Maudlin Melody

“Are you sure? It doesn’t look right.”

“Surer than you are,” Josh says smugly, before going back to mimicking different actors from movies and TV shows he deems iconic. He’s doing it in an apparent Elvis accent as he changes the position of the doll. I now regret allowing him to hold it. Right now he’s muttering “What you talking about, Willis?”

I don’t even know what that damn quote is from. I can’t help smiling as I scribble in the rest of the answer and begin to read the next question though. “Just two left,” I say.

“Thank Elvis for that,” he replies before starting, suddenly making the Elvis doll bow stiffly. “Thank you, thank you very much,” he drawls.

“Hey, that was pretty good,” I state, glancing down at him. Before Josh can reply, there’s a knock at my door that is pretty pointless seeing as Harry’s head appears a moment later, regardless of the fact that I haven‘t answered yet.

He was clearly going to announce something, but after seeing me and Josh whatever he was going to say seems stuck in his throat and his mouth remains soundlessly open. I don’t see why. I’m sitting in the middle of my bed with my maths books out. Nothing strange about that. Then again, it could be the fact that Josh is leaning against my bed, holding my Elvis doll and probably putting him in erotic positions at this point. And did I mention he -Josh- has a bright yellow lei around his neck? He does.

“What the hell Josh?” Harry says when he finally recovers. He doesn‘t look angry though, just relieved. “Thought you’d gone home, I was going to have to watch Scream 4 on my own, you shit.”

“Ah, I’d never leave you alone to that! Pussy,” he smirks as he stands up. He goes to put my Elvis doll back. “I was just helping Mikey with his maths homework.”

“And judging me on my room,” I smile.

“Hard not to,” Harry grins. He opens the door wider. “Also, the Chinese has arrived. Dad says we’re eating that. But he's still going to see you.”
“Great,” I sigh. I shut my maths book and slide off my bed, following Josh and Harry out the door.

Just as Harry starts to descend the stairs, Josh jumps back. “Hey, forgot to put the lei back,” he tells me. Before I can tell him to just dump it on my bed he’s grabbed my hand and is pulling me back to my room. Once there, he throws it on my bed anyway and turns to me. It seems like he wants to say something, but he struggles with it for a moment, his hand still holding mine.

“Um, Josh..?”

His eyes flick to something behind me. “You play guitar?”

I frown. “Yeah, sort of. Not well-”

“But you can,” his usual grin is back and he starts to head out of the room again, patting his stomach. “Time for some good old Chinese! Oh, your dad better have ordered that duck stuff!”

I continue to frown as I follow the strange guy downstairs.



“Mikey! Pass me the lemon chicken,” Harry asks, chewing duck and special fried rice noisily. I wince at him and try not to look at his mouth as I pass the plastic container with the lemon chicken over.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You love it,” he murmurs, picking up several pieces with his sticky hands. I can feel my face scrunching up. I had originally wanted some of them, but that’s not going to happen. I continue forking rice into my mouth and glare at Harry.

“Not particularly.”

“I do, gimme some of that,” Josh speaks up, grabbing some for himself and then rising up onto his legs to reach over and get some of the weird white cracker things. He knocks over a jug which dad manages to grab before too much water slops over. “Oh shit, sorry, Mr. Day,” Josh says, raising his hands.

There‘s a pause before dad replies. “No problem, Joshua,” he narrows his eyes a little, but Josh doesn’t seem to notice. He rushes to get some paper towels and then starts mopping up the water clumsily, and then continues trying to reach over.

I stare at him incredulously before catching his hand as he makes another helpless effort. “Sit down, Josh, I’ll pass it to you.” I sigh, grabbing the bowl and extending my much longer arm across. Josh grins gratefully and sits down, taking the bowl from me carefully and picking up a heap of the crackers before putting it on his plate. He’s already finished all his rice and seems to be stocking up on any leftovers. It was actually quite interesting to see him eat everything so quickly, for such a small person that is.

