Dear Britney,
Maybe if you were here, you would be as furious as I am. I wake up when my mother shakes me from my sweet slumber. I look up at her, seeing her half asleep in front of me, blocking the light in my room. My head throbs like someone shrank me into a tiny miniature, put me in a box, and shook me until I got dizzy.
"Your friends are here. You have to take a bath now." she informs me.
"Mom, I'm not feeling well. Please don't make me go there." I say. My voice sounds like a groggy monster.
"Stop acting. Go to the bathroom now." Mom insists.
I stand and head to the door. Then I see the two witches — Arya and Zara — talking in the living room with their bags. My eyes catch the wall clock, and I realize it's only 3:30 a.m. I walk toward them and get a clear view of what they're wearing: Arya wears a maroon miniskirt and a sky-blue off-shoulder shirt, while Zara wears a crop top and ripped jeans.
"It's too early, and I have a headache." I say.
"We have to catch the 5:00 a.m. bus." is the only answer from my good friend Arya.
"Stop making excuses, E." Zara says.
I ignore them and go to the bathroom. I love my friends and really want to be happy for them, but I'm not feeling well. Or maybe they're right—I'm just making excuses not to go. I can literally feel my head aching, but of course, none of them believe me. Even my mother tells me to go. I feel like I have no choice but to go with them.
Today is Tuesday, and tomorrow is my birthday. I don't know if this will be a special one since I'll be around people I barely know, except Arya and Zara. I try to be a snail, but when I open the bathroom door and make a puddle of water from my dripping body, Arya and Zara are still sitting on the sofa holding hot chocolate where I left them—but this time they're sitting next to my mother.
Mom sees me and gives me a sandwich and a cup of hot chocolate. I put on the clothes my mother prepared for me last night. The bus station is an hour away, so we need to catch the 5:00 a.m. bus to arrive at the music camp by 7:00 a.m. call time. We arrive on time, and as soon as we settle into our seats, the bus immediately leaves.
The camp coordinator limits the tickets to 30 campers, but there are only 28 people on the bus. I guess these kids are either fans of the band or music lovers because the tickets are expensive and require talent. This isn't just a music camp but also a talent camp. One of my friends tells me there will be a winner, and the winner will get a one-year contract with the management. My friends tell me this camp will help me gain some confidence since they know I lack it. I don't think I need it. I don't want to be famous.
I look out the window thinking, you're here. You're the only person who knows I'm writing a song, but I never show it because I lack confidence. I'm not like you, Brit. You used to be the light of the party. Every time I listen to music, I miss you. You love music so much, which is why you were so enthusiastic when I told you I'm writing a song.
My silence alarms Zara, who sits next to me.
"What're you thinking, E?" she asks.
I'm startled.
"Oh, nothing," I say.
Arya, next to Zara, speaks with her eyes shut.
"She's not feeling well, Z."
I have no idea where we're heading. Arya tells me all the details about the camp, but I'm not interested, so I don't pay much attention. I don't notice that I've fallen asleep.
I wake up when the bus stops in the middle of traffic. I turn on my iPod and listen to music for a while, deciding to drown the noise in my head with some music.
The bus stops again. I think we've reached our destination, but we're told we only have thirty minutes to eat lunch. We're five hours away from the city, and I have no idea if we're heading south or north. Zara and Arya said they packed food for us, so we looked for an empty table.
"So, how long will the drive take?" I ask, not really interested, but trying to start a conversation after being so silent on the ride.
"It'll take six hours in total. From here, I'm not actually sure." Zara says with her mouth full.
The Pedal band leaves their tour bus and goes to the line to buy food. The girls in front of the line give way for them, but just to make the front cover on the news tomorrow morning and flood tweets about their 'niceness,' they take the end of the line. Wow, absolutely good at making a scene as if it's true, I think to myself.
The girls ask Harry and the other guys to take a picture with them. He finger-combs his shady curly ugly hair and smiles at the camera. The other kids don't bother to ask for a picture. Good thing. Maybe they think they'll see these four guys again in seven days, not counting today. But every now and then, the campers—especially the girls—look at them.
"We're so glad you're here with us!" Arya squeals.
"Try to act like a fan girl." Zara says with a wink.
"Besides, you have a good voice. Try to use it; maybe you'll be the new Taylor Swift." Arya says.
"Yeah, that's why we invited you." Zara says, looking at me.
I nod at them now and then, focusing on the food they packed while hating the words they're saying. I can't eat much because of my headache; I'm afraid I'll vomit up everything I eat, so I try to eat enough.
Arya and Zara have been friends for a long time. They met when they were just seven years old in a singing contest. Imagine all the television competitions they've been on. I can't imagine how brave they are. They're famous at our school because of exposure on TV shows and have gained many suitors. Though Arya doesn't pay much attention to guys. Zara, on the other hand, just came from a breakup.
"But you know I'm not a fan of those guys." I say, rolling my eyes.
"Shhh… don't say that. You're on the same ground where the feet of The Pedals are." Arya whispers, putting one finger to her lips.
"You'll like it. Try to sing for a lot of people, not just in your bedroom." Zara says.
"Yeah," Arya points her fork at me. "God gave you a good voice," she adds.
