Collision

When we finally got back home that day (well, technically, it was my mother’s house and I was an unwanted house guest since I couldn’t afford an apartment on my pittance wages), I dumped the bags in the hall, kicked off my flat shoes, and padded into my bedroom — which was meant to have become the guest room once I’d graduated school, but I’d hijacked it as my own again. It was the smallest room of all the bedrooms, but I’d made it my own little hideaway — I’d painted the walls a silvery-grey, and the furniture in there was all odd shapes and styles, none of it matching but all reassuringly familiar.

I threw myself on my bed after I’d grabbed my laptop case. Out of it I pulled a battered looking silver laptop, the case scratched like hell and covered in half-rubbed off stickers of teenager infatuations. I switched it on, and hummed impatiently whilst I waited for it to load.

The first thing I did was pull up a Google search (best friend of the technologically-inclined reporter) and carefully type in ’My Chemical Romance’. Up popped the results, and I clicked on the wiki page. Hmm, interesting, I thought, scanning through it quickly. They were obviously a successful band, certainly enough to have a big fan-base, but definitely not my genre of music. I could see why Alex liked them though. They’d certainly appeal to her tastes.

I’d abandoned the wiki page and started bringing up pictures of all the members when my phone vibrated in my pocket. Confused, I slid it out.

just realized you have my number now. promise not to put it online? G

I laughed slightly, quickly typing out of reply — of course not. i’m not that kind of person. cam.

I waited for several minutes for a reply, but nothing came. I was slightly disappointed, but it was strange enough he’d texted me anyway. Still, I stuck the name in my phonebook anyway, because it bugged me it came up as Unknown every time — yes, I was pedantic like that. With a quick glance at the clock, I closed the laptop and got ready to go to sleep. Damn was I tired.

I wasn’t woken up by my alarm clock the next morning, but my sister throwing herself on top of me when I was happily slumbering. She made an ’oof’ sound and rolled off me, but not before I’d managed to kick her in the shin. I opened a sleepy eye to glare at her.

“What?” I snapped, grumpily. I was rarely happy when I was tired, and certainly never happy when I had been so rudely awakened. She shrugged, and I wanted to kick her again. So I did. “Alex, you’re seventeen. I’m sure you can dress and feed yourself by now, right? So leave me in peace.”

“Almost eighteen,” she said. “And yes, I can, thanks. What I can’t do though is get over the fact I met Gerard Way yesterday.”

“You also seriously freaked him out. Is that an achievement too or something?”

She scowled at me. “I didn’t freak him out.”

“Totally did,” I mumbled, shutting my eyes.

“Did not.” She hit me on the shoulder none-too-gently.

“Don’t be so childish.”

“Says the twenty-six-year-old who owns Hello Kitty underwear.”

“Hey, I said stay out of my wardrobe!” I yelled, annoyed at the invasion of privacy now. She giggled, completely unperturbed by my yelling, and rolled off the bed, and I noticed through my sleep haze she’d already dressed (in her usual uniform of black and grey, with a green beanie today.)

“You better get up soon, Cam. You know mum hates you sleeping in.”

“Mum just hates me, full stop,” I said, laughing. It wasn’t true; I knew she loved me. She just got tired of me hanging on, and as she’d put it, ’acting like a parasite’. Yeah, I loved my mother. I stretched, feeling my tired joints pop and enjoying the comfort and not really wanting to move out from underneath my covers, but also knowing if I didn’t get a move on right now I’d be late for work — and I couldn’t risk that, not again.

I groaned and slid out of the bed slowly, taking my time and wrapping a blanket around my shoulders before shuffling to the bathroom. It was a chilly morning, and the tiles on my bare feet were seriously cold. I did everything double quick, hopping around on alternating feet so I didn’t freeze solid, before I threw myself back on my bed, deciding to put off getting dressed for at least another few minutes.

Which turned into ten, meaning I had to grab the first clean clothes I could find before flying down the stairs into the kitchen, snatching an apple from the bowl on the table, and pausing for a few seconds to hug Alex — which she loudly protested about — before slipping on my favourite jacket, my shoes, and my bag and slamming the door closed after me.