Table talk goes to the fact that Josh just got a job at the pub that Harry works at, which they’re both pretty happy with, so I remain quiet, eyes on my plate, but listen in. Dad congratulates Josh but Harry and I cringe at his tone of voice. Our dad has a way of sounding incredibly old-fashioned and dry, unfeeling, therefore often sounding sarcastic and bored out of his mind when he really shouldn’t. He’s a nice guy and everything, but he doesn’t often sound like he gives a “flying fuck” (as I do believe the saying goes). We shouldn’t have bothered though, because Josh doesn’t seem to notice and thanks him animatedly, crunching noisily on his crackers all the way.

After the meal, dad makes Harry and I clear up, but Josh insists on helping out as well. Strangely, dad doesn’t argue with him and tell him to relax as he usually does with guests. He turns to me instead and gives me a look that makes me freeze, before saying, “My office,” and leaving the room.

Not only does this make me nervous, and stare at the door long after it’s swung shut, it makes Harry smirk.

“Someone’s i-in trouble! Someone’s i-in trouble!” he begins to chant. Immaturely, if may I add. I frown at him as I hand Josh a cup and pick up the empty containers.

“Well what’s he going to ask then?” I can’t help but probe. “You’ve got in enough trouble to know.” Another embarrassing fact? As a sixteen year old I’ve never been in much trouble (aside from chucking sand back in preschool, but I got so upset that I wet myself). Which is pretty rare. At my school anyway.

“He’ll just tell you not to do it again,” he dismisses, taking the cups from Josh and carrying them to the sink. Josh follows him and starts filling up the dishwasher. I follow as well and join him. I’m not sure if this is true. I’m pretty sure whenever Harry came out of dad’s office he usually looked pretty annoyed. Then again, it could have been the fact that he used to get a call home practically every week before he started college.
Of course, when it gets to it, dad doesn’t actually only tell me not to do it again.

“Your History teacher called. I’m guessing you know this.”

“Yeah. Josh told me.” My gaze sinks because I can’t bear to look at him.
Dad nods. He’s sitting in his big-man chair. The kind you see in those scary movies that the mafia-type guy sits in. In fact that whole study looks like something from a movie. The cream-coloured walls are laden with shelves all but bending under books upon books that I’m sure he could never read in his lifetime, but, knowing my father, he probably already has. There are folders and stacks of paper piling up on the ground in almost every spare space, and wires for random objects, and wires ending nowhere, trailing everywhere. The corners are shadowed, and when I was younger I always used to believe that monsters would grow out of it and keep dad in his office longer so we couldn’t play. Later on I used to believe it was them who’d taken my mother.

His heavy-duty wooden desk is all that’s separating us, and I wish there was so much more in between. He looks disappointed more than angry and I hate it. I can feel myself pick at my fingernails. Nervous habit.
“I’ve never had a call like this for you.” My dad’s voice is very neutral and, as usual, I can’t understand it.

“I know,” I reply simply.

“I’m not angry.”

My eyes flick upwards and I squint at him, trying to understand how he’s feeling.

“You’re not?”

“I’m not. I’m worried.”

“You’re…” I keep myself from sucking a breath in and looking away, but I can feel my face pale. “You’re worried?” Harry told him?

“You’re different, Mikey.” Dad sighs. “You have been for a while. And I have a feeling it’s related to Harry’s performance night. The one on your birthday.” Harry told him.

“N-no,” I deny. I’m shaking my head and trying to blank the already awakening memory from my mind at the same time. Every time I think about it I feel naked all over again, humiliated. I feel afraid. Did Harry tell him!?

“Mikey I’ve known something has been up for a while. This phone call from your teacher only backed that fact up.” Dad clasps his hands together. I don’t say anything. “You can tell me.” Dad, did Harry tell you!?

I twist my lips. Maybe he doesn’t know. I’m clearly not going to tell him the truth, but I’ve heard from Harry himself (he better not have told him) that the best way to lie is to tell as close to the truth as possible.

“I just, I… feel bad,” I tell him. I do. I feel horrible.

“Why is that?”