…
Maybe you're wondering how they know I can sing. Remember during sophomore year? We were video chatting, talking about Taylor Swift's new album. I had no idea they were at my doorstep—I was singing Taylor Swift's new single when they heard me playing my guitar. They stormed inside after I finished singing and told me all the synonyms of 'good,' just like you did when you first heard the song I wrote.
…
When we go back to the bus, the ride isn't as boring as earlier because some of the boys who brought musical instruments play songs I don't know. Maybe some are songs on the radio, which I rarely listen to. I feel like an outcast with these people, singing songs I barely know. I only get to listen to this kind of music when I'm on public transportation or in public places without my earphones.
It takes us six hours to arrive in the city, then we have to ride a motorboat to the island, which I think has no signal or electricity. The water is clear and clean—I can see the sand and rocks beneath the water. It's so beautiful; the trees are tall, giving this place fresh air. The clouds here are also different from Manila.
Ten passengers can only fit on the boat. It takes four boats to accommodate all of us, including the band, the roadies, the manager, the tourist guides, the driver, and us—the campers. We're the last campers to be seated on the boat, and unfortunately, we're seated with the guys and their manager. I wonder why the roadies aren't with them.
"Hi girls," their manager says.
My friends smile, so I have to smile too—even though I don't like to. I feel like a mirror reflecting my friends, but I frown faster than I put on a smile.
They take the seats in front of us. Let me introduce the guys: there's an ugly curly, shaggy brown-haired guy named Harry; the tallest guy with black hair named Landon; a blue-eyed, shoulder-length-haired, rabbit-toothed guy named Zack; and the last guy who hops on the boat, the youngest, pale, blonde-haired dude Neal, who sits beside Zara because it's unbalanced.
"Do you mind?" Neal asks.
Stupid. Of course, she doesn't mind.
"No! Not at all." she answers, blushing.
I know their faces and names because, of course, you know them, and I don't have to explain. The driver says it will take thirty minutes to reach the island. Arya asks if there's electricity or signal before the driver can even say a word, and the manager answers her.
"The house has electricity, but the residents cut it by 8:30. And it's an island, honey; there's no signal on any island." he says with an ordinary British accent.
After a few minutes of silence, with only the motor's sound making me feel welcome to the only world I know, I silently adore the place and the endless water in our view. I take a picture of the incredible rock formations of the mountains. The mountain and city where we were moments ago are connected to the island we're heading to. There are three more islands around us.
The driver says the tiniest island is nothing but a rock formation, but I think he's lying because I see trees and green grass. In the middle is the biggest island, and he says it's the most beautiful, but no one is allowed to camp there since it's full of corals and sea urchins. Again, I think people can camp there because I can see the famous lighthouse located at the top of the island. The farthest island is medium-sized and looks very white. He says it will take an hour to get there.
A moment passes, and another silence occupies us until Harry breaks it, maybe because he's bored and wants to bother the people around him.
"Are you friends?" he says, looking directly at me.
So, he's expecting me to answer his question. I pretend not to hear him and continue capturing the scenery, expecting one of my friends to answer, but Arya shoves my shoulder. I look at her, and she makes a face indicating I should answer Harry's nonsense question about friends.
"Yes. We're friends... obviously." I say, glancing at him.
"Do the three of you love music?" he asks again.
I don't know why he starts a conversation with me. He's a bit far from where I'm sitting. I'm next to Arya, across from their manager. Their manager is next to Landon, who is next to Zack, and Zack is at the other edge of the boat.
"Oh, yes. Actually, she has a good voice, but she's just keeping it to herself." Arya answers for me.
Thank you, Arya.
"So, the three of you are singers?" he gazes at me.
Arya tells him the story of how the three of us met because she knows I'm not good at conversation… or maybe she's just hitting on Harry. Whatever it is, I love that she pushes me out of this situation, not like earlier when she did the opposite. Anyhow, Harry listens attentively but glances at me often. There's something in his eyes I haven't seen in anyone before. I'm not interested in being his friend, though. A friend who's far from where I am is too much; I've been there, and it didn't work out. Harry is astounded by what he just heard, and luckily, we reach the island, which is absolutely gorgeous: the water is clear, no trash in sight, everything on this island is amazing. There are about five men on the shore; I assume these are the contract people who will assist us or guard the band. When we reach the shore, the men help the gays and my friends when they jump off the boat. Harry offers his hand to me, but I insist on not being helped. Landon and Neal smirk. Harry punches their shoulders and follows the manager and the guards to the house. I wander my eyes around the place; this is a real paradise: white sand, blue water, fresh air, and green trees surround me. For the first time, I thank my friends and my mother who forced me to come here. I wonder why there's no one but us on this island. People say it's a camping site; I doubt if this island is private because there's nothing here but us, or maybe they paid for this place to be exclusive just for this camp. One of the men tells us to follow them to the house; they carry the gays' stuff and offer to help us, but we refuse. Our stuff is smaller and lighter; we don't need any help. We walk deep into the forest; it seems like wild boars are waiting to attack us. I hold the straps of my bag while Harry catches up behind me.
"So, you can sing." he says when he's a step behind me.
I doubt if that's a question or a statement. I just want to end the conversation as soon as he starts it.
