Silhouette (13 page)

‘Maybe. But I don’t want to try it here. And I don’t think you should either.’

That sounds like a dare. I toss my hair, eyes on Grant. Then I tap a single tablet out of the bag and place it on my tongue. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.

A cheer springs up in the main room as the band walks onstage. I turn back to Grant, and taste the tablet on my tongue. I was expecting sweetness, sherbet fizz, but there’s no denying this is a chemical. It’s so bitter. I swallow and make a face.

‘Do you want yours?’ I ask Grant, but he spins away from me and strides back into the main room. I follow. When we get to the dance floor, I begin to move. With him or without him, I’m here to have fun.

I keep dancing. Arms up, swaying to the beat, eyes closed. Every now and then I sneak a glance at Grant, standing a little way off. He’s watching me, arms crossed. I decide to ignore him.

As the band moves into their next song, something changes in the air. It’s like a sudden, harsh zoom. The building. The room. The space within me. The rush of my blood.

The air is soft against my skin as I move. I’m flushed, switched to high.

It’s not so much the goodness of this as the absence of bad. The sharp edges of my life have been removed. Dancing. Mum. My dad. Homework and next year. They don’t touch me like they normally do. I’m still myself, but without the raw spots. For once, nothing weighs me down.

Moss’s voice reaches inside and I imagine my blood pulsing in time. When I turn to the stage the band seems to shimmer, standing behind a membrane of sound. I could touch it, I’m sure.

There’s a change of song, then another. I find myself staring at a line of dust floating in laser lights. Why move when you can just feel?

Grant touches my arm. I feel tingles and warmth from his hand. He’s holding out a glass, but I don’t want it. I feel utterly perfect, no need to change a thing. Grant doesn’t take no for an answer and I’m too happy to resist. So I accept the glass and drink. It’s like a mountain stream. How did he know?

I smile and plant a kiss on his cheek, then bump him with my hip.
Come on, don’t be like that …

Grant takes back the glass and disappears while I keep floating, swaying. Another song stops and a new one begins. I’ve been floating for days when Grant reappears beside me. Maybe it’s just minutes.

‘How about we make this
the last song
?’ Grant yells above the music.

I shake my head. ‘No way! This is amazing.’

‘Come on, Scarlett. We’ve been going since eight this morning. I’m tired.’

This time I do stop. ‘All right, well … thanks for coming.’ I reach up and touch his cheek. ‘I’m going to stay.’

‘I’m not leaving you here on your own.’

‘Don’t worry! I’ll be fine.’

Grant places a hand on my shoulder.

I pull away. ‘Look, I’m fine, okay?’ I hear Moss signing off and realise I must have missed something. Where was I when he sang ‘Everywhere’?

‘Scarlett, listen to me,’ says Grant, but I push past him to see the band moving offstage. Confusion hits me, a memory of some other time. I’m not meant to be on the dance floor anymore. I’m one of them.

‘Scarlett …’ someone says.

I push through the door backstage, desperate to find Moss. Nothing else matters. Wherever he is, I have to be.

The back room is emptier now, but still charged with electricity. I move past people. Not you. Not you. Not …

In the next room, I find him. He has his back to me, torso pressed so close to someone else that I can hardly see who she is. Just a thin arm around the back of his neck as they kiss. Kitty.

For a moment, I stare.

Something in me breaks.

I thought I was okay with this. I thought I was fine.

Turns out, I’m not.

The Academy feels small on Monday, simple somehow. Not the real world. I go where I’m expected, do what I’m told, feeling like it’s all just a dream. People move past me, stressed and busy. I keep moving too, carried along by routine. I’m more tired than I’ve ever been.

At various points through English, I notice Grant watching me. He found me backstage at the Dixie Bar, messed up and crying. I don’t remember much after that.

We’re not in French together, but by psych Grant’s back, glaring at me.

By lunchtime I’ve had enough. I fall in beside him as soon as he leaves his locker. ‘You wanted to come, okay? No-one forced you.’

‘I wanted to see what was going on,’ says Grant, eyes straight ahead. Then he turns to me and slows his pace. ‘And it’s even worse than I thought.’

‘Yeah, thanks for that.’ I turn away.

For once I can’t even face a studio after school. When I get home, I pull out my laptop and start working. Not because I’m desperate to get my homework done, really, but because it’s better than thinking about Moss … remembering.

