That's Why I Wrote This Song

  To Tory with love—Mum

  To an amazing woman who has been through so much, yet still managed to come out on top.

  My friend, my rock, my hero, my mum—Tory

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Dedication

  Insomniac Road Concert

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Postcards

  Lyrics

  About the Music

  Author’s Note

  Author's Acknowledgments

  Lyricist's Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  Insomniac Road Concert

  ‘Billy, Billy, Billy,’ throbs through the stadium. Billy, the lead singer, punches the air with both fists. ‘Don’t judge me. Don’t judge me.’

  The four girls sing in time with Insomniac Road. Billy swivels towards the front row of fans. He lunges over his microphone, making the words swivel with him. The four girls scream as the crowd surges forward, pressing everyone into an uncontrollable wave. The music rises into a crescendo of pounding sound. Pip sings the song, reaching out her arms. Karen does as well, shaking her long blonde spikes in time with the beat. Irina’s voice with its Russian accent belts out the words. Angie doesn’t sing as she presses against Pip’s shoulder.

  The bass guitarist bangs on his guitar, jumping across the stage, while the lead guitarist hammers out music. Billy shouts, ‘Don’t tell me how to live,’ holding out his microphone towards the crowd. They sing back, ‘Don’t tell me how to live.’ Girls are crying and guys are yelling as fluorescent green and foggy yellow lights throb through the darkness. Body heat engulfs the four girls like fire. Sweating bodies glue strangers together as arms pump the air. Thousands of fists punch the beat. Surging fingers make a sign, index and small fingers extending outwards: ‘We’re here, and we’re not taking it any more.’

  Energy, electricity, flames belch across the stage while the drummer goes crazy. His head, half hidden by a black beanie, seems connected with the sticks as he pounds drums and cymbals. His whole body pulses with the wild beat. He is the music.

  Suddenly Billy jumps into the crowd, surfing across heads. Yells, laughing, music, words surge over him. Pip stretches her arm out. She touches him with the tips of her fingers. Tremours vibrate through her and she screams. Screams until she’s gasping for air. And then Billy is pulled back onto the stage. He sings, ‘Why’d you leave us, Dad? Leave us in the dirt?’

  The lead guitarist claps his hands over his head. Thousands of hands clap back. Voices rise: ‘In the dirt, In the dirt…’ Girls on their guys’ shoulders rock and sing. Singlets fly through the air, landing anywhere, everywhere.

  Billy flips and his tattoos catch the lights. The bass guitarist starts smashing gear on the stage as the music ramps up into a crescendo of mania. The audience is screaming. There’s more smashing, until there’s no more and the guys play their guitars and the drummer is beating his drums and Billy is singing, ‘It’s not going to be like this.’

  ‘It’s the music,’ Billy shrieks as the concert spirals downwards into the finish. ‘It’s the music.’

  Everyone yells back, ‘It’s the music. It’s the music,’ and suddenly Insomniac Road is gone.

  Lights blare. People blink, refocus. The stage is smashed wood and smoke. The screaming has stopped. Security guards hover around as the crowd jostles and spikes towards the exits.

  The music is gone but the sounds are still there. Insomniac Road pumps inside the girls’ heads as they stumble out of the pavilion towards the train station. Pushed along by the pack, they lock arms. Goths, freaks, dress-up fairies, punks, fans connect in a mood of wild energy.

  Suddenly Karen gives a shriek. ‘You touched him, Pip.’

  ‘I did,’ Pip gasps breathlessly. ‘I did.’ She sings, ‘It’s not going to be like this.’

  ‘It’s not going to be like this.’ Irina hits the air with imaginary drumsticks.

  ‘All those tattoos,’ Angie crinkles her nose.

  ‘Tattoos?’ Karen grips Angie’s arm. ‘It’s them.’ She laughs, rocking to the imaginary beat. ‘They’re amazing.’

  Pip rocks with her, then Irina, then Angie, until the four girls are all rocking and singing.