"Yeah. Everyone can." I say, cutting the conversation.
Fortunately, he gets the hint that I don't want to talk to him—not because I don't like him, but that's just how I am.
"How can a person live in this place?" I hear Zara complain.
"This is paradise." says Arya.
Neal agrees with Arya. Then silence occupies us again. When we reach the house, the people settle in front of the porch listening to the guide's instructions. The roadies give out the keys to the rooms. We get our key and go straight to our room. The room has three beds and a bathroom; the walls are white, just like in hospitals, and two ceiling fans look old and rusted.
"Maybe we can go swimming." Arya suggests.
"I want to sleep, A." Zara says.
"I can come with you." I offer.
We change into our swimsuits and go straight to the shore. Neal and the other campers are already swimming in the ocean. Landon and Zach, with some campers, sit on the sand three feet away from the shore. The kid with red hair strums the guitar, and they all sing together. Arya and I join them. Luckily, I know the song—it's a popular one from the '90s by an American rock band. After the song ends, Zach explains the game rules.
"Since we have a new member…" Zach and the kids in the group laugh. "Just kidding. The rules are pretty simple." He looks at the two of us. "This is Shane. When the song finishes, she's going to pass it to her right, and this young man here, Alex." he looks at him then back at us, "is going to think of lyrics starting from the last word Shane stops on. Understand? Don't worry if you don't know how to play guitar—strum it anyway." He giggles.
Arya and I nod. Shane does what Zach instructs.
I catch myself reminiscing about memories of you. I remember you loved playing this game as much as I do. You're good at it. You know a lot of songs, popular or not, pop or country. I remember one of those late-night phone calls when one of us couldn't sleep—we played this game over the phone. You knew so many songs, but always ended up sleeping while I was singing. I wish you were here. I wish you were always by my side.
…
After sinking into the moment, I find myself holding the guitar. I don't know the song that just ended, but I think it ends with 'relax.' I think about what song has 'relax' lyrics for a moment, then I strum the guitar while Landon and Zach pay attention to what I'm playing. They look at me with smiles. I sing the first lyrics of Father and Son, and the others in the circle join me. When the sun sets, we head back to the house. Arya walks in front of me.
"You're really good, huh?"
I jump when I hear someone talking to me so close. I feel their breath tickle my neck.
I look to my left and see Harry staring at me with a smile on his lips. His face is half-covered by the shadow of his cap, making him almost a silhouette up close. Creepy. I give him a quizzical look. He points to the spot where we were sitting.
"I heard you sing. You're good." he says, widening his smile, trying to convince me I'm good.
"I'm actually not good." I say, pacing my steps to match his. "Just basic."
"I'm Harry, by the way." he says.
Then he wipes his hands before offering one to me. He extends his arm, but I don't want to accept it.
"I don't think we need this 'proper' introduction." I say, doing air quotes with my fingers.
He gives up and puts his hands in his back pockets.
"So, tell me your name—that's how it works, right? When I say my name, you say yours." he insists.
"Did you hear what I said?" I ask. "I don't think we need this 'proper' introduction." I repeat, emphasizing 'proper.'
He chuckles and puts his hands in the air.
"Okay, fine, I get it. So when did you realize you're not a singer?"
"When I was nine," I say, smirking. "When did you realize you can use your face to cover how untalented you are?" I say, rolling my eyes.
He tilts his head to the right and grins. "I realized I am a singer when I was ten, and ever since, I've known how beautiful my face is."
He touches his chin. Is he trying to flirt with me? I ask myself. I think my expression shows what I'm thinking, because his eyebrows furrow, creating wrinkles on his forehead.
"What brought you here, mister?" I ask, changing the topic.
As we reach the doorstep, we stop. He presses his hands on the door frame, his face five inches away from mine. I can feel his breath all over my face—it smells like mint. My heart jumps loudly in my chest, wanting to burst out of my ribs. I inhale slowly, like I'm standing on fragile glass—one mistake and I'll fall at any moment—then exhale even more slowly.
"We're doing a music camp." he says, making a face as if to ask why I'm asking a stupid question.
"No. I know a lot of people like your band and you've been doing music camps only in your own country, but what brought you here?" I say, stepping back, but my back hits the door.
"Our manager granted the requests of our Filipino fans. I guess you're not one of them." he says, straightening his posture.
"But you never granted the requests of American fans? I heard you have more fans there than anywhere else in the world."
"Why are you so curious about having your first camp here?"
Because it feels surreal, and I don't know why—it feels like it has something to do with me. I gasp for air, like I held my lungs from breathing for a solid two minutes while thinking I was breathing. I turn the doorknob without facing it, staring at Harry as I push the door open from behind. I storm inside awkwardly. I make my way to the kitchen where the campers are preparing to eat. Arya and Zara sit together; there's an empty seat between them, so I assume they reserved it for me. I sit next to them, and Harry sits with his pals. During the meal, I'm quiet while my head pounds. During the meal, I stay quiet, my head pounding like a drum. I silently watch Harry laughing and chatting with the other girls at camp, so effortlessly charming. I wonder if he ever looks at me the way I'm looking at him now—watching me talk with my friends, noticing the small things. But I doubt it. He doesn't seem the same with me. But I don't know why I have to look at him. I don't want to assume, since he's a celebrity and I'm nothing but a Filipino student—that's not how the world works for me and him. Don't think I like him, Brit. It's not like that. I swear!