Mum’s not home and I’m glad. I make a salad for dinner, then get back to work.

I’ve nearly finished my French exercises when an image comes back to me of the way his head moved as he kissed her. The sense of seeing something I shouldn’t. It makes me want to throw up. I swivel away from my desk and take long gulps of water. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.

When I finish drinking I feel better, clearer. Inside my wallet is the tiny snap-lock bag and a single tablet still inside. I pull it out and examine it. The edge has been chipped and powder has collected in the corner of the bag. I lie on my bed, knees to chest, and just look at the tablet.

How strange that by simply swallowing a pill, my whole world can shift. I know now what it’s like. For just a few hours I wouldn’t have to be here. I wouldn’t have to carry this weight.

I’m woken by my mobile. Slowly, I open my eyes. I’m on top of my doona, still in my clothes.

I must have fallen asleep. The snap-lock bag is still in my hand, the tablet still inside. Luckily Mum didn’t check on me and find it.

I hide the bag between the pages of a
Dancer
magazine and reach for my phone. Electricity floods through me as I see the name flash on the screen. Moss. It’s followed by a faint urge to throw up.

For some reason my hands shake as I take the call.

‘Hello?’

‘Babe, where are you? Can you come over?’

I check the clock. 12.17 a.m. Suddenly I’m wide awake. ‘Why? What’s going on?’

‘It’s this Manchester Nights song. I wan’ you to hear it.’ There’s a slur in his words. What has he been doing in the two days since I was at the club?

The last time I saw him …

‘What does Kitty think of it?’ I keep my voice even. Innocent question.

There’s a long pause and I think he’s about to hang up. ‘I’m not calling Kitty. I’m calling you.’

Yes. He’s calling me. I should be glad but somehow it makes me annoyed. ‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’

‘Jesus, Scarlett! I haven’t slept in days. I need you to come over.’

They’re not the right words exactly, but they’re close. ‘I don’t know. There won’t be any buses running this late. I have stuff on tomorrow.’

‘I’ll send the car round.’

I don’t say anything for a while. Then, ‘Okay.’ Because he called me.

I’m used to packing my backpack by now.

Mum’s not going to like finding the note when she gets up. And even though it’s a whole new way to punish her, I have a moment wondering whether this is too much. What will she think when she reads the scribbled words saying I’ve gone out?

But what can she do to stop me?

I pull open the front door, thinking she might hear the creak and come down. Then the door clicks shut and night is all around me, as if it’s been waiting.

It’s cold out here, still and quiet. Air cools my nose, my throat. I stand on the curb, backpack on my shoulder.

The houses are dark and cars line the street. Everyone’s asleep. In a few hours they’ll be awake. Everyday people leading everyday lives. Not like me.

It’s the strangest thing when the car pulls up, like something from a dream. I wave hello and the driver nods. Did he have to wake up for this?

The back seat is warm, deep leather. I settle in and yawn as we pull away from the sleeping street.

Lights shine from every window at Moss’s place. The whole house is switched to ‘on’. He opens the door soon after I push the buzzer, and takes my hand in both of his. ‘Baaaabe.’ He kisses my hand before looking up. ‘Thanks for coming.’

I blink against the brightness. Moss really does seem glad to see me. And in the time it takes to follow him through the house and into the studio at the back, I realise that I don’t hate him for what he did. He never lied about how it was going to be. He was honest when so many other guys would have told me exactly what I wanted to hear, and then done whatever they wanted behind my back. Surely
that
is worse.

Moss sits me on a leather couch beside a mixing board, and I take in the space. Two keyboards, microphones, various guitars. Black cords snake here and there. There’s a bar out here too and I find myself with a tall glass in my hand.

‘Okay?’ asks Moss, cigarette in the corner of his mouth. I don’t mind the smell so much now.

I nod. Take a sip. I’m not sure if it will wake me up or put me back to sleep.

Moss pushes buttons on the mixing board and sound fills the room. No lyrics, but I hear Bruno’s drums, the funk carried along by Bryn on bass guitar. We’re barely a minute in when sound is replaced with silence.

‘It’s the bridge,’ he says. ‘I don’t like it. The bridge isn’t working.’

‘The bass is good,’ I say.