I begin to look uncomfortable. I’ve never been one for performing on stage, but I can act; lie in gestures. I’m good at it. “B-because… I,” my eyes stray from his own. I watch my fumbling fingers. “I drank alcohol. And smoked.” Which led me to having sex with the main singer of Naught A King. Maybe it’s a bit weak -a little feeble-, but after sneaking a glimpse at dad I can tell he believes me. Which just shows how much of a failure I am; as if I’d actually be that upset over drinking a bit of alcohol and smoking. But he believes me, and that’s all that matters. His face softens.

“I knew those people…” My dad’s head drops a little and his eyes slide shut temporarily. “Harry-”

“No! It’s okay, I’m just a bit-- I was shaken. It’s nothing to do with Harry, he was with a friend at the time anyway. It’s fine, seriously,’ I make myself stumble through the short monologue. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway, I’ll never do it again. I’m so sorry, dad...” I allow my voice to fade a little, sounding pathetic and lost. I’m doing pretty well.

“It’s fine, I trust you,” dad says. His voice is as monotonous as always, but he looks up at me and offers me a half reassuring smile and I almost feel guilty for lying. But this lie ensures I keep living, and my dad gets to believe his youngest son is still in touch with his innocence.



Thursday morning, Harry drives me to school before heading off to college. Claire, the ditzy prodigy and the only relatively frequent link I have with girls, spots me getting out of the car as she dismounts her bike. I wave to her when she beckons and we amble over to the bike shed together.

“Hi, Mikey.” I raise an eyebrow as she growls in frustration, smacking her lock against one of the metal ranks before attempting to slide the dials along so that she can enter her code. It takes another couple of slams against the rail and a violent twist of the dials before her ancient lock is a little loosened up. Claire breathes out through her nose. “Right. So. How are you this awfully bleak morning?”

I can’t help looking up and noticing the incredibly dull sky up ahead. It’s clear- cloudless for as far as I can see- but there is a sort of haze hanging over everything. I guess Claire is right; the only word to use is bleak.

“Fine.” And this answer is actually fine with Claire. She thankfully isn’t in as many of my lessons (as she’s in top classes for everything) so she doesn’t seem to have noticed my unresponsive behaviour in class.

“Really. Rich tells me there’s something going on with you and Harry,” she says as she finally manages to lock her bike and turns away, heading for the school building. I scowl as I adjust my bag and stuff my hands into my blazer pockets.

“No.”

“Ugh,” Claire sighs, her expression full of pity. “You boys and your bloody secrets.” This, of course, piques my interest.

“Rich has a secret?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure he has a secret girlfriend. Keeps texting her and won’t let me see. But he won’t let anything up. As if it matters. Seriously, you’re a couple of girls, both of you.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, losing my curiosity. Claire has a reputation for exaggerating reality. He’s probably texting his mum and too embarrassed to admit it. I steer Claire around a corner as she continues babbling, heading past the turning we‘re supposed to be taking.

“--and some days he goes out with her for stuff but won’t tell me where they’ve gone or who she is. Won’t even let me meet her. I mean, is he embarrassed about her or something?”

After a pause I realise Claire wants me to answer. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe she’s ugly.” I don’t bother to reply this time, but I consider for a moment that Rich has actually gotten himself a girlfriend. Would he keep it from me? If she wasn’t good-looking? “Oh God,” I pause alongside Claire and look down at her. Her features are arranged to show she’s upset. “Don’t tell me he told you and not me.”

I frown and roll my eyes. “No, Claire,” I sigh, before carrying on, pulling her into another corner.

“OW!” There’s a cry, and there’s an incredible pain shooting from my nose as I feel something collide with it. I know it’s pathetic, but I crumple to the floor, groaning as my hands fly to it and feel warmth gushing, not to mention the pain exploding across my face, stinging and-damn… I hate nosebleeds with a passion.

“Oh, jeez, Mikey? Mikey are you okay?”

I think it’s Claire. I mumble another “Ow” but it comes out like another groan and I decide to shut up if I want to keep the little dignity I have left. I squint an eye open but it’s not Claire in front of me. It’s a pale girl with dyed black hair and a nose ring (not stud, by the way. The ones bulls have, which is a little disconcerting). She has hazel brown, smiling, eyes lined in kohl and smiling lips. Both look vaguely familiar.