…
As night falls after we finish our meal, the coach tells us to go straight to our rooms and prepare for our first activity. After I brush my teeth, I decide to wear the pajamas my mom packed for me. The campers settle on the floor, with the gays at the back. It looks like there'll be a pajama party. The gays say to sing in front of the circle, one by one.
"Since it's your first day, you will introduce yourselves first before singing, okay?" the coach says.
The first performer is the girl with curly hair. "Hi, I'm Tara," she begins.
I recognize the song she chooses; it's one of the songs by the gays. The girl beside her sings another song by the band. Most of the girls sing songs by the band. Most of the boys choose R&B songs and try a little dance. Some of them who choose ballads really feel the songs from their hearts; it's obvious by the way they gesture with their hands and close their eyes. A few of the campers sing their own compositions, which I find brave, announcing it proudly to the group. I don't know if I can do that.
Next is a guy, standing firmly holding a guitar. "I'm Roland," he starts. "The song I'll sing is by The Pedal." He points to where the gays sit at the back. "I'll change a bit of the song. I try to make it sound ballad instead of pop." He begins strumming; I like how he does that.
One look
One said
One word:
Sorry
One touch
He… hey…
Are you listening?
I need to say
Sorry,
Sorry
All I need is to apologize.
And this is me standing at your doorstep,
Saying sorry,
Sorry.
All I want,
All I need
Is forgiveness.
One tear,
It means
I'm serious.
Could you please
Forgive me?
One memory,
One day,
You'll miss me.
And I need you today,
Just like yesterday.
I miss, I miss you.
All I need is to apologize.
I don't know the original arrangement of the song, but I love his version. It makes us feel like the song is so close to his heart. Maybe that's why he chooses that song and even makes his own version of it. He's not the only person who sings with an instrument; the others do too, but some of the campers choose to sing a cappella. I can't decide what to sing. I want a little famous song that others can join in while I sing.
I know I haven't told you this—never have—since you're not into my music because you prefer country music. But I'm so glad you introduced me to your favorite singer; it gives me a little grounding in pop music. You told me before that you don't like loud music because you find it deafening. I find that ridiculous since most pop songs are loud too, but you explain that you're not into that—you prefer something more mellow. Another reason why you like country music, that it's softer. I listen to pop now when I used to hate it, and it's just because of Taylor Swift. I love her new songs, though. Don't kill me for calling Taylor Swift a pop singer, but we can't deny she's into pop now. Have you heard she has just been nominated as Pop Artist? But she's also nominated as Best Songwriter in CMA. She makes two country songs and sells them to country singers—I guess she doesn't want to return to country music.
…
Remember when you introduced Taylor Swift to me? I laugh at you because you know I'm not into that genre, but you insist. We are in your room back then—we were just little kids, those times when our hair was in twin pigtails and pink was just overrated. You play Tied Together with a Smile—a song from Taylor Swift's debut album—on your phone speakers. You sang the song until the end. I was amazed by the song; it wasn't about love like the usual songs we heard on the radio or in soundtracks. That was why I became a Swiftie—because she doesn't just write about love. I remember when she released her last album in 2012, I teased you and said she is becoming a pop singer now. You slam the table in front of us where your laptop sits.
"It's country pop!" you say, pointing at the screen.
I laugh at you.
"Just because she dated a pop singer doesn't mean she becomes one of them!" I screamed
You looked at me, mouth wide open, when I said that. I wonder, if we are sitting side by side then maybe you would pull my hair.
"No! She's not!" you said. "I thought you were a fan of hers."
"I am! I'm just thinking maybe someday she'll release a pure pop album."
…
I am right, because right now she's no longer into country music. But I hear she wrote the newest singles for Little Big Town and Sugarland. I just don't understand why she releases her own albums in pure pop. I still love her songs, even more now since she's a reminder that you exist, and once, we were best friends.
I don't dare ask my friends what they're going to sing, since I guess it's one of their idols' songs. And now it's Zara's turn.
"Hi, I'm Zara. It's a Z, not an S." she begins. She clears her throat before singing.
At the very first word, I immediately recognized the song. It's Dear John by Taylor Swift. I am amazed because she's not a fan of Taylor, but I guess those times of heartache brought by her ex-boyfriend's breakups are the reason she chooses this song. Dear John is one of the most powerful and emotional songs by Taylor Swift, and this song suits Zara's personal experience, I guess. Based on her version of him, she is blinded by love and dismisses the signs. Now, the way she sings it, it's like she's singing to her ex-boyfriend through Dear John's letter. I feel like she is the one who experiences the horror of being in a relationship with John Mayer. Just two months ago, her boyfriend broke up with her. I thought she was going to explode, and we might have to rush her to an asylum.
…
I was reviewing for my chemistry exam while Dollhouse by Melanie Martinez playing on my phone. Before the refrain, the music stopped, and my phone vibrated. I rolled my eyes and looked at who was disturbing me. I picked it up and heard the sobbing voice of my friend.
"Where are you?" were the only words that came out of my mouth.
