Status: Finished, but never forgotten.
Live Forever
See her face, every day.
I fear I’ve made a mistake.
Oh, not because I reckon that our relationship of sorts has been conceived out of sheer boredom. Nor that he’s an Oasis fan and I’m not. Or even because it’s a precarious amble over the minefield called my family, and a hopeless attempt to avoid causing the explosions that will inevitably happen as soon as my father finds out about my summer romance.
But because I know absolutely nothing about him, save for his devotion to Star Wars and Oasis. I don’t know his birthday, his address, his life history... worst of all, I have no idea what his name is. He’s as anonymous as the trees in that park where we spent two hours not making the most of the view.
I consider this all while sitting cross-legged in Stella’s bedroom, gazing in dull horror at Stella’s brash Take That poster, half-listening to one of Stella’s impassioned but inane monologues.
“And did you know, Dave’s sister’s friend’s cousin is Noel Edmonds?! It’s crazy! His sister got to meet Mr Blobby and all! I’m well jealous! Noel is such a- Lyla, are you even listening to me?”
Stella. It means ‘star’. Stella is easily star-struck and lives on her own planet, up amongst the stars that she ardently and desperately admires. She is easily excited, and rarely feels blue; she sees the world in neon pinks, greens and oranges. Despite being her bestest friend in the whole wide world, I often envy her. Sometimes I just see life like a black and white film, but never as elegant.
We go way back. Best friends since playgroup. More to the point, best friends since she bashed a boy over the head with a plastic saucepan when he heckled me as I was singing Baa Baa Black Sheep. We’re the outcasts of the school, tearing away from the tradition of the students at our school going on to work at the nearby McDonald’s or clandestine brothels in council houses. Stella wants to move down south too, but to be with her Cornish pen pal, Dave. They’ve been sending letters to each other for about six months and she’s convinced their romance is a less extreme version of Romeo and Juliet because her dad won’t let them meet up. Maybe I should tell her about… him. She tells me everything about her and Dave, after all.
“Wassup with you lately, Lyla? You’ve been acting well funny recently. Ever since I got back from Blackpool! Have I done somethin’?” Her face is the perfect definition of crumpled hurt, her eyes shining, like lanterns, but with tears. Oh, God.
“No, no, no, Stell! It’s not you, it’s me.” We grin. “It’s just… eurgh. You know I told you about those twats who tried to beat me up outside Bob’s Music Shack down the road? The new shop?”
“Yeah… what ‘bout it? Did they rape you or somethin’? Oh my God!” Before she gets carried away, I put my hand over her mouth to stop her incessant babbling.
“No, I didn’t get raped, and no, I didn’t rape them either. The guy who saved me…” I pause for dramatic effect. I’m good at that. “We got talking.”
She nods excitedly. This is probably the equivalent of a Shakespeare romance in her eyes; evidently nothing this exciting happens in Blackpool.
“…More than talking, even. Anyway, we’re meeting up tomorrow. Questions?” I ask fatally, releasing her mouth from the guard of my hand, knowing what her first question will be. Also, inviting Stella to ask a question is to open the floodgates for the Spanish Inquisition.
“OH MY GOD! That’s wicked! What’s his name? What school does he go to? What does he like? Where does he live? This is amazing! I wanna meet him!” she chatters.
“Erm… I… I don’t know… we didn’t do so much talking…”
“You don’t know his name? Woah, Lyl! It’s like a mystery!” Not a mystery, a DISASTER.
“All I know is that he likes Oasis…”
“WHAT? But you said that all Oasis fans should be shot and dumped into Saddam Hussein’s back garden!” she gasps, and I automatically flinch with stupidity. Stupid, stupid, stupid Lyla.
Pride and prejudice, story of my life. I’ve been prejudiced against all sorts. There was my disturbingly obsessed ginger stalker, two years younger than me, and racist, thick and mental with it too. He’s moving up in the world now; getting married next year to the girl he knocked up in the spring. That prejudice I didn’t mind. Then there was…
“Lyl!” Snapped out of my reverie by an excited interjection. “What does your dad think?”
“Heh. You really think I’d tell him?” I spit, venom coating every syllable. Stella shrugs, her blue eyes clouding over with confused sadness. She begins playing with her fringe, the bane of her life, and fiddling with her dress hemline. Considering that Stella’s an advocate of original sartorial sense, I’m impressed that – for once – she’s managed to pull off an interesting but decent combination. She pulls a face, opens her mouth, ready for another inquisition.
“Why do you hate your dad so much?” What a question.