She’s groaning too, I’m quick to realise, and is clutching her head. “Ugh,” she says. She offers a crooked smile as she tries to right herself though. “Ow, sorry about that.”

“N-no, it’s fine,” I reply , my voice rather too thick and nasal for my liking. I struggle to stand but my hands being clamped to my face make this usually simple task incredibly difficult and Claire has to help me up awkwardly. Which is awkward. As the girl stands too, I smile -also awkwardly, not that she can see it anyway, what with my face being buried in my hands- and Claire begins to pull me away with an empty apology directed at our acquaintance.

“Youch,” my friend states unhelpfully.

“Um, shall I take him to the office for you?”

I feel a little miffed at being referred to as an object, but it’s hardly like I can say anything. The blood is trickling out of my nose in rivers and I’m pretty sure if I open my mouth it’ll fill it.

“No, it’s fine,” Claire begins to insist.

“Seriously, I’m on the way over there anyway. Form teacher is making me go over to get my nail varnish off, which is pointless if you ask me. Been everyday this week.” She removes her hand from her forehead and lifts her hands to display her colourful and surprisingly neat fingernails compared to her haphazard uniform and hair. They’ve been painted a bright orange and blue in intervals. The colours bounce off each other, it’s hard to miss.

“Oh. Well.” Claire glances at me hesitantly. I shrug; I don’t care what happens at this point. The blood is beginning to slip through my fingers onto the dirty school carpets and people are beginning to stare. I hate it when people stare. I think I’m feeling a little faint too. “Okay. Sure. Thanks.” Claire looks down the hall and back at me. “See you at break?”
I nod. She offers my captor and I a hesitant smile before heading off towards form. I think I sigh a little inside.

As soon as I’m left alone with the dark-haired girl she squeals lowly and grins widely at me. She places her hand on the small of my back and begins to guide me to reception, looking like she’ll burst into a little dance any moment from now.

“Hey, um, shit, this might be wrong, but I swear you’re Mikey Day, right!? I mean, you are, aren’t you?!” I freeze for a moment, but she continues to push me on, her words falling out of her mouth like bullets from a machine gun. “I saw you some weeks ago at a Naught A King gig. This is going to sound pretty bad, but I thought I recognised you! I saw you in school after and I’ve wanted to speak to you ever since.” There’s a minute second where she finally seems to take a breath before speaking again, “I’m Amber!” I nod at her -there isn’t much else I can do. “Never seen you at a gig before but… you’re Harry’s brother, aren’t you? And I would know if you’ve been to one, I’ve been to all of them.”

I can feel my eyebrows rise. Another dedicated fan. They’re really not rare around here but I haven't had one recognise and sort of call me up on it in a while.

“Then again, I owe it to my brother. He’s their drummer-”

I stop in my tracks- “Josh?” Ah. Dammit. A wave of blood flows into my mouth. I curse and wince at the iron-tinted taste, clamping my mouth shut again. I abhor the taste of blood.

“You know him?”

Well I did sort of have dinner with him yesterday. I wonder why she doesn’t know he’d been at Harry’s house. Instead of asking, I nod. And now I’m also beginning to see why I recognised her. She and Josh have very similar eyes. Their lips are both wide, and when they smile it's infectious.

“Ah, that’s awesome.” She grins at me as we reach the reception desk. “Here we are.” The minute the secretary looks at me, her eyes but fall out and seem to enlarge to twice their normal size. She indicates that I come round to the back, muttering something about how she doesn’t have time for this. Neither do I. I didn’t exactly plan to be head-butted. Shit happens.

As I begin to do what she asked, I hear her addressing Amber with disdain. “The same problem, Miss Read?”

Amber answers cheerfully, “Well of course! The very same! You wouldn’t expect anything different, would you?” and then to me, “Bye, Mikey.”
I turn in her direction and nod again. I’m feeling a little sick after nodding my head repeatedly, with blood still rushing out of my nose, granted the flow is thinning somewhat. Amber suddenly jumps and raises her index finger to me, signalling for me to hold my metaphorical horses. I do this and watch curiously as she collects a pen from the desk in front of her, scribbles something on an important-looking sheet of paper and then rips hastily, apparently unaware of the gasp from our unbelieving receptionist. Again, I’m reminded of her brother; impulsive and unaware. They are definitely related.