I close my notes and books, then checked my face in the mirror and finger-combed my hair.
"Uhm, Ice Cream Land." she said.
"I'll be there in nine minutes." I hung up the call.
It was raining, but I didn't change my pajamas and thin t-shirt. I grabbed my wallet and threw a jacket on my shoulder. While walking to the front door, I texted Arya.
Me: Go to Ice Cream Land NOW.
I hit send.
"Mom, I'm going outside!" I shouted as I open the front door.
My mom peeked from the kitchen—if I remember right, she was cooking dinner since it was already 5:15 in the afternoon.
"Be back before dinner," she yelled back.
"Sure."
Ice Cream Land was only a ten-minute walk from my house. The rain wasn't heavy, so I just put my hoodie on my head to shield from the rain. When I got there, Arya was already seated next to Zara, who was still sobbing. Zara was still wearing her school uniform and Arya was wearing pajamas but shoes—looks awful.
"So, who wants ice cream?" I said as soon as I reached their table.
I slammed my hands on the table, startling them. Arya looked at me, but Zara ignored me.
"I do!" said Arya, trying to sound cheerful, even raising her hand.
Zara continued to ignore my question; she kept sobbing. I wished she could stop, but her tears seemed endless. Arya informed Zara we are going to the counter to buy ice cream and she just nod.
"What does she say?" I asked as soon as we were far enough to not be overheard.
"Nothing. She just keeps crying. That's how I see her when I got here." Arya said, looking at our poor friend.
We ordered one gallon of vanilla ice cream, my favorite flavor. When we got back to the table, Arya and I scooped our own ice cream without taking our eyes off Zara. After we were satisfied with the ice cream, Zara took the container and grabbed a plastic spoon. She started eating directly from the container. We looked at her, frozen and unable to move.
"He tells me I'm not enough." she said, stuttering. Her voice was muffled by nonstop crying.
"What?!" Arya and I said in unison.
Zara nodded, telling us we heard her right. She blew her nose. We kept our mouths open.
"Wh-why?" I asked, moving closer to her.
"How?" Arya asked.
"He calls me after school. He… he wants me to go to his house, s-so I go there. I w-we go straight to his room, h-his room," she said. She paused for a moment then goes on. "I see his Marvel collection as if it is the first time, I've seen it. Then he hugged me from behind and kisses me on my neck, then my cheek. He kissed me—for the last time. I face him and he told me he loves me and that I'm a good person and talented. I start laughing because it sounds like a goodbye…"
I saw the pain in her bloodshot eyes. I aw her tears on her beautiful face. I saw her crushed dreams with the guy she loved the most. I saw her broken heart scattered on the floor. I saw her pain all over her. It's like mine. I feel like I am looking in the mirror and seeing the same pain.
She stopped for a while. I felt she was gathering her words and strength from all the heartache inside her. Tears start to form in her eyes again. She was about to cry but fights it, swallowing the sobs like water. I held her hands. Arya patted her back, whispering that it was going to be okay. We both know it was not enough, but we know our presence helps her cope, and we did our best to make her feel better.
"He told me…" she began again, but her words felt heavy, like she can't get them out. She can't finish her sentence without drowning in her own emotions. It was like she was dragged under by the ocean, but we didn't let her go. She fought the waves, struggling with the riptide. "He said he doesn't want to waste my time… anymore." She said it bitterly, like she just swallowed something she regretted. She looked at us, for the first time since we got there, pain shining in her eyes. "He just told me I'm wa… wasting his… time." She repeated, her voice rising.
People at the ice cream shop looked over at us. She stood up. We held her shoulders. She looked at me. I shook my head, trying to stop her from yelling, but I failed.
"Then he told me I'm not enough." Her voice shook.
She dropped to her knees. We stood and tried to help her up, but she doesn't want to stand. She stayed on her knees, nodding her head back and forth like she was praying for strength, but she looked more like a patient losing her grip.
"You have to be strong, Z." Arya said gently.
"Come on, get up now." I ordered, but she doesn't listen.
That day was so dark because of that breakup. Arya and I decided to stay at Zara's house. When we got there, her mother saw the storm in Zara but respected her silence. She knew her daughter well—how strong she is—and that her friends are there to help her cope. After two weeks of mourning, the flood washed away the darkness that swallowed her light. It vanished, and the old Zara comes back. I'm glad she's back. I'm glad she moves on. Since that day, we never hear her mention the asshole again. Maybe Dear John by Taylor Swift helped her get over him.
…
After Zara sings, she goes straight to her seat without looking at anyone. Arya gives her a high-five. I follow her with my eyes. She's smiling. I'm so proud of her—she's beautiful and talented and deserves better than the guy who made her cry.
"Are you a Swiftie now?" I ask, smiling.
For the first time after her performance, she looks at me and shoves me lightly.
"It was just something emotional." She smiles, but I see something deeper in her eyes.
After three years of friendship, I know Zara well enough to read her—one of the perks of being silent and introverted is learning to read people.
Arya sings her favorite song by the band. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, opens them again, and begins:
Can I call you mine?
Can I be the reason of your smile?
Here I am smiling at your side
All the time
But I can't say I like you
Because I'll lose you if I do
You are mine in my dreams
You're my life for me
But she's the reason for your smile
Not me
I'm the one who deserves you
She sings like an angel.