  ‘It’s not going to be like this.’

  Chapter One

  What you did was wrong

  That’s why I wrote this song

  ‘The tempo has to be faster.’ Karen taps her fingers on the table. Her long blonde hair swings in time with the beat.

  Irina speeds up the rhythm of the drums.

  Angie strums a chord progression on her guitar. ‘Is that better?’

  ‘It’s better, but the chords—something’s wrong with them.’ I scribble down a different combination. ‘Try this one.’

  Angie strums the new chords with me.

  ‘That’s good, Pip.’ Karen nods at me.

  ‘Sure.’ I shrug.

  Good? I don’t know about that. I write because I write. I’ve always done it. Private, emotions-on-the-page lyrics. Not-to-show-anyone words. Lately it’s been spilling out. Flooding me. Sometimes the music screams at me, exploding into my mind. Lyrics and music. I can’t stop them.

  Suddenly the sound of Insomniac Road blasts into the room and I jump. Karen is laughing. I shake my head at her.

  ‘Do you like this?’ Karen knows I can’t live without their music. She strums her guitar, mimicking Insomniac Road.

  ‘Very funny,’ I tell her.

  Insomniac Road. It’s the sign for a break from our song writing. We relax on the carpet, listening to the music.

  I love the lead singer Billy. His songs are always inside my head, and on my phone. I’ve stuck photos of Billy and Insomniac Road onto my bedroom walls and wardrobe doors. Insomniac Road is the last thing I see when I go to sleep and the first thing I see when I wake up. The world feels safer with Billy there in my room.

  I know it’s insane. Billy doesn’t even know me. What would he care? Except I think he does care. I connect with Billy, his honesty, his anger, his guts. When his father was drunk, he’d hit Billy. When he wasn’t drunk, he’d hit him too. His mother drank as well. People called her trash. In the end, Billy called his mother trash too. It didn’t matter what happened, he kept fighting to make it. His music is brave. I don’t know if I could ever be that brave. I want to be.

  Irina gets up to play the drums, backing up the Insomniac Road CD. ‘Sounds good,’ Karen calls out. She nudges me and starts talking about writing our songs.

  ‘Sure, sure.’ I close my eyes. The songs we’re working on are only due for the mid-year school concert. It’s months away. The trouble is that we have to do major research to support our songs. At least Karen and I are allowed to do our journal together. I’m working on the history of the rock genre. Secretly I like the research, but I don’t like copying it into our journal and I hate the essays. Writing the arrangements for our songs, music scores for the guitars and the drums, all the technical parts, is hard work. It’s like sucking out the soul of the music and flattening it. But Ka
ren and I refuse to let that happen. There is no way our songs are going to be a ‘Love Is In The Air’. I can’t stand corny, lovesick songs. As if that’s real. Dancing around like some soap advertisement, falling into each other’s arms.

  Our Music teacher, Mr Connelly, has always known what music means to Karen and me. Maybe that’s why he never lets us get away with anything. He accepts Angie’s excuses for not doing her Music homework, but never ours. Even though Angie’s always played with us, it’s different for her. Her guitar is as exciting as a new dress. No, it’s less exciting than a new dress.

  Mr Connelly has asked Karen and me to perform one of our songs at the school concert. ‘Asked’ is really the wrong word. Pressured, harassed, drove us insane. ‘Writing music and lyrics is part of curriculum requirements. So you have to do it. I want everyone to see how talented you girls are.’ We groaned when Mr Connelly said this, which made him smile. ‘I want to showcase your work at the school concert.’ We caved in. No choice. We’re going to perform our own song at the school concert. But it’s not going to be a ‘Love Is In the Air’, that’s for sure.

  The school concert is the big end-of-term event, with everyone involved, from class choirs to our rock group to the school orchestra. The rule is that all girls have to participate. The senior Music students do the arrangements, rehearsals, perform, run the concert. That means we have to do all the work, except when there are dramas and crises. Then teachers have to help. There’ll be parents, teachers, guys, friends, everyone in the audience on the night. See what I mean by pressure?

