjects and winning cups for lacrosse and hockey, and she started asking me not to come to collect her on open days, because people might know who I was, or they might laugh at my funny clothes and the way I did my hair …’

  ‘Oh, Grandma Lou!’ I say.

  She sighs. ‘Well, teenagers can get very hung up about that kind of thing. No matter how hard I tried, I never managed to rebuild things between us. Do you want some life advice, Phoenix? If you get a chance to build bridges, repair something broken … just do it. Do it, because you’ll never regret it.

  ‘I did my best, and I suspect Vivi thinks she’s doing the best for you too. She loves you very much, Phoenix – but somehow she doesn’t know how to show it!’

  She folds her arms round me and holds me tight. Maybe it’s enough to have one person who loves you, one person who understands you and is always on your side. I have Grandma Lou, and that counts for a lot.

  ‘Grandma Lou … why did you and Mum fall out?’ I ask. ‘We used to spend lots of time here, until I was ten or so. I know you sent cards and presents at Christmas and on my birthday, but I sent you two letters and you never replied …’

  ‘I didn’t get any letters,’ Grandma Lou says with a frown. ‘But I did write … oh dear!’

  ‘Mum must have binned them,’ I realize. ‘Why would she do that? What went wrong?’

  Grandma Lou’s eyes shine with sadness. ‘Oh, it’s a long story,’ she says, stacking up plates and taking them to the sink. ‘I’ll tell you another time. Now, I need to get to my studio, and you’ve got rehearsal at eleven … Can you fix yourself a snack for lunch? I’ll see you later!’

  I’m clearly not the only one who puts on a brave face and keeps things hidden in this family, and while my gran, my mum and I may be very different characters, we all share one common trait. We’re stubborn to the core, every one of us.

  By ten to eleven, me and Pie head across to the old railway carriage. Marley is already there, and while it’s quiet my doubts spill out.

  ‘Marley … are you sure I’m the right person for this? I haven’t sung in front of people for years – and I can’t sing things the way you want, no matter how hard I try …’

  He dismisses my questions with a wave of his hand. ‘You’re totally the right person. We’ll adapt to your style, Phoenix, because it’s weird and unique and brilliant. You’ll learn to sing in public – we can set up some small gigs to get you used to it. You won’t mess up or let anyone down – you’re going to take us to the top!’

  ‘What if you’re wrong?’ I argue.

  ‘I’m never wrong,’ he says. ‘Look, are you willing to work at this?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Well then. Do your best and you won’t let us down. Sorted!’

  I fill the kettle and Marley cleans out the wood burner, and by the time the others arrive the fire is alight, the kettle has boiled and mugs of hot chocolate are lined up along the countertop.

  ‘Today will be hard work,’ Marley announces. ‘We have a lot to do if we want to come together as a band – this is a big change for us, but I think we’re all agreed it is a positive one. I’ve reworked the melodies for a couple of the songs Phoenix tried yesterday, bringing things more in line with her style. We’ll all have to adjust a bit, change our accompaniments maybe, but it’ll be worth it … We’re stepping up to the next level!’

  The next few hours pass in a chaotic tangle of noise. It’s like being in the eye of a particularly violent storm, but, as the hours pass, the chaos subsides and something beautiful begins to emerge.

  ‘Try “Song for the Sea” again,’ Marley tells me. ‘Sami, bring the flute in earlier – I want that as the backdrop to everything. Happi, Romy, George, go louder with the strings – and, Dylan, pull back on the drums, think of crashing waves and driving rain … good! Brilliant!’

  On we go to ‘Mask’, a song that Marley is happy to smash to bits and rebuild from scratch.

  ‘Listen to Phoenix,’ he instructs. ‘She makes the lyrics fierce and strong and powerful! Use that as your framework … Less cello, George. Less flute. Actually, no flute on this, Sami. Lee, I want your brass section to be euphoric – uplifting – go loud! Keep singing, Phoenix!’

  At two o’clock Jake and Sami slip out to the chippy, coming back with a feast for the band to share. Pie clears up the leftovers, then ducks out of the window to watch the rest of the practice from the branches of a nearby tree.

  We push on again, and by the end of the day we have two songs sounding strong, and another couple on the way. I’m so high on the buzz of it all I might never come down.

  ‘Was I right, or was I right?’ Marley crows. ‘This is something special … something different!’

  ‘Maybe it’s not too late to get Ked Wilder back in the game?’ Bex muses. ‘I’d love to hear his feedback on this!’

  ‘Just you wait,’ Marley says to me. ‘This is only the beginning …’

  9

  Famous

  On Monday a posse of Year Seven girls ambush me by the school lockers and ask for an autograph.

  ‘What for?’ I ask, which is clearly the wrong thing to say.

  ‘Because you’re the new lead singer with the Lost & Found,’ one of the girls says patiently, as if explaining to a very small child. ‘We are the band’s biggest fans. We follow their Instagram and Facebook pages, so we saw the news straight away. You’re famous!’