I sing you my song in my dreams
She's beautiful
But for me you're so gorgeous
She doesn't like you
But I love you
She changes the 'he' to 'she' and 'girl' to 'boy.' She made it a girl version, daydreaming. I like how it suits her voice.
After she finishes, she looks at me before she even sits—a cue telling me it's my turn.
In my peripheral vision, I sense Harry's gaze. It's overwhelming. I'm not strong enough to handle it, but I try so hard not to be affected by those eyes.
When Arya finally takes her seat, she pinches me, fully waking me up. I'm still sitting beside her when she pushes me, stumbling in my seat, forcing me to stand.
"You don't have to do this!" I whisper-yell.
"It's your turn." Arya says.
Everyone's eyes are on me now. I stand straight managing it despite shaky knees. I slowly walk to the center, hands on my thighs like a scared kid. When I reach the center, I shift my posture, pretending I'm used to being in front of everyone's eyes, but still, I don't know what to do.
What do I sing? I ask myself.
"Hi!" I wave awkwardly. "I'm Elise."
I glance at my friends for support. They nod and smile big. I exhale. This is just a warm-up, Elise, I remind myself.
"To be honest, I don't know what to sing. I don't like famous songs I hear everywhere." I laugh. The campers laugh with me.
"Just sing whatever you want." Harry says.
I look at him. He smiles. I roll my eyes.
I step toward the guy holding a guitar in front. He looks older—not old old, but older than us. His hair is in dreadlocks and both ears pierced with five earrings each.
"Can I borrow your guitar?" I ask.
He sang Losing My Religion by REM earlier. I like his choice. He hands me the guitar without a word.
"Uhm, I guess only a few of you know the songs I listen to…" I say, tuning the guitar. "I want to sing something everyone knows, so everyone can sing with me—just like everyone did before me. I guess there's a hidden rule here not to sing a song someone else already sang."
They laugh again.
I don't know why, but I feel pressure reaching the center. The crowd was wild a moment ago. I take a deep breath and start strumming. I close my eyes, letting waves of emotion flow freely. Even with my eyes closed, I see Harry's face. I open my eyes again. I don't know if it's hot here or if it's just my red plaid long sleeves that make me feel warm. I feel my legs shaking. Luckily, I'm wearing my old pajamas, making it less noticeable.
I look in the mirror
Window outside
I'm watching the rain falling from the sky
I look in the mirror
My face, the tears begin to dry
You knew everything about me
Promise, but I can't live without you
Everywhere I go
Every place in the pictures
Everything is memories
How can I live without you?
If you are my world, my air, my life and all, and all, yeah
That song was written when I just got back from Manhattan. I arrived with my suitcase and belongings, visiting all the places you and I used to go—the places filled with nostalgic memories and emotions. Feelings I had forgotten play like a movie on my face. I'm about to lose control, crying over the things I miss. I remember everything while I was there—my childhood with you, the happiness we shared, the secrets we kept, hoping I'd see you again, and the pain I gathered. It all feels like it never happened, like it was all just a dream. What I realize feels like a joke to my own naked eyes—a wishful thinking, not reality.
Tears start to form. I want to bring back those years as I sing, but I try to balance my emotions—I don't want to show weakness with all these eyes judging me now.
When I finish, I smile and hand back the guitar. I thank him. As I walk to my seat, I glance at Harry, who gives me a standing ovation.
This is the first time I sing my own song out loud in front of people, and I don't know how to react. I'm still shaking a bit.
After me, only three campers remain to perform. When everyone finishes, the coach takes the floor again.
"So… we already heard everyone sing," she says.
"We want to hear The Pedal sing!" one of the campers at the back calls out.
Everyone looks at him and nods in agreement.
Landon is the first to stand; the others follow. They don't wait for the coach to tell them to stand up. When they reach the center of the circle, they form a smaller circle that looks like a secret force. After a moment, they face us. Neal borrows the guitar I borrowed earlier and begins strumming. I know the song — it's rumored Harry wrote it for his ex-girlfriend. I hum along, knowing just the melody, not the words. Maybe after this, I can be a normal kid with a normal idol — but I don't want to be like everyone else, so maybe I'll stay the same.
The electricity cuts off — it's 8:30 pm for sure. We light candles to brighten the surroundings, interrupting the guys, and the power returns after the candles are lit.
Everything is done
The moment you're gone
Now everything changes
You stole everything I have
How did I come this far?
Do I have to be afraid?
Everything happens so fast
Every face just disappears
Now left in my memory
In my broken melody
What a sorrowful melody
In the sweet serenity
Ooh, what's left in my sorrowful melody
My friends once told me Harry is one of the group's songwriters, and that his ex is Lizzy — one of the biggest names in the world. She's a pop star who writes songs about her exes. Everyone says she's the next Taylor Swift, but of course, Taylor's better.
When the coach takes the floor again, he tells us it's time for bed. I know I won't be able to sleep yet. After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I slip outside through the kitchen's back door. It's old and creaks when I open it; I fear someone might see me sneaking out, but thankfully, no one does. It's colder out here than I thought; I wrap my arms around myself. The crunch of leaves under my feet sends a chill through me. The moon isn't full yet, but maybe it will be a perfect circle on my birthday.
