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The gremlin gives her the finger and calls her a deluded psycho bitch, so I choose to support no one and hope they both off each other instead.
I watch Li as she prepares herself, brushing down her neat red velvet minidress and primping up her black bob. She’s exquisitely pretty. She could go out there and warble like a diseased cat and everyone would go wild, but no, she has to be able to sing, too.
She sounds like a CD recording.All I Want For Christmas is Youswirls around the backstage area, sleigh bells and twinkling chimes and drums backing up Li capably.
I hate this candy-coated music.
Worse, I hate that it touches me.
I hate that Li is singing something where I identify with every single desperate lyric.
And all I can do is stare at him. The boy in front of me, whose mouth has twisted into a kind of disgust, refusing to look at anything other than the faded stickers on his guitar.
It makes me wonder who Li’s singing it to. Rory? The billion pounds I almost lost her dad’s company? A fair and just society?
Okay, probably not the last one.
When she finishes, there’s applause — but not the kind of applause I’d have expected after such a pitch-perfect performance. It’s like the audience out there begrudge giving anyone anything.
“Cunts are dead,” Li snaps viciously when she arrives, ripping out the sparkly gems from her hair. Her deep scowl is somewhat at odds with her happy little Christmas outfit. “Good luck with that, emo boy. Although maybe you possess the right anatomy for them.”
She storms off without a backward glance. Finlay gazes after her, his bright green eyes emphasized by slick dark eyeliner, and then sighs quietly. He stands up, stretching his arms above his head, and then picks up his acoustic guitar.
“Good luck,” I tell him, surprising myself by meaning it.
He blinks at me, and then his lips tug upward. Wordlessly, he gives me a nod and approaches the stage.
For Finlay, it’s not enough for me to just listen through the curtain. I need toseehim to believe that there’s another side to him after all, that he’s not just a rowdy chief with assholes for friends. I need to see to believe, so I fight my way through the amps and cables into the dark wings.
There’s a single spotlight shining on Finlay. Even though he has a rainbow strap holding his guitar upright, his hand is gripping the neck tightly.
“Hi,” he says quietly to the crowd, and I’m struck. Since when has Finlay ever beenquiet? “If ye know who I am, I’m honored. If ye dinnae… well, we’ve still got time.” His lips quirk against the mic in an easy half-grin. “I’ve got a new song for ye from my next album — something a bit sad, a bit melancholy, perfect for winter. It’s calledHome. Ta for listenin’.”
I watch, hypnotized, as he pushes himself away from the mic like he can’t get away from it fast enough.
Tonight is a lesson in assumptions. I’d always considered Finlay to be larger-than-life, a force of energy in huge stomping boots, a ridiculous kilt, a punky anarchist jacket, and a half-cocked grin. But as I watch him on stage, I start to realize it’s all been a mask. When he’s performing, it all shrinks away into nothing until all I can see is his vulnerable heart and the gentle music that swirls around it.
I assumed his music would be loud and noisy and punchy. Instead, it’s quiet, tender,yearning.
God, the yearning. His voice sings a delicate melody that strains with angst and builds into a bewitchingly strong chorus. His rough Scottish accent softens into something sweet. There’s a lightness to it, a quiet strength. It’s the kind of music that’s designed to be listened to after an earth-shattering event, a destructive break-up. It’s angelic and powerful, the bright encapsulating pain of heartache, and all I can do is think about my dad.
I’m clinging to my angel headdress, holding the dyed white peacock feathers tightly between my fingers.
I miss him so much.
Every stab of Finlay’s lyrics is an attack against my past, against my family. It’s tangible, the throb in my chest.
“I never meant to hurt you / I never meant to hate you / All I wanted was somethin’ pure / All I wanted in my arms was you.”
There’s no sound in the entire hall — no rustling or coughing. All eyes are on Finlay.
“Did I ever tell you I’m sorry? / I want you to be where you’re meant to be / Come home, darling, come home to me.”
Finlay was right: itismelancholic. But the way Li had derided him asemo boy, I’d expected something semi-embarrassing and derivatively scene kid, not heartbreakingly beautiful, something clearly wrenched from the deep recesses of Finlay’s shattered heart and put on display for us all to marvel at.
I look at the other chiefs. Luke is placid, slightly confused but overall respectful as he listens to Finlay’s lyrics. ButRory…
Rory’s face is scrunched up, like this is the last thing he expected to hear. He’s gazing at Finlay like he’s never seen him before, like every aching word Finlay treats us to has been sung in another language.