I ran all the way to the bus stop, but I still missed it by several minutes. I sat down in the small shelter, sighing. This meant I would be late, no doubt about it, but it was nobody’s fault but my own. Not that I’d tell the Boss that — perhaps an excuse to do with a flat tire would work this time? (She didn’t have to know I couldn’t afford a car, or even drive for that matter.)

The Boss’s real name was Suzie, but I’d never heard anyone call her that in all my time working at Stratford New Evening Standard. She was a tall, severe-looking woman, who, although only about eight years older than me, came across as old-fashioned in her sombre black suits. She acted like Stratford New Evening Standard was a world-famous newspaper, not just that cheap one which people bought once, discovered how crap it was, and never bought it again (which seemed to be the general audience response.) She was not all bad in honesty, but was the kind of person who expected perfection and that made her a hard person to impress.

When I finally got into work, I’d just managed to sit down in my tiny, cramped cubicle when someone came bouncing over to me. She was a tiny thing, but she managed to look imposing anyway — all wild, curly purple hair, stretched earlobes, and tattoos. The only reason she got away with it was that we never have to talk to anybody outside the office, so the rules on dress code were pretty relaxed. She was the resident music genius, crazy person, and water cooler gossip queen. And my best friend.

“Hi, Janey,” I said, laying my cheek against the desk. She jumped up and sat on it and clapped me on the back.

“You’re in for some shit, Cam. The Boss looked positively ready to explode when she saw you hadn’t turned up on the dot. Did you get that column finished?”

Silently, I reached down and pulled out a few paragraphs printed on a crumpled piece of white paper. She took it, read it quickly, then smiled. “Well, this might at least calm her a little. But a bit of advice, babe... your bra is showing. I’d sort that out before you go see the Boss.”

I glanced down at my top, and realized with dread that she was telling the truth; in my rush in the morning I’d managed to put on a bright pink bra (which was the colour my cheeks were turning now) and a white top. I picked up my red leather jacket off the floor where I’d flung it when I came in and quickly put it on again and zipped it right up to the top, trying to hide my embarrassment and failing miserably.

Taking a few seconds to gather my courage, I finally stood up and made my way to the room on the other side of the office. The Boss’s office was basically a refurbished cupboard, and I theorized it had previously been used to store copious amounts of bleach from the sterile smell you were hit with when you walked in. Or perhaps that was the cleaner’s idea of cleaning. It wouldn’t surprise me. Just last week I’d found a dead bird stuffed in a bin in the rec room, which certainly wasn’t my most pleasant discovery.

The Boss herself was sat a small desk piled high with neat stacks of paper. The walls of the room were bare except from one newspaper cut-out, framed and hung on the far wall. Her first article, I’d found out, although I’d never read it. The only reason I found myself in this office was to be told off.

“Cameron,” she said, as way of greeting. A hard frown graced her features. I stood before her, unable to stop fidgeting under her steady gaze. She had a talent of reducing even the most strong-willed and fiery spirit to a nervous wreck with her cold grey eyes. I expected to be yelled and ranted at, so her next words surprised me: “I’m disappointed in you, Cameron,” she said.

“Uhm?” Not the most eloquent response, but it was all I could manage.

She held up a hand. “Don’t waste your breath, Cameron. I have something else you may be interested in. I want you to help Janey write a review on a few concerts. You know, just help her be a little less... her and more serious.” She looked up at me. “Can you do that?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Great. Janey knows the details, so go talk to her.”

I took this as a dismissal, and exited the office. Janey was outside, and there was a look on her face which said she’d been eavesdropping and heard everything. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I mumbled at her, but let her link her arm with me and drag me into the hallway.

“I don’t care,” she said. “Cam, you can’t fuck this up. I’m not kidding, I will die if I have to work without you. You’re, like, the best person here.”

I shook my head tiredly. “I know, I suck with responsibility,” I said. “Are you gonna tell me about this collab thing?”

I’d managed to change the topic quite smoothly, I thought, and she didn’t seem to have noticed. She just launched straight into the explanation of the work we needed to produce and I nodded along, listening carefully.

