Chapter 2
By the time we reach the sixth song, I am astonished to see that I’m still standing.
I yell the lyrics that I know backwards with every shred of air in my lungs until my throat aches, letting the music move through me in a way I’ve never experienced before. The drums are louder, harsher. The rhythm pounds under my feet and in the centre of my chest.
The songs feel like an old friend greeting me, wrapping their melodies around my shoulders and holding me steady.
I assumed I might find all the sounds of a gig overwhelming, but there’s something about my voice getting lost in the endless bed of noise that is oddly comforting. The fact that I possess a great lack of singing ability holds no weight here – what a blessing.
Hennie checks in with me regularly, and I wait for the tangled heat of my insides to turn into panic, but it never does. When a current of white hot energy races through me, I realise that it isn’t the familiar kind of adrenaline that I’m expecting. It doesn’t feel like fear.
If anything, I’ve never felt more awake or present in my life.
As they round off their song ‘Guarantee’, the crowd choruses together in a frenzy. They’re approaching the end of their set, which means the crowd is increasingly desperate to be heard.
Rosie looks up with a shy smile, putting a hand over her eyes to shield them from the harsh sun. ‘How are you doing, Firecrest?’
The crowd roars in response, with several screams of ‘We love you!’ thrown in for good measure.
‘Is now the right time to propose marriage to Aga, do you think?’ Hennie asks, clutching my arm.
‘Marry me, Rosie!’ someone behind us shrieks.
The girl in front of us twists around to seek out the shouter with an expression of such deep disdain, I snort and give Hennie a look.
‘Terrible. How unrefined,’ she utters under her breath.
Rosie beams. ‘We never would have dreamed of playing a festival like this.’ She looks back at her bandmates who all grin in response.
‘So, we wanted to say thank you to every single person in this crowd. Whether you listened to us for the first time last week or a decade ago on an actual CD and you’re somehow still here. ’
Despite myself, my eyes sting with tears remembering my three Queen Ego CDs piled on top of my dusty, clunky CD player on my desk. I wish I could hold up a sign, or scream, or wave my hands to get their attention and say: thank you for changing everything for me. Thank you for helping me escape.
But standing in a densely packed crowd, I just stare at them in my state of overwhelm and try to soak in the fact that they’re here. And so am I.
For now, that would have to be enough.
A rolling chorus of roars and shouts of delight hit the stage, and Rosie turns to the mic to address us one last time: ‘Okay, we have one last song for you. Sing along if you know it.’
I realise they’re rounding off their set with their biggest hit, as the chords of ‘Never Mind’ chime in time with Teddy’s drumsticks on the rim of his snare. And the crowd goes absolutely berserk.
I’ve almost made it through their entire set, and I am so stunned by this revelation that I actually wonder if I will lose consciousness after all.
I spin to Hennie with wide eyes. ‘Hen, look. I live!’ My voice is high and giddy with disbelief.
Her lips twist into a crumpled smile. ‘Yeah, you live,’ she shouts over the noise before throwing her arms around my middle. ‘It was all in The Plan, babes.’
Keeping my hand entwined with Hennie’s, we leap up and down in time with the music and I almost lose my tiara thanks to my enthusiasm.
For those three blissful minutes, there is only the music, Hennie and I.
Making sharp judgements of my surroundings is something I do every waking moment of my life, but watching Queen Ego unlocks something inside me for the first time.
All I can hear is Aga’s screeching guitar and Rosie’s husky voice, and it’s all too easy to lose myself in it.
They finally reach the end of the song and all the band members are on their feet, hands held up in the air as a sign of thanks.
I clap my hands above my head and scream as loud as my voice will let me.
It’s likely that my vocal cords are considerably, permanently damaged at this stage. But who cares? Not I.
Rosie places the mic back on the stand and casts a grateful smile at the crowd. ‘Thank you, Firecrest!’
The crowd explodes with cheers and screams again, and Teddy, Martin and Aga step forward to all bow together arm in arm.
Aga throws her guitar pick to the eager hands around us and Teddy takes a step forward with his two drumsticks – I realise he’s about to throw them into the crowd and for a second I wonder if I have an above-average chance of catching it.
Hoping for the best, I desperately reach my hands out towards him.
He throws one drumstick to the very front of the crowd, and then he throws the other drumstick – directly – at me.
