Saturday, July 199x

Saturday finally comes. Felice and I both look good leaving her house. I'm wearing the black lace top she got me under her old leather biker jacket and she's in her bright London gear. 

Spike is still the worse for wear. Both his