~*~

It was about five minutes to lunchtime when my phone buzzed in my jacket pocket, making me jump. I pulled it out. The text on the screen made me raise an eyebrow: ’1 new message from Gerard’. After checking that none of my nosy colleagues nearby were looking (I really didn’t need it getting back to the Boss I was texting at work) I opened it.

thank you, i appreciate it. g

I decided to leave replying to it until after lunch, as to not risk the Boss finding me texting. Janey, who had dragged her desk chair over to my desk so we could sit and discuss our joint article properly, was giving me a curious look. I was about to say the idea I’d just come up with when my phone vibrated again. What the? Another text?

I opened this one, slightly more confused now.

btw what’s your full name? g

I didn’t have much willpower, obviously, because I replied straight away, typing ’are you planning to stalk me if i tell you my full name?’ as quickly as my unused-to-texting fingers could. I knew Janey was getting impatient that I wasn’t giving her my full attention, so I put my phone down and looked at her.

“Who was that?” She asked, tapping her pencil against the sheet of paper she’d been scribbling notes on.

“Alex,” I lied. Janey was a huge gossiper and I didn’t want to know what kind of conclusion she’d draw from the fact I’d been texting a guy, of all things.

She made a noise which showed she didn’t really believe me, but turned her attention back to the work at hand. It had turned out to be an article on the local music scene of Stratford (non-existent) and reviews on the recent concerts in London (mostly crap, according to Janey.) I wasn’t sure what exactly I was meant to bring to this piece, except my expertise at dulling Janey’s sharp tongue — she had high standards and she didn’t mince her words... at all. I felt sorry for those who got on her bad side.

“I think we should mention Jack Frost’s Minions in the second paragraph,” I said. “To fill it out a bit more.”

“They were crap, though,” she said. “Like, the vocalist couldn’t hold a note and the guitars were totally out of time.”

I gave her an exasperated look. It was the third suggestion of mine she’d shot down in a row. “Fine,” she conceded, seeing my look, and wrote it down. “But I can’t promise to be nice about it.”

Janey was probably the most popular writer for the Stratford New Evening Standard — at least with teenagers, which was a surprising thing since it was meant to be a ’serious newspaper’. But she was always a hit and her page right at the back of the paper contained a wealth of information on new music bands to check out. She didn’t take her writing as seriously as me, though, and in fact a lot of it was sarcastic and full of attitude. Which was exactly why it was so fun to read.

“How about My Chemical Romance?” She said. My head shot up, recognising the name. “They’re playing a few shows in the O2 arena this month. I think the first one was a couple of days ago but I didn’t get to see it so I might have to ask Twitch about it... what are you looking at me like that for?”

“What?”

“Like, I’m an alien,” she said. At that moment my phone started vibrating again, but I didn’t say anything and instead shrugged (I really needed to find a new way to show my apathy), trying to ignore the urge to snatch my phone up straight away. Finally, once it had stopped buzzing, I picked it up.

“Obviously you’re not concentrated on this, Cam,” she said. “I have a feeling you need coffee. I’d suggest we go for lunch at our usual place but I have to go to a meeting, so you’re on your own.”

Lunch sounded like a divine idea, I thought. And if Janey wasn’t going to be there to talk to I could use the time to check over some of the piling up paperwork on my desk before it overflowed. I smiled, standing up. “It is lunch time,” I said, now craving a nice cup of coffee and a chocolate muffin — as bad as that was for me. “What’s the meeting about?”

She waved her hands about dismissively. “You know, stuff,” she answered vaguely, and I knew she must have something up her sleeve.

“Have fun, whatever it is,” I said. I turned off my computer as per the company guidelines (even though I was sure that nobody would want to get hold of the boring stuff on my computer) and gathered my belongings so I could leave. I had about fifty minutes every day but I often found myself only using ten or so since I didn’t eat a full meal and usually only grabbed a cup of coffee. The office was a small, run-down building, but close by a large cluster of shops and a shopping centre. I sped down the stairs, jumping the last two. As I stepped outside I was hit by the cold almost instantly, making me shiver in my thin top and not so warm jacket. November was always horrible in this area, although this year it had been particularly bad. I wasn’t an extreme weather person — summer was almost as bad for me, but at least it meant I got a nice tan.

I quickly made my way to the coffee shop Janey and I always went to (so much the owner, Jon, knew us both by name) but when I stopped outside I was slightly confused to find it closed. It was never closed — Jon couldn’t afford the loss of customers it would cause. And definitely not at lunch time. It must have been something quite serious.