  She holds out a mobile phone with a picture of me singing in the old railway carriage, Pie perched on my shoulder. The picture was posted yesterday evening, and has almost four hundred likes and a whole slew of comments. I grit my teeth and resolve to have a sharp word with Marley about posting stuff without asking … but maybe this is part of being in a band?

  ‘Is it true
you’ve moved from New York specially to be in the band?’ the littlest girl asks.

  ‘Is it true you used to be a child star in Hollywood?’

  ‘Is it true Ked Wilder heard you sing on YouTube and asked you to join the Lost & Found?’

  ‘No, no and no,’ I say, scribbling a signature on the open jotters being pushed at me. ‘I auditioned, like everyone else, and they gave me a go.’

  ‘Can we have a selfie?’

  Seriously, this never happened at Bellvale. I strike a pose for the Year Sevens, then make a hasty escape – only to walk right into an older boy with dark eyes and a carefully gelled quiff. I almost tip an armful of books on the floor, and he puts out an arm to steady me.

  ‘Just like in the movies,’ Sharleen Scott says scathingly as she struts past, ponytail swinging, but she has a point because it actually is, a bit.

  ‘Phoenix Marlow, right?’ the boy says with a lazy smile. ‘Millford’s newest star!’

  ‘Ha. I’m guessing nothing much happens here, right?’

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ he says. ‘My name’s Matt Brennan, I’m in Year Eleven. I used to run the school magazine, but I’ve stepped down to focus on GCSEs, otherwise I’d be chasing you for an exclusive interview. Who knows, maybe I’ll chase you anyway … old habits die hard. See you around!’

  He’s off, stalking along the corridor, and I head to maths with a smile on my face. Matt Brennan has that artfully careless sort of style that takes hard work, hard cash and hours in front of the mirror to perfect, and my instincts tell me he’s definitely not too nice or too kind. If I’m not mistaken, he’s trouble, and even though I’m trying to steer clear of that here, the pull of it is almost magnetic.

  Boys. They are a whole lot more complicated than you’d think.

  I’m pretty hyper all through lunch, doing a little low-level flirting with Lee and wondering what’s actually so wrong with ‘nice’ and ‘kind’. Is it because I think I don’t deserve those things? Lexie and Sami are clearly a couple, and so are Jake and Sasha, and they seem happy enough without the drama of cheats, liars and losers in the equation. To me, though, it seems scary. A bad boy can’t hurt me because I know in advance he’s trouble and I’d never let myself fall for him. A nice boy is a whole different thing, and way more dangerous for the heart.

  After lunch, it’s time for ritual torture, otherwise known as hockey. Bellvale has trained me to be tough and fearless on the hockey pitch, and Sasha and Romy are in my team, which makes for a few laughs along the way. I score three goals without even trying and later, once I’ve showered and changed, Ms Trent calls me into her office.

  She thinks I’m a natural and wants me in the school Under-15s team without delay. ‘I don’t really like hockey,’ I tell her, and she grits her teeth and explains that ‘like’ doesn’t come into it.

  ‘Where’s your team spirit?’ she wants to know. ‘Your loyalty to the school?’

  ‘I don’t have any,’ I explain brightly. ‘It’s hard enough looking after myself without having anyone else to worry about!’

  She arranges her face into a frowny, disapproving expression, but that doesn’t scare me. I’ve lived with Mum for long enough – I’ve seen far worse.

  ‘I find your attitude baffling,’ she says. ‘I do hope you’ll think again about this, Phoenix. Staying on the sidelines of life may be safe, but it’s also rather lonely, and a terrible waste of potential.’

  This comment is worryingly accurate, but now is not the time to update her on my life history or explain why I find it hard to trust people or hold on to friendships for long.

  ‘If you change your mind, we have practice after school on Mondays and Fridays,’ Ms Trent says with a sigh.

  ‘I have band practice those days,’ I say politely. ‘But thanks!’

  By the time I make my escape, Sasha and Romy are long gone, and I take a wrong turn and end up on a shady, neglected pathway between the gym and the perimeter fence. Stopping to retrace my steps, I glimpse Sharleen Scott skulking behind a holly bush, hunched over, a thin plume of smoke rising from her cupped hands.

  Smokers’ corner … every school has one, I guess – a place where kids can hide out and skive lessons without even leaving the school grounds. I’ve been there, done that … but my flirtation with yellow fingers and a hacking cough was thankfully short-lived.

  I should walk away, leave Sharleen to stew in her own spiteful juices, but something stops me. How many times have I been the outsider kid, the angry kid, the lost kid? How many times have I hidden myself away behind dustbins or sheds, looking for somewhere quiet to chill or rage or let the tears come? More than I care to remember.