  As well as all that, we now have to write, arrange and perform our own song. It’ll be a premiere. Of what, is another question. We’ve got to sound good, or—a lump sticks in my throat every time I think about it. If people hate our song…No, I’ve got to be like Billy. I’m doing it, good or bad. I’ll play the rhythm guitar. Karen will be the lead guitar. Angie’s on bass guitar and Irina’s on drums.

  I glance at Irina. She didn’t have much of a choice about playing the drums. We need her in the band and Mr Connelly found her for us. Luckily Irina discovered that she loves playing drums. I want to be part of a real band. Play at real venues. Maybe even go to the Breakers Festival. Imagine being at Breakers, with iconic bands and singers. New bands perform there as well. Insomniac Road was discovered at Breakers. And it’s on the river, with mountains and fields and friends and music. Amazing music. I catch my breath. Maybe one day. One day I might even play there, with Insomniac Road. It’s a dream. You have to have dreams. Billy taught me that.

  I want a real band so much, but Irina is the problem. Mr Connelly may have found her for us, but she misses so many band practices. It’s because of her parents. They expect too much from her. They don’t like our music because of ridiculous Russia. Russians must hate drums. ‘Drums are for idiots,’ her father roars. ‘Russians play good the violin and the piano.’ Who cares about that? We’re not in Russia and our music is important. Irina’s important.

  Irina was twelve when she arrived at school. I can’t believe that was already three years ago. She played the piano and spoke Russian-English. Not a great combination. She sat by herself for months. Even now, I feel terrible that I ignored her. Then Mr Connolly introduced her to the Music Home Room and us. A Mr Connelly introduction means guilt-tripping us. We felt we had no choice but to let Irina tag along. Karen, Angie and I were already best friends. We’ve known each other since kindergarten, and played music together since then too. We didn’t need another friend, but we did need a drummer. So Mr Connelly, guilt and necessity worked. Irina was in.

  ‘Irina.’ I turn off the CD. ‘Come on. Do a solo. One for the Music Home Room.’

  Irina looks up, smiles quickly as she raises her arms. Slowly she grazes the drums with her sticks, feeling the beat, creating the mood. Her pace starts to increase until she’s into it, crashing into wild segments, while we thump the floor. Irina’s at home in the Music Home Room. I am too.

  The Music Home Room is only for the Music girls. There’s carpet and instruments, a CD player and computers for music programs. A beaten-up brown lounge sits in the corner. The fridge is a small new one that the Music girls bought with the money we raised from a school cake stall. The kettle works and Mum donated a sandwich maker.

  There are three private alcoves for Seniors. We’ve taken control of the alcove next to the window, which overlooks the parklands. Stuck on the wall is our calendar, with the dates of all the year’s big events—the mid-year concert, Music exam performances, Rockfest, Big Day Out, bands at the Pavilion, the Breakers Festival. I’ve added in important birthdays. All my friends’, and of course mine. There are Insomniac Road posters on the wall, next to one of Mozart.

  The school is refurbishing the room next door, to make an even better Music Home Room. Everything is being updated, including the couch. Even though Mr Connolly is all excited about it, privately I like our Music Home Room the way it is. I don’t want to move.

  When Irina first arrived in the Music Home Room, she tried to disappear into the beaten-up lounge. That was until she fell in love with the drums. I loved the way she could just play them. Then Karen and Angie connected with her music. Ever since, it’s been three guitars and a drum. Two song writers and nearly a band. Irina is part of us now. Muso friends. Friends.

  ‘Let’s play.’ Karen spins into a seat with her blonde hair flying. We grab our guitars and jam, mucking around, playing whatever works, until we’re tired of it.

  ‘I’m hungry.’ Karen gives a loud strum of her guitar and brushes her hair away from her eyes. She has piercing blue eyes. People always stare at them. My eyes are brown. Present from my parents, who both have brown eyes.