I remembered the text message on my phone whilst I was trying to decide a place to go instead, opening it.

i’m not that kind of guy... anymore. and it’s only fair since you know mine. g

Anymore? I do hope he was joking there.

fine, it’s cameron martinez. but i’m calling the police if i find you outside my window at night. cam.

I sent it off and then looked around, deciding to go towards the more populated area and just find another coffee store. There was a surprising amount of places to choose from. I settled on a nearby Starbucks in the shopping centre we’d been in yesterday, since I’d never been to one before and I’d finally decided to see what all the fuss was about.

The queue was way too long, I thought, as I stepped into the shop. It wasn’t out the door but it was getting there. I was about to take my place when my phone went off again.

look behind you. g

I did.

“Hello,” he said brightly. I was pretty sure it was Gerard from the messy black hair, even if he was wearing really dark sunglasses and a scarf wrapped around the lower portion of his face. And his voice, with the American accent it had taken me ages to pick up.

“You said you wouldn’t stalk me!”

“I’m not,” he said, scratching his neck under his scarf ruefully. I’d already noticed he did that a lot.

“You just happened to walk into the same Starbucks I did at the same time on the same day, in a place just far enough away from central London, where I assume you’re staying, to be inconvenient?” I said. I couldn’t help but smile a little bit. “I’m not special enough to be stalked you realize. My life is as boring as hell.”

“Hey, I’m not stalking you. I was just in the area. Talking to a producer. Not that I should be telling you that.”

“Relax, I’m not being serious,” I said, shaking my head slightly. I still couldn’t believe it, but it was an amusing coincidence anyway. “And I don’t really care what you’re doing here, not really. I just want to get my coffee and go back to work.”

“Why don’t we sit down and talk a bit?” he asked. We’d been slowly shuffling towards the counter as we’d been speaking but we were still only half-way there.

“Because, er, you’re a complete stranger?” I repied, grinning. He shrugged. Damn, it was catching.

“Sometimes the best people to talk to are strangers. They don’t have any bias.”

“It would be nice to talk to someone, I guess. Usually I sit with Janey but she’s got a ’meeting’. Pretty sure that’s code for a guy.”

It was hard to see his expression under the sunglasses, and it wasn’t helped by the scarf over his chin. I could only just see his smile, which made lines and small dimples appear around his mouth and nose. “So what are you going to order?”

“Uhm... I’ve never been here before. Just a coffee?”

“You’ve... never been to Starbucks before?” he repeated. Even I could pick up the incredulous tone to his voice.

“No?”

“Well... I’d suggest a tall coffee if you just want something plain. Although, do you like mochas? Or lattes?”

I noticed he used his hands a lot when he was talking, whether he was explaining something or just chatting. His hands never stopped moving, whereas mine were normally by my side, or, on this day, stuffed in my jacket pockets. The second I noticed was that he stood slightly hunched in on himself, like he was uncomfortable in his skin. It seemed like a strange trait for someone who exuded the confidence he did.

“Over my head,” I said finally.

He tried to explain the ordering system to me, but eventually gave up. We finally got to the counter, and I just let him take charge. He ordered something which I had no clue was, but reassured me I’d like it. It wouldn’t be much of a loss if I didn’t. I’d just get some of the less than stellar coffee from the machine back at work if I had to.

I saw two girls getting up, about to leave, and quickly sidled over to their table. It was packed, and I saw two other customers eyeing the table as I sat down. A few minutes later Gerard joined me, carrying the two beverages. He set them down on the table, unwound his scarf and took his sunglasses off, then slid into the seat across from me.

“So,” I said, awkwardly. I remember what Janey said earlier about a My Chemical Romance performing some concerts here. “You’re here for a tour, right?”

Without sunglasses I could see his eyes properly, and it was easy to see the excitement which they lit up with. “Yeah. It’s the very end though, but it’s one of our first big big tours. World tour to promote our album. We’re only here for a week. Then it’s off...” he paused, as if he was trying hard to remember. “I don’t know where!” he said this last bit with such enthusiasm, his hands thrown out empathetically, that I couldn’t help but laugh.