It soars toward me with considerable speed, and I worry for a fraction of a second that it might spin straight into my eye and render me blind for the rest of the festival.
Wasting no time, I leap up above my crowd-mates nonetheless to reach towards it, and realise with utter disbelief and elation as it comes my way… I’m going to catch it.
A tiny piece of Queen Ego is going to belong to me.
Other hands reach up in a frenzy but can’t quite get to its height.
I spread my fingers as wide as they’ll possibly go and reach for it – just inches away now – as I realise there is another hand alarmingly close to mine directly to my left, which is also uncomfortably close to what I can tell is the drumstick’s projected location in milliseconds.
I push up onto my tiptoes and almost crash into the back of the man in front of me to reach it when I feel it hit my palm with a hard sting.
I wrap my fingers around it as tightly as they’ll go, but alarm bells are blaring in my mind. I can still feel the brush of contact against my arm of the other fan going for it.
And I see what happens next in slow motion: a pale, strong hand grabbing hold of the drumstick right next to my own. Horrified, I try to keep a tight grip on it, pulling it back down towards my body when I feel a harsh resistance and my arm being pulled to my left. I yelp from the suddenness of it.
Before I know it, the drumstick is between myself and the chest of a man. I recognise the t-shirt immediately and look up to see the same piercing blue eyes from earlier staring at me with bewilderment.
My body freezes as I notice his hesitant expression, his eyes studying my face curiously. His pale face is framed with a head of almost-black, perfectly messy hair and a jawline so sharp that it instantly annoys me to look at.
My immediate concern is that he’ll use physical force to tear it out of my grasp. But… he doesn’t. He just studies me with that same inscrutable, wary expression. My gaze seems to be attached to his, and I can only assume we must both be in shock.
My concern starts to twist into something bordering on hysteria.
As much as I would like to kick him in the shin and run with it, I should probably reserve my feral instincts until they’re absolutely necessary. I don’t have a history of being violent, but I’m realising now that perhaps I’m not above it.
I try my best to smile politely.
‘Well,’ I say with a breathy laugh. ‘Wow. This is weird.’
He merely frowns at me in response. I try not to gawp at him.
This could almost be funny if it weren’t for the fact that things like this are simply not supposed to happen. I have so many questions. Such as: why is he here? And why does he look like that?
It is fascinating that he’s apparently unwilling to acknowledge the situation at all. Honestly I hope things stay that way, as it might make claiming the drumstick for myself a little easier. I decide to make my case as quickly and clearly as possible.
‘Um, I’m sorry,’ I start, forcing a polite smile. ‘I know this is an awkward situation but I’m pretty sure I caught this first. Would you please be a – I don’t know – a good sport and let go?’
He searches my face again for a moment before appearing to snap back into consciousness.
‘I don’t think that’s exactly what happened,’ he says carefully. There’s a deep frown carved into his brow and a gravelly texture to his voice that I wasn’t expecting. ‘It’s pretty bad timing but I think we both know we caught this at the same time.’
I rear back in surprise. So he does speak. Nothing but nonsense, apparently.
‘I think we “both” know that’s not true and that this is a straightforward case of theft,’ I say lightly, trying not to let my voice falter. ‘I know I grabbed it first because I saw it happen with my own eyes. I was there.’
‘You were there,’ he repeats, like he’s struggling to understand the concept.
‘Yes, I was there. Not to mention I have a height advantage.’
I’m practically stamping my foot with frustration, not unlike a toddler. I suppose I might not be taller than him. Hennie’s tiara might add a few centimetres at best, but we’re probably the same height.
I eye his dark locks again, wondering how much product he uses to make them look so flawlessly, messily tousled. There is also an immaculate curl sitting amongst the locks resting against his temple that makes him infinitely more irritating to look at.
He looks unconvinced as he gives me a once over, his gaze lingering on my tiara. ‘Your crown might give you an extra inch, but you hardly have a height advantage with me.’
I blink. ‘It’s a tiara, not a–’
‘Sorry, you definitely didn’t catch this first and I don’t think you can just claim it as yours fairly.’ He doesn’t sound remotely apologetic. ‘Maybe you could be a “good sport” and let go though, while we’re exchanging ideas,’ he offers before turning away to face the stage.