  I throw a guitar pick at her. ‘Shut up, Karen. You’re always eating and you’re still thin.’

  She does a spin. ‘Genetics.’ It’ll be another day of grated carrots and sliced celery for me. Why was I born with a bum and boobs? Another present from my parents. Well, my mother at least.

  ‘Is everyone going to the party tomorrow night?’ I wink at Karen.

  ‘As if I ever miss a party.’ She winks back.

  Irina gives a drum roll.

  Karen bows. ‘So will you be there, Irina? Or is it study, study, study?’

  Irina’s voice is prickly. ‘So I study. Is that a problem?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘And yes, I will be there.’ This time she gives the drum a slam.

  I cut in quickly. ‘Should be a great party.’

  Angie is oblivious to the tension. ‘Who’s coming shopping tomorrow?’

  Angie knows I’m coming. I’ve got nothing to wear. Irina can’t because of endless parent duties, whatever they are. Karen doesn’t bother answering. She needs food urgently. I do too. I bite into an apple. My emergency food supply.

  Angie starts talking about what she plans to wear to the party. ‘I need something that matches my green eyes.’ I roll my eyes. Angie gets self-obsessed sometimes.

  Everyone has to get home. Karen detours to the local sandwich shop to buy a chocolate milkshake and avoid strangling Angie, who’s getting on her nerves. We’ll call each other tonight to confirm everything for the party tomorrow.

  ‘I’m home,’ I yell.

  Dinner is cooking. ‘Stir-fried noodles and beef tonight,’ Mum calls out.

  ‘My favourite,’ I answer as I wave to Eddie through the back door. He’s throwing a ball into the basketball net in the back yard.

  All is happy on the home front because Dad is away. I can’t stand the tension when Dad’s home.

  An excited shiver zips through me. The party’s tomorrow night.

  Dinner is quick. I have to get to my phone. For a party to work there have to be arrangements. My phone has been running hot all week, as I make the final checks on who is going, where everyone will be, what time to arrive, what clothes to wear, whether we are going out afterwards, who is bringing alcohol. It’s basic survival.

  I’m exhausted from all the talking by the ti
me Angie rings. She is the last phone call before sleep. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll be over at eleven-thirty. I need something to match my green—’

  ‘Eyes.’ I finish her sentence and roll my eyes. My eye rolling has become an automatic reaction lately. ‘See you tomorrow. Not early. I mean it.’ I’m definitely not a morning person.

  Saturday, high noon. Angie and I head for the shopping centre.

  Luckily my music shop job means I have money to spend. I love working there. Well, I don’t love the hours, but the manager lets me play my favourite music, which puts me in a good mood. I also love getting my own money. I don’t need to ask Dad for money, which means no interrogation on why and what I spend. I only ask Mum if desperate. She never buys anything for herself, just for the family. It makes me angry.

  Angie has money of course, from her father. She’ll never get a job except as a princess, and there aren’t many ads for them in the newspaper. Angie definitely thinks she’s wearing a diamond crown.

  I laugh. Who cares? Angie is a princess and we’re going shopping and it’s going to be fun. I grab my bag and we race towards the shopping centre.

  We target fourteen shops. I gasp when Angie comes out in a dress that looks like a bus stop, orange and square. Some of the dresses make me look like the back of a bus, which is even worse. We try on skirts that edge up our bums and trousers that drag along the floor, shirts where everything is hanging out and ones that look like we’re joining a circus.

  We’re desperately laughing by the time we find something we really want to buy. ‘The top brings out the green in your eyes. I promise.’ I roll my eyes, of course.

  ‘We’re gorgeous.’ Angie twirls around making her dark hair dance.

  ‘We’re definitely gorgeous.’ I giggle.

  Saturday night. Angie’s father drops Angie off with her overnight bag. Karen isn’t allowed to sleep over tonight for some irrational reason devised by her Frankenstein father. It happens to be convenient—not that Karen’s dad cares. Angie and I have private things to talk about.