Amber scurries over to me and stuffs it in the back pocket of my trousers with a squeeze and a wink, causing me to blush ten times more than I think I ever have before.

“Promise to text me?!”

She allows me a moment to recover from the shock of the situation before raising an eyebrow. I nod (again), wordlessly, and she returns to where she was in front of the secretary (who still looks incredulous), staring happily.

“And that’s how it’s done,” she finishes. “Nail polish remover, please, Sarah.”



When I walk in late to my English class, I display my teacher a signed slip to confirm where I’d been for the first part of her lesson -as if my swollen nose, the red, blotchy surrounding area and bruised ego isn’t enough. I take my place by Rich. He’s looking at the still throbbing feature on my face but I ignore this fact.

“You told Claire,” I say instead. I reach into my bag for my English book, deciding I’m going to try to take something in for the first time in weeks. I can’t risk another conversation with my father similar to the one we’d had last night.

Rich cringes next to me then chuckles a little. “Ugh, I knew she’d tell you. Snitch.”

“You’re the stupid snitch,” I mumble. I open my book to the first free page and begin to scratch in the date with a black Biro. I prefer blue most of the time but I have my moods, and it’s black that I need to see on my page right now.

My blonde friend says nothing to this, and for a while we duck our heads down and focus on copying from the board in front of us. Before long though, my mind is drifting from poetry again.

I can see Addison. I can see myself. I can hear my own voice whimpering -out if pleasure- as one of his hands slides up my thigh and I can hear his voice whispering broken sentences I can’t remember. I can’t remember. I hate that.

There’s a lot of it I can’t remember. And at times it’s such a blessing. Others it feels more like a curse. I’m not entirely sure why.

I should hate it. I should hate every single thing that happened. I should hate it because Harry does, and he beats himself up over it. I should hate it because it happened to me when I didn’t at first want it, or know what I was getting myself into. But I don‘t. Not completely.

A part it me detested it, sure. I hated -hate- the fact that Addison controlled and used me like that. He manipulated me. The more I think about it the more I realise that he was putting all the drinks in my hand, and placing the spliff between my lips, just to pull my face to his before I’d exhaled.

Another part of me though, a fairly big part, liked it too. I loved the contact. How he touched me, how he kissed me. I mean, when I’d heard people say kissing, sex and all the things surrounding that kind of thing was good, I never knew they meant this good… I never knew that when people said something stirred inside you when you thought about a person, it really did. Something actually moves every time I think about Addison.

But what feeling is it? It’s wrong, isn’t it?

I meant every word I said to Harry. I feel bad. I feel horrible. I didn’t want it to happen but I did at the same time. When it happened I was drunk -and had I not been I would probably have said no. I'm upset that I’ve lost my virginity to a guy I don’t know in an environment I wasn’t comfortable in. But now that I think about Addison, nothing but bubbles erupt from the pit of my stomach. I’m meant to be angrier, aren’t I? In the beginning I was afraid… Didn’t that progress to rage?

Anything but some kind of weird affection that causes my cheeks to pinken. But this is my secret--

“Mikey!” A hushed voice jolts me awake from my daydream. As usual.
I blink twice and turn to Rich. He looks discretely from me to the front of the class. Ms. Anthony rolls her eyes and repeats her question, drawing groans and theatrical yawns from the class.

“The name of the poet on page thirty-eight, Mikey.” I squint at her before realising she’s referring to the poetry textbooks she’s handed out and lean forward on my desk. Thankfully it’s already on the page she asked for.

“Uhm, Im--Imtiaz Dharker…?” I mumble.

“Speak up, Mikey, I’m a lot older than you guys, my hearing isn’t all what it used to be.” Titters flare up around the room but my expression remains exactly the same. I have to ward off a coming scowl and repeat my answer, a little louder and with a pinch more confidence this time. I hate teachers that are sarcastic; she’s not old at all, probably only in her mid twenties, fresh out of University.