  Sharleen warned me to watch my back, but I don’t plan to go through life looking over my shoulder in fear of approaching trouble. I’d rather face it head on. And, of course, there’s Grandma Lou’s life advice about building bridges.

  I step closer, and Sharleen looks up, her face moving from startled to sneering in two seconds flat. ‘What d’you want, new girl?’ she says. ‘Come to gloat because you got through the audition and I didn’t? Well done. Today Millford, tomorrow the world, huh?’

  ‘Why do we have to be enemies, Sharleen?’ I ask. ‘What have I ever done to you?’

  She laughs. ‘You’re not listening, are you? You took my chance of fame and fortune. It’s not even a big deal to you, is it?’

  ‘It kind of is,’ I tell her. ‘But yeah, whatever. We don’t always get what we want in this life, do we?’

  ‘I bet you do,’ Sharleen says. ‘Turns out you’re that mad old artist lady’s grandkid. I reckon you’ve probably had everything you ever wanted served up to you on a silver platter. Poor little rich girl, huh?’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ I say. ‘You have no idea how wrong.’

  ‘Am I, though?’ she challenges. ‘Ever been hungry, Phoenix? So hungry your stomach hurts? Ever had to get your clothes from a charity shop or lost your home and had to kip three to a room in a stinking B & B with mould on the walls? Ever had to survive on food bank handouts? I don’t think so. You wouldn’t survive a single day.’

  I don’t have a smart comeback to this, or any comeback at all.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I … no, I’ve never had to live like that.’

  ‘What do you care, anyway?’ she asks.

  ‘Who says I care?’

  The bell rings to signal the start of the next lesson, but neither of us move.

  ‘Best get to class, new girl, or you’ll be in trouble. Don’t wanna get told off in your first week, do you?’ she says.

  ‘Don’t much care,’ I reply, pushing away the thought that I should be in class, that I’m supposed to be turning over a new leaf. Being good all the time is tiring, and, besides, something about Sharleen makes me want to stay. ‘What lesson have you got?’

  ‘Music. Me mates are skiving school today, so there’s nobody to mess around with, and the teacher’s off too, so it’s not like I’m missing anything.’

  I sit down on an old tree stump. Sharleen is shivering slightly in a thin cotton jacket, and she’s wearing worn-out canvas flats even though it’s November. I can see that, to her, I might seem like a girl who has everything. It’s a bit of a reality check, really.

  No matter how different our backgrounds may be, I know the look in Sharleen’s eyes, that sad, empty gaze that ignites all too easily into anger. I know it well, because I saw it every morning for years when I looked in the mirror.

  We have more in common than you’d think, Sharleen and me.

  ‘You’re doing GCSE music, right? Exams next summer? You could try for a performing arts course after school …’

  ‘I’m not clever enough,’ Sharleen says. ‘College is for posh kids!’

  ‘Rubbish,’ I tell her. ‘You get on to a course like that on ability. You’re into singing …’

  ‘I’m no good at it,’ she says in a small voice. ‘Even my music teacher says so. Should have stuck to dance. I had lessons when I w
as little, got solos in all the shows … then Dad left and everything went pear-shaped.’

  ‘Dance, then. If you had a skill then, you’ll still have it … and I know you’re good at drama because you do a great job of stomping about the school acting hard.’

  ‘You think it’s an act?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ I say. ‘I’ve been doing the same thing for years – I know all the tricks. Oh, except the one where you trip the new kid up in the lunch hall. That was pretty hardcore.’

  ‘Yeah … sorry about that,’ Sharleen says. ‘I wanted to make it clear I was top dog, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t care about being top dog,’ I tell her. ‘I just want to be left alone.’

  ‘Whatever,’ she says. ‘Want a ciggy?’

  ‘No thanks. Bad for the voice … and who wants yellow fingers? I’ve got some chocolate, though …’

  Sharleen says something unprintable and blows smoke in my face, but I don’t flinch, and she laughs. ‘Give us some chocolate, then! You think there’s one of those performing arts courses in Millford?’

  ‘Bound to be,’ I say. ‘I’ll google it for you if you like …’

  We sit for a while in silence while I scroll through the internet, finding performing arts courses in Millford and Birmingham. Sharleen’s face has lost its pinched, sour look, and there’s the faintest flicker of excitement in her eyes.

  We’re still huddled together, Sharleen blowing smoke rings and telling me to steer clear of Matt Brennan, when a stern voice interrupts us.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ Mr Simpson says. ‘If it isn’t Sharleen Scott … and our new Year Nine girl, if I’m not mistaken. Shouldn’t you two be in class?’

  Sharleen scrambles to put out her ciggy and I’m on my feet, reeling off some ridiculous excuse about getting lost on the way to lessons.

  ‘Sharleen was helping me, sir,’ I say. ‘I thought this might be a shortcut to the science lab, but Sharleen said not, and then I had a bit of a dizzy spell and had to sit down for a minute … She was just looking after me.’