I wish you were here with me, Brit. Remember how escaping was our talent? When we were eleven, I used to sneak out to your house, and we'd watch TV in your room. It was our tradition every day at three in the afternoon when my mom told me to sleep — but because I was stubborn, I refused to, just to watch Spongebob. Luckily, my mom never caught me, not even once. Until we got too old to watch cartoons and I got too old to sneak out at three — I can't even remember when that stopped. I never remembered that memory until now. Remember when I got grounded for a low grade? I escaped to your room, and we talked about living together by the beach or a lake because we both love bodies of water. That's exactly the kind of house we dreamed of.
I sit on a tree branch that arches above me. It's a big tree, but I can't tell what kind it is in the dark.
"So, why are you here?" a voice says behind me.
I jerk around, nearly falling off the branch. I see a man's silhouette walking toward me.
"Who's there?" I ask, avoiding his question.
I stand firm, brushing my pajama pants to shake off the invisible dirt from sitting on the tree. I ball my hands into fists — good thing I know taekwondo. He shrugs. When he's close enough, I see his face — it's Harry. I relax a little.
"You scared me! You jerk!" He scoffs and sits on the branch where I was sitting. "I didn't. You just didn't notice me."
I sit beside him. "Yeah."
He offers me a cigarette. I look at it with disgust — that makes me hate them twice as much.
"I'm sorry."
"I'm one of your haters." I say, leaning toward him.
I make puppy eyes — didn't mean to look cute, but maybe it'll stop him from trying to be friends with me. He looks shocked but tries to hide it. Then he looks into the dark woods.
"That explains why." he says, glancing at me.
"Explain what?" I ask innocently.
His eyes electrify every time he looks at me. I don't know if it's on purpose or just how he looks at people. I rock my feet back and forth, then glance at the moon again. It's so bright it could light up the world — but I don't think it can brighten people's sadness.
"You didn't freak out when you first saw us, and every time I talk to you, it feels like you want to end it — always." he says, lighting a cigarette.
"Not like the other girls here." he adds, blowing out smoke. "And you looked annoyed when I asked you something on the boat."
Oh, it's obvious then. Good. Now, stop trying to befriend me, I tell myself but don't say it out loud.
Instead, I say, "That's nice."
I look at him; he looks back. The only light is from the moon, illuminating Harry's face and making the intensity in his eyes even heavier in the dark. He combs his hair with his fingers, wearing pants and a white t-shirt that shows off his broad muscles.
"How old are you?" I ask, just to break the silence.
"Old enough to smoke."
I nod.
Then he asks me back, "And you?"
I pick at the bark of the tree. "Young enough to smoke and old enough to be left alone."
I look at him with a straight face; he looks back. There's something else about his eyes — their intensity makes my knees weak. I realize I've been noticing his eyes since the moment I first saw him; it's probably overuse by now. I don't know why. I look away. It feels strange being this close to him — I've never been close to any guy except my father.
"I'm sorry for intruding on your serenity." he says when I look away.
As he stands up, I grab his left arm. He looks down at my hands holding him, then meets my gaze. It annoys me that he's here, but I don't mind either. Maybe I need someone to talk to.
"It's okay." I say, releasing my grip.
Then he smiles — which annoys me even more because he smiles. "Great."
He says, returning to his seat.
"I liked the song you sang. Who's the artist?" he asks.
"Someone," I reply.
"What kind of music do you like?"
"You really want to talk a lot, don't you?" I smile at him.
He grins wider and pulls out his phone. "That's the first time you've smiled at me. I must take a picture of it."
Before I can react, I hear the click of his camera and see a flash.
"That's so fast, nitwit!" I punch his arm.
He laughs. "It's just a picture. Come on, tell me what kind of music you like."
"Why?" I ask.
"You look interesting."
"Delete the photo you just took first." I say, rolling my eyes. "And how exactly did I become interesting?"
"You're a smart kid," he chuckles. "I won't delete it, but look — you're at a music camp with a pop boy band you really hate. How can I not find you interesting?"
"My friends told me to come."
"Then tell me what music you like."
He's not giving up, huh? I look at the moon, feeling the wind on my face. This is a great place to think and relax. I wonder how some places are still empty when there are eight billion people on Earth. After thinking for a moment, I answer his question. I usually don't think about it, but when I discover an artist that interests me — whether Filipino, American, Japanese, German, British, or whatever — as long as they're not popular, and I'm sure I won't hear their songs on the radio, I become an avid fan.
"Rock, punk, metal, alternative, modern folk, electronic." I say, gesturing to him. "Happy?" I add.
"Wow. That's really interesting." he says, nodding his head. "I like rock too."
"Then why do you sing pop?"
He looks at me quizzically. Maybe it's a stupid question, but I've known a lot of artists, and I'm pretty sure what they listen to is what they usually sing.
"The manager told me my voice has more quality in pop. Come on, people like us who want to be popular just accept whatever management offers. They said my voice fits the pop genre better. I believe them because they know better than I do."
"That's stupid." I lean on the tree. "I've always wondered why untalented people like you have the confidence to perform and are more popular than those who actually have talent."