“How long have you got?” Right back at you.
“Long enough.” Game, set and match to Stella.
“Actually, what’s the time? Half four? I better be getting back. Got to make lasagne for the beloved family, you know the story.”
Stella rolls her eyes and lazily raises herself from the bed in order to let me out the house. But not before something catches my eye. The glint of the sun on a blank CD case. Except it’s not blank.
I pick it up, seething inwardly.
Stella turns from relaxed to a mess in less than a second.
It’s stupid to get pissed off about, but it’s like a wall between us made of secrets and broken pacts. And this CD, which I hold out to her, makes the barrier tangible. The letter is tucked under the offending name of the album and its artist.
“To Stella, my little star…” It’s Dave’s writing. “Here’s the album I told you about. I know you’re not a fan, but you listen to Track 3 and tell me that you don’t fall in love with it straight away. It’s a masterpiece. I think we’re on the verge of a musical revolution… love you so much. Dave, x,” I finish. But I haven’t even started. “Definitely Maybe? You could’ve at least told me…”
“I didn’t know you were less anti-“
“Just because some guy likes Oasis, doesn’t mean I do! Please tell me it’s crap. After all we’ve said about them. Please, Stell.”
She shakes her head and sighs. I force the CD into her clammy clasp and walk out her door, down the stairs, and get my coat.
“Wait, Lyla!” I don’t stop walking. “Lyla!” She tugs on my shoulder, still holding that bloody CD. “I know you hate them, but Track 3 – Live Forever – it’s incredible. You have to listen to it. Maybe you’ll hate it, but I’m tellin’ you, when you’re in love, it makes sense. And it’s beautiful.”
I reluctantly take the CD, which is so much more trouble than it’s worth, and give her a reassuring hug.
“See you Thursday, then? For school?” I ask, ruffling her hair.
“Thursday? But I thought we said we’d never spend more than two days apart! Thursday’s three days away!” she cries, alarmed.
“Whatever… Wednesday, to pack for school. Don’t buy any more fluffy pens, you know they make me sneeze.”
“Oh, and Lyla? …Tell me all the gossip. Find out all about him! And introduce me at some point!”
I nod, and tentatively walk out the house and towards my destiny, feeling distinctly ill at the thought of seeing this anonymous part-time lover who likes Oasis and yet still makes my stomach churn. What’s happening to me?
Oh, not because I reckon that our relationship of sorts has been conceived out of sheer boredom. Nor that he’s an Oasis fan and I’m not. Or even because it’s a precarious amble over the minefield called my family, and a hopeless attempt to avoid causing the explosions that will inevitably happen as soon as my father finds out about my summer romance.
But because I know absolutely nothing about him, save for his devotion to Star Wars and Oasis. I don’t know his birthday, his address, his life history... worst of all, I have no idea what his name is. He’s as anonymous as the trees in that park where we spent two hours not making the most of the view.
I consider this all while sitting cross-legged in Stella’s bedroom, gazing in dull horror at Stella’s brash Take That poster, half-listening to one of Stella’s impassioned but inane monologues.
“And did you know, Dave’s sister’s friend’s cousin is Noel Edmonds?! It’s crazy! His sister got to meet Mr Blobby and all! I’m well jealous! Noel is such a- Lyla, are you even listening to me?”
Stella. It means ‘star’. Stella is easily star-struck and lives on her own planet, up amongst the stars that she ardently and desperately admires. She is easily excited, and rarely feels blue; she sees the world in neon pinks, greens and oranges. Despite being her bestest friend in the whole wide world, I often envy her. Sometimes I just see life like a black and white film, but never as elegant.
We go way back. Best friends since playgroup. More to the point, best friends since she bashed a boy over the head with a plastic saucepan when he heckled me as I was singing Baa Baa Black Sheep. We’re the outcasts of the school, tearing away from the tradition of the students at our school going on to work at the nearby McDonald’s or clandestine brothels in council houses. Stella wants to move down south too, but to be with her Cornish pen pal, Dave. They’ve been sending letters to each other for about six months and she’s convinced their romance is a less extreme version of Romeo and Juliet because her dad won’t let them meet up. Maybe I should tell her about… him. She tells me everything about her and Dave, after all.
“Wassup with you lately, Lyla? You’ve been acting well funny recently. Ever since I got back from Blackpool! Have I done somethin’?” Her face is the perfect definition of crumpled hurt, her eyes shining, like lanterns, but with tears. Oh, God.
