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Another Saturday night. Another stupid party.
Finn was getting tired of the sameness of these gatherings. Chop seemed to be perpetually giddy about them. He must have seen some sort of potential that Finn just couldn’t glimpse.
Finn felt like he could predict every moment of the evening: the slow awkward start, everyone gripping their cups a bit too tight, the emptiness of the room slowly eroding as more people showed up. The moment Chop or one of the other blokes would arrive, shouting, “Are you ready to get this party started?” which was followed by the sheepish smiles of those who had already been at the party, apparently just waiting around for it to begin. And later, when the party got into full swing, and everyone was in little pockets of conversation, but still a quarter of the guests scanning the room to see if there were better pockets to be a part of.
Finn tried to keep himself well out of it. Every now and then a girl would float over, a nervous smile on her face, and ask him if he was having a good time. He’d shrug and after a minute or two of dissatisfying conversation, she’d float away. A part of him felt bad. It wasn’t the girls’ fault he wasn’t interested in them. He wasn’t interested in anything much anymore. The thought of a second year of college, when he wasn’t even sure he wanted to go to uni, filled him with dread. But if he didn’t do that, what would he do?
His last girlfriend, Stacey, had been a slow-burn nightmare. Cute, he supposed, in an expected sort of way. She smiled a lot, but when he tried to talk to her about anything that interested him, she’d change the subject back to herself or, god forbid, their ‘relationship’ and Finn would clam up. He’d watch her mouth curl into a grin and wonder at whose expense her mirth was made. He felt like the proverbial lobster in the pot, and felt that maybe he’d scrambled out just before he’d gotten boiled alive.
After he’d broken up with her, he’d avoided, well, all girls, really. Buried his head in the latest copy of N.M.E. and figured he’d get interested in someone sometime. The girls that were drawn to him didn’t interest him, and he both wondered and worried about that. What was it about him that attracted girls who didn’t seem to have anything in common with him? Maybe he seemed a bit blank, a canvas for people to project themselves onto. Whatever it was, he found himself looking down a lot these days. Avoiding eye contact and studying the backs of his hands, trying not to think about his dying gran or his absent mum or his dad who tried so hard to be everything that it made Finn wince to think of it.
This Saturday night, near the end of July, Finn was on the move, trying to stay ahead of any hangers-on. He poured himself a drink in the kitchen: vodka and some purple something, plenty of ice. He wandered into the living room, just as the pop song playing stopped in the middle and Blur’s This is a Low came on. It was early enough for it, the dreamy slow burn of the song fitting right into the atmosphere of low conversation. Finn scanned the room for the stereo and found it in the corner, and a dark-haired girl crouched next to it, flipping through a stack of CD cases looking for the next song. He couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face. Barnstable must have asked her to take care of the tunes; maybe she was an aspiring DJ. He leaned against the wall, looking around from time to time, but his eyes kept drifting back to her. She tossed her long hair over her shoulder, out of her way, seeming oblivious to the revelry around her. She wasn’t part of the party; she was a self-contained unit. Her mission clearly was the music, and the next song she chose was Something Changed by Pulp.
Finn shifted against the wall; this was … was this something changing? Then came The Stone Roses I Wanna Be Adored, followed by Inside-looking Out by The Charlatans. He closed his eyes and listened to the lyrics and when the song was over, he shook his head. He was intrigued by this girl or maybe just by the idea of her. Then, she played Oasis’ Some Might Say. She wasn’t playing any of the usual suspects, but she was going somewhere with this, even if it was just for herself.
His cup had been empty of alcohol for a bit, and now only had some ice melting at the bottom of it. He pushed himself off the wall to get another drink, peering over his shoulder at her as he walked to the kitchen.
Archie was there, staring into the middle distance, looking as morose as Finn had felt half an hour ago.
“Y’alrigh’, mate?” he asked, opting for a can of lager this round.
Archie shrugged and nodded. “Yeah, fine.” His oldest friend seemed tired, worn out, like he’d been walking against the wind for too long.
Finn clapped a hand on Archie’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze, but there wasn’t any conviction in the gesture. He couldn’t even seem to reassure himself, let alone give hope to anyone else. When he drew his hand back, he stuffed it into his pocket and took a swig of his beer, glancing over through the doorway at the girl with the CDs. Now she was playing something he’d never heard before. The guitar was fast and fumbled out a rhythm; the woman’s voice was wry. Singing something about what doesn’t bend breaks and scars and fights and did she say fuck? Did she say choke?
Archie unconsciously nodded his head to the music as he leaned against the counter next to Finn. Finn watched as his friend pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, then glanced back to the girl. He could go ask her the name of this song, or if she knew the host. This was Barney’s party, and she didn’t look familiar.
Just then, he saw Stacey and her pals surround the girl, and his breath hitched with apprehension. Stacey had one hand on her hip and was gesturing with the other, explaining something in that way she had that always put Finn’s back up. The girl pointed to the pile of CDs and shrugged. Her eyes, which had danced in the dim light when she was going through track listings now dulled as she was reprimanded for some thing or other.
Then Stacey turned to head into the kitchen, her followers a half step behind.
“Oh, shit,” Finn said under his breath, turning and opening the fridge door to obscure his face. She was the last person he wanted to talk to.
Behind him, he heard her say, “Hi, Archie, how’s your night?”
Archie cleared his throat. “Yeah, fine. Good.” There was a pause, and Finn stared at a bottle of out-of-date salad cream, willing her to go away. “Uh, how’re you?” Archie continued.
“I’m alrigh’, yeah, even though the music is shit. No Backstreet Boys, not even any Take That, can you believe it? Just came in here to get a drink, but Finn seems to be monopolizing them, as usual.”
Fuck, Finn mouthed into the fridge before closing the door, not even bothering to pull out a bottle of something as a pretense.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, picked up his half-drunk can from the counter, and edged around the group of girls back into the living room.
Stacey tsked her tongue at him and the gaggle behind her did the same a second later. Finn’s shoulders hunched against the sound. An impotent rage bubbled in his stomach. Suddenly, he wanted to be at the gym, working a bag, getting out his frustrations, not milling around this party, waiting until he had put in his time and could go home to stare at the ceiling in his room for a while.
He’d come back into the living room with the thought of maybe making his way over to the stereo, chatting with the girl who had taken charge of the tunes. She was the first person he’d felt drawn to in a long time. But that interaction with Stacey had reinforced in him the need to get the hell out of there. Not just the party, but Stamford, the whole of Lincolnshire. Even if this girl was as cool as she appeared, there was no telling if she’d even want to talk to him. It was too much to hope anyone would be enough to balance out all the bullshit.
Lifting his almost-empty can to his lips, he drained the rest of his beer, crumpled it in his fist and tossed it into a black bin bag draped over a door handle. He waved at Archie, indicated he was heading out with a hitch of his thumb, and closed his eyes before glancing back at the stereo. He silently made a pact with himself: if she was looking up at him, he’d give her a nod. If she smiled, he’d stay.
Peering over his shoulder, his heart dipped with disappointment, seeing her face in profile; she was concentrating on getting the CD to sit right in the tray of the player. He bit the inside of his lip and sighed through his nose, and walked out into the summer night to the opening strains of On Your Own by The Verve.
This seemed appropriate. He started walking faster.
His uncle was coming down to see his nan next week. He’d ask him then about getting a job on his crew, which would get him out of this town.
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A year later, in a strange room in a foreign land, the same girl was bent over another pile of CDs. Finn looked at her, and saw her. And this time, when she looked up, her eyes met his. And this time, though he wondered, he wasn’t worried.