“Thanks,” I mutter to Rich.

“No problem,” he smirks. I glance at Rich out of the corner of my eye. I haven’t noticed it before, and maybe I’m just paranoid because of what Claire had said, but he looks happy. Not that he’s ever been sad before, but there’s something about him I guess. I can’t help considering the girlfriend idea again. I’m sure he’d tell me though; what reason would he have to keep her from me?

I decide to ease in subtly. I remember the slip of ripped paper in my pocket.

“You won’t believe what I got,” I begin. I feel like an idiot. I don’t think Rich notices. He looks over and raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah? What is it?”

I say, “I’ve got a girl’s number.” There’s a definite confusion in Rich’s features now, and he looks thrown. “Hey!” I frown, “It’s not that hard to believe,” I protest. Rich laughs a little but he still seems doubtful. Fine, I never usually speak to girls. It doesn't mean that if I do I'm so much of a leper that they'd... I don't know. It's not like he knows I might be gay for God sake.

“I know, I know, I just never expected… You’re… I mean, well… Good… For you.” He chuckles again. “It’s just weird.” My frown deepens.

“Thanks.”

“Oh, come on, Mikey, I’m just surprised, it’s not like you’ve been--” my eyes are narrowing. “You know what? Forget it. So… How?”

I roll my eyes, a little miffed that he clearly doesn’t believe me. I wouldn’t make up a bloody number, idiot. “She bumped into me earlier, she’s the one that made my nose bleed. Her name is Amber.”

“Ooh, great story for the grand-kids.”

“Shut up,” I scold. Rich smiles and starts to write something that Ms Anthony has said. Remembering I’d spaced out again, I take a moment to complete the task and write information about the poet. According to the board anyway. “As I was saying, she’s Josh’s sister.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Rich chuckles, “That’s weird.” I agree. “And she likes you?”

“Well I don’t know!” I find myself whispering hoarsely, my cheeks growing hot. I’m nervous just at the thought. I highly doubt it. Plus, a girl like Amber would eat me alive. “I looked like a bloody mess anyway so I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Why else would she give you her number though?” My best friend looks genuinely confused.

“Um, because she may think I look interesting..?” Or knows I’m related to the bassist of Naught A King, but technicalities.

“No, no, can’t be that,” Rich says scornfully. I kick him swiftly under the table and Ms. Anthony glares at the both of us, irate, as he laughs. But she’s successful in the end; we’re silent. And I never get to ask him about his mystery sweetheart.

I can’t help feeling annoyed as the class ends when Ms. Anthony also threatens to call my father.

The next couple of weeks waltz by without much incident. I sit a couple of mock exams that I’m sure I’ve failed. Claire and I talk a lot about Rich and the possibility of his (apparent) girlfriend, and he remains unaware about this. I text Amber -finally, after being hounded by Rich and Claire with Ooh, la la’s and Go get ‘em, Tiger’s. She texts me back, and before I know it we’re doing the whole constant back and forth thing. Best of all, it’s so easy to talk to her. Just as easy as it is with Josh. She makes me laugh and she’s been teasing me about my room too; Josh told her about it. I can’t help blushing furiously, my heart beating wild as an animal, whenever I wonder about what else could come up in conversation. She hasn’t mentioned anything much about that night, but that means nothing. It doesn’t ease my anxiety at all.

Harry buys a new fighting game for his Xbox and lets me play. I win him a couple of times. Occasionally he beats me. He brings a few friends over to play and Josh is one of them. Josh winks at me and asks me to take good care of his sister- if I know what he means. I reply with a blush and a stammering protest to the fact that anything is going on. Harry and his friends laugh at my expense, and I retreat to my Elvis haven.

Dad gets another call home too. One from Ms. Anthony. Obviously. But he just pats my shoulder in a way he supposes is comforting and tells me it’ll be okay; things can only get better. And I was truly starting to believe him. But everything seems to take a turn for the worse on the 3rd of December.