I took a small, cautious sip of the drink he’d placed in front of me, testing out the flavour. I was pleasantly surprised by the normality of it, although it was a lot sweeter than I was used to. Definitely not the nicest coffee I’ve tasted, but it wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. “You don’t know where you’re going?” I asked, slightly amused.

“We’ll find out when we get there,” he explained. “I’ve never been good with places... if you want the planning dude ask Bob.”

I remembered the name from my research last night. “Bob’s the drummer, right?” I questioned, still slightly uncertain. He looked surprised, and nodded. “I read up on you. Although honestly I still don’t know much.”

“I gathered somebody like you wouldn’t know anything about us,” he said. “You should come to a show one day though, I think you’d enjoy it.”

The way he drank his coffee was a lot less cautious than me. Was it a requirement for a touring musician to be able to gulp down searing hot coffee without hesitating?

“Someone like me?” I asked as I put down my coffee, and, without the cup to play with, I started tapping on the table as a way of fidgeting. I’d never been able to sit still.

“You know...” He trailed off, as if looking for a way to voice what he meant. “Compare us. Everyone has their unique tastes but there’s still stereotypes, right? We’re different but we fit into our groups.”

My mouth tilted up at the corners. “Alright, I get it. I’m boring,” I said dryly.

He shook his head. “No, not boring,” he said, smiling. “I quite like your style, actually. It’s different.”

“Yeah, it’s all the rage amongst twenty-somethings struggling in a dead-end job with no future prospects and fading dreams — it’s called ’roll out of bed, pick stuff off the floor and throw it on’.”

“Ouch. I was going for more… interesting, actually.”

“I’m glad you like it,” I said. “But I wasn’t kidding.”

“What do you do?”

The question surprised me, and it took me a few seconds to formulate a proper answer. “Uhm, I’m a journalist. Well, I want to be. It’s not really working at the moment. I thought after three years of slaving away university it would be so easy, but it’s not. And at the moment I’m sort of in big trouble with my boss,” I rambled. I didn’t want it to sound like I was whining but I knew it did anyway, and I blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to like, unload you with my problems.”

“Don’t worry about it. I know how it feels to be stuck in a dead end job. If I wasn’t in this band I’d probably be working in a bookstore or something,” he said with a small laugh.

I let go the strands of my red hair I’d been twirling with and took a few more sips of coffee. We sat in silence for several minutes. I turned my head to look out of the window beside us — I’d found myself in one of the most awkward situations in my life. Talking to a near stranger was harder than I’d thought, because I was already second-guessing myself. At least with friends I knew they’d known me long enough to understand my quirks, my humour. I’d never been good at small talk and I wasn’t sure how to continue it now... and I was pretty sure Gerard didn’t know either.

“Don’t you have a bodyguard?” I questioned, mulling this situation over. If he was famous, even not as much as an a-list celebrity, he should have some kind of guard, surely?

“I do,” he said. “But I like to get out on my own sometimes. Otherwise it gets stifling. I mean, I’m thirty years old now — it’s not like I need to be looked after. Although Brian certainly wouldn’t agree with that.”

“Brian’s... your manager?” I guessed.

“Yeah. He’s fucking awesome,” he said, grinning and playing the cup he was holding in his hands. The liquid inside was almost gone and I wondered briefly how he’d managed that, glancing down at my still half-full cup. So he had the magical power to fry teenager girl’s brains and finish coffee of superhumanly fast?

I bit my bottom lip nervously, playing with it between my teeth. “I wonder what my superpower is,” I mused absent-mindedly. He shot me an odd look, and I realized I’d said it out loud. I blushed as I dug my phone out to check the time and my stomach dropped. “Shit. I’m gonna be late if I don’t go now,” I said, jumping to my feet.

“Oh, okay,” he replied. I was sure I was mistaken, but he looked a bit disappointed. “Do you want me to walk back with you?”

I shook my head. “Nah, enjoy your coffee. And it was nice talking to you... I’m sorry, I have to leave, like, right now.”

I grabbed my bag from under the table, and my phone from where I’d placed it on top, and darted to the door. I didn’t stop running until I was back at the office, out of breath and flustered. I’m pretty sure my cheeks were burning red from the cold, and I’m sure it wasn’t the most flattering look. But I’d got back in time. So the Boss couldn’t yell at me for that.