‘Can you dance to it?’ asks Moss. He glances at me before looking down and fidgeting with something on the mixing board. ‘You need to be able to dance to it.’ He’s muttering to himself and I’m not sure if he’s talking to me. When he looks up again, he raises his eyebrows. ‘Will you dance?’

‘It’s the middle of the night. I’m tired.’ It’s true, but also a tease.

Moss steps from behind the mixing table. ‘I need to see how you move to the music. Just …’ He waves his hands at the room. ‘Do what you normally do.’

‘Like at a club?’

‘No, real dancing. Like … s
how
me the music.’

Something about the way he keeps shifting his feet and waving his arms makes me think that Moss hasn’t slept for a while. He seems all pent-up, switched to a hundred and ten.

But at the same time, I understand what he’s asking. He wants me to interpret the music. He wants me as a dancer. In some ways it’s the most flattering thing I’ve ever been asked.

I slip off my shoes, stand up. Test the response of the floor with the ball of my foot. I can do this. I used to do it all the time, at home before starting at the Academy. The minute you start to rehearse a piece is the minute it becomes just that.

The music begins. I don’t look at Moss, try not to think about him, just take in the music. Feel it, and respond.

The music is sassy and confident. We reach the place when Moss last switched off and I keep going into the bridge. The sounds are more layered here, faster, busier. And there’s a moment when I lose the feel, faff a little, try to pick it up again.

‘There!’ The music turns off. ‘That part, there’s something wrong.’

I’m panting, light, and a little dizzy. ‘Moss, it’s really good. It’s not perfect yet, but you should get some sleep. You’ll be able to see what it needs in the morning.’

‘Sleep?’ He comes around from the mixing board, pacing in front of me. His hair is all mussed up, as if he’s been pulling at it. ‘I can’t sleep until I get this right. Do you realise what’s at stake here? My whole career depends on this album. If I miss this chance –’

‘Moss!’ I place my hands on his shoulders. ‘The song, it’s going to be awesome. You just need to leave it for a while. It’s late, okay? I’m tired.’

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a snap-lock bag. ‘Here. This’ll help.’

There’s white powder inside.

I bite my lip, eyes on the bag. Grant’s not here to stop me, or Bruno. I think of Saturday night, and the way Moss is now, and somehow I know that I’ve reached a point I’m not going to cross.

I shake my head. ‘No thanks.’

‘Come on.’ Moss jerks his head towards a table, expecting me to follow. ‘You won’t believe this, babe. It’ll wake you up. Open your mind.’

I stay where I am.

Moss turns back impatiently. ‘Come on.’

‘No,’ I say and shrug. ‘I don’t want it.’

He snorts. ‘How do you know if you’ve never tried?’

‘I just …’ I shake my head. ‘You can finish the song without this stuff. You just need some sleep.’

‘I won’t need sleep once I have a hit.’ Again, Moss holds up the bag. ‘Just have a bit.’

‘Look, I said no, all right?’ I draw myself up taller. ‘I’m not giving you grief about Kitty Hudson, so don’t give me grief about this.’

That takes him by surprise. One eyebrow cocks. ‘Touché.’ Moss looks at the bag in his hand and slips it back in his pocket. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘You’re really something, you know that?’

I’m not sure if it’s a compliment or an insult. Right now I’m too tired to care. ‘You really should get some sleep.’

Moss nods as a slow smile spreads across his face. ‘You want to go to bed?’ He takes my right hand and holds it up to his mouth. I feel his breath on my wrist, his lips tickle the inside of my elbow. He slips his hands down, grasping my hips and pulling me towards him.

‘Is that what you want?’ whispers Moss into my ear.

All I have to do is turn my head and we’re locked together, kissing. The electricity in him feeds into me. We don’t make it to bed, just melt onto the floor.

It answers a question.

I still want him.

I shouldn’t.

But I do.

THIRTEEN

I’m tired for the rest of the week. It’s as if I’ve left part of me back with Moss. Dancing’s no relief. It’s hard to sleep, and eating just makes me tired. On Friday I turn to jelly beans for energy, then start feeling sick and switch back to coffee instead.

By the time I make it to grad performance rehearsal on Saturday I’ve been forcing focus for so long that my eyeballs ache.

‘Here,’ says Paige, holding out two headache pills when we get to the final break. There’s no smile, just her steady gaze.