“No, no, no, Stell! It’s not you, it’s me.” We grin. “It’s just… eurgh. You know I told you about those twats who tried to beat me up outside Bob’s Music Shack down the road? The new shop?”
“Yeah… what ‘bout it? Did they rape you or somethin’? Oh my God!” Before she gets carried away, I put my hand over her mouth to stop her incessant babbling.
“No, I didn’t get raped, and no, I didn’t rape them either. The guy who saved me…” I pause for dramatic effect. I’m good at that. “We got talking.”
She nods excitedly. This is probably the equivalent of a Shakespeare romance in her eyes; evidently nothing this exciting happens in Blackpool.
“…More than talking, even. Anyway, we’re meeting up tomorrow. Questions?” I ask fatally, releasing her mouth from the guard of my hand, knowing what her first question will be. Also, inviting Stella to ask a question is to open the floodgates for the Spanish Inquisition.
“OH MY GOD! That’s wicked! What’s his name? What school does he go to? What does he like? Where does he live? This is amazing! I wanna meet him!” she chatters.
“Erm… I… I don’t know… we didn’t do so much talking…”
“You don’t know his name? Woah, Lyl! It’s like a mystery!” Not a mystery, a DISASTER.
“All I know is that he likes Oasis…”
“WHAT? But you said that all Oasis fans should be shot and dumped into Saddam Hussein’s back garden!” she gasps, and I automatically flinch with stupidity. Stupid, stupid, stupid Lyla.
Pride and prejudice, story of my life. I’ve been prejudiced against all sorts. There was my disturbingly obsessed ginger stalker, two years younger than me, and racist, thick and mental with it too. He’s moving up in the world now; getting married next year to the girl he knocked up in the spring. That prejudice I didn’t mind. Then there was…
“Lyl!” Snapped out of my reverie by an excited interjection. “What does your dad think?”
“Heh. You really think I’d tell him?” I spit, venom coating every syllable. Stella shrugs, her blue eyes clouding over with confused sadness. She begins playing with her fringe, the bane of her life, and fiddling with her dress hemline. Considering that Stella’s an advocate of original sartorial sense, I’m impressed that – for once – she’s managed to pull off an interesting but decent combination. She pulls a face, opens her mouth, ready for another inquisition.
“Why do you hate your dad so much?” What a question.
“How long have you got?” Right back at you.
“Long enough.” Game, set and match to Stella.
“Actually, what’s the time? Half four? I better be getting back. Got to make lasagne for the beloved family, you know the story.”
Stella rolls her eyes and lazily raises herself from the bed in order to let me out the house. But not before something catches my eye. The glint of the sun on a blank CD case. Except it’s not blank.
I pick it up, seething inwardly.
Stella turns from relaxed to a mess in less than a second.
It’s stupid to get pissed off about, but it’s like a wall between us made of secrets and broken pacts. And this CD, which I hold out to her, makes the barrier tangible. The letter is tucked under the offending name of the album and its artist.
“To Stella, my little star…” It’s Dave’s writing. “Here’s the album I told you about. I know you’re not a fan, but you listen to Track 3 and tell me that you don’t fall in love with it straight away. It’s a masterpiece. I think we’re on the verge of a musical revolution… love you so much. Dave, x,” I finish. But I haven’t even started. “Definitely Maybe? You could’ve at least told me…”
“I didn’t know you were less anti-“
“Just because some guy likes Oasis, doesn’t mean I do! Please tell me it’s crap. After all we’ve said about them. Please, Stell.”
She shakes her head and sighs. I force the CD into her clammy clasp and walk out her door, down the stairs, and get my coat.
“Wait, Lyla!” I don’t stop walking. “Lyla!” She tugs on my shoulder, still holding that bloody CD. “I know you hate them, but Track 3 – Live Forever – it’s incredible. You have to listen to it. Maybe you’ll hate it, but I’m tellin’ you, when you’re in love, it makes sense. And it’s beautiful.”
I reluctantly take the CD, which is so much more trouble than it’s worth, and give her a reassuring hug.
“See you Thursday, then? For school?” I ask, ruffling her hair.
“Thursday? But I thought we said we’d never spend more than two days apart! Thursday’s three days away!” she cries, alarmed.
“Whatever… Wednesday, to pack for school. Don’t buy any more fluffy pens, you know they make me sneeze.”
“Oh, and Lyla? …Tell me all the gossip. Find out all about him! And introduce me at some point!”
I nod, and tentatively walk out the house and towards my destiny, feeling distinctly ill at the thought of seeing this anonymous part-time lover who likes Oasis and yet still makes my stomach churn. What’s happening to me?