He laughs. "I guess people don't listen to singers who can't sing. To save my name and my bandmates from your criticism, we were in music competitions before we got our name. So, I guess that means we can sing."
I look at him annoyed. "There's such a thing as autotune and lip sync. Mister, you just used your looks to gain popularity so girls would like you and vote for you. I pity the great artists who didn't win because of that."
He laughs, then stops suddenly. I make a shocked face, realizing I chose the wrong word to describe his looks.
"What?" Horror flashes on his face.
"You're not even good-looking, nor are the other members of your group." I smile and laugh.
I study his face; he looks frustrated. My stomach aches because I can't stop laughing at his funny expression.
"Why can't you see what other people see in us?"
I just laugh. "You should see your face."
His expression turns serious. "Stop laughing."
"I can't. You look really funny."
He stands up and picks me up like a sack of potatoes. I stop laughing immediately.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Put me down!" I order.
He does as I say, standing there and straightening my clothes.
"Good thing you stopped laughing."
"You should see your face; it's funny, trust me." I start laughing again.
"Why do you have to do that?" he asks, combing his hair with his fingers.
"Are you afraid of ghosts?" I ask, curious.
"No! I thought someone or something was there." He steps around, pointing randomly like he can't decide where to go or what to point at.
I smile. "I'm sorry. It's just the way my face is."
"Then answer my question." He sits back on the branch next to mine.
"Why don't you think we're like other people think we are?" he asks again.
I remain standing, leaning on the tree.
"Maybe I'm not like them. I care more about the quality of songs than the artist." I explain.
I smile at him, and he smiles back. He looks so serious that, even though I don't like him, I swear I could melt just looking at him.
"That makes you more interesting."
My face changes. I furrow my eyebrows, realizing it's not a compliment.
"What's interesting? I'm judging you and your friends."
"You hate trends and famous celebrities." he says, changing the topic.
"Is that a question or a clarification?"
"Clarification." He says confidently.
"Yes. I don't see why people listen to music they can hear everywhere, or wear clothes that everyone else has. What I want is something I discover on my own, so I can share it with everyone — not for them to like it, but for them to hear new artists from different parts of the world. But if you realized — well, I'm sure you didn't since you just met me less than 24 hours ago — I'm an introvert. I don't like talking to people. But music interests me so much that I talk to people I meet about it, and they usually find me weird. I try to start conversations so we can share our differences, but since I don't like talking to people and I don't know how to start, I usually stay silent." I twitch my lips. "Sorry, that was random. I'm nervous — this is the first time I've talked to a guy this long."
Honestly, for the first time, I'm talking to someone without fear of judgment, and for the first time, I'm confident about the words I speak.
He looks at me like he's proud of what I said. "Wow! We're alike."
"What? Why?"
"Because I also like music that's not popular. Like I said, I like rock bands and artists that are underrated. I find them more interesting."
I hold up my hand to clarify something. "But you're a pop star who has music blasting on radios every second around the world!"
He laughs at me. "Just because I'm a pop star doesn't mean I have to like my own genre. Listen to this."
He grabs his phone, taps the screen a few times, and plays a song. He places the phone on the branch between us. I've never heard the song before — the voice sounds like Harry singing. He told me he never released it. It's a song close to his heart — a love song begging for forgiveness and to forget the girl he's referring to. A girl he loved who died without goodbye. I wonder who he wrote it for, and who the girl was.
"I like it," I tell him honestly. "It's a different genre. The music and combination are different from your other songs."
"Thanks. I wrote it when I was younger." He smiles. "This one is personal, but I sang it during my audition. If you watched the show, you'd find it familiar." He laughs.
"Why didn't you release it?"
"Because it's personal. I don't want to sing it after I've already sung it publicly. Besides, none of the songs we released were written by the group; we just sing them." He shrugs.
Is it written on my face that I want an explanation?
"Why are you telling me this?"
"I don't know."
"If you didn't write any songs from your albums, who wrote Sorrowful Melody? It's a rumor you wrote it for Lizzy."
"Some of the songs we release were written by our writers, and then we try to co-write if we want to, because sometimes we don't like the arrangement or the lyrics. Sorrowful Melody was one of those. I was playing the chords on my piano and changed some parts because I remember the days I was with Liz. But I was the only one who changed the lyrics."
I don't know why, but I feel honored to know all of this. I realize one thing about the music industry: not all artists are like Taylor Swift or other artists I listen to who write their own songs and have no problem releasing them exactly how they want.
"Wow!" I put my hand on my chest. "So that's what the song means. A lot of fans thought you really wrote it for Lizzy, but the truth is you just co-wrote it for... her."
"I didn't say I wrote it," he says defensively. "They assumed I did, but I didn't tell you I did."
"You can't blame them. The song really fits your story."
I walk back to the house without telling him, but he follows me inside.
"Are you sleepy?" he asks.
I look back at him.
"Yeah," I reply.
Then he walks toward me.
"Thanks," he says, then leaves me in front of the door.
Why the heck did he thank me for that?
I didn't find him interesting after this night. I found him weird, but I feel like I know him more than anyone else at this camp.
I go to my room listening to Zara's snoring, thinking about everything I just learned until I get bored and sleepy.
Good night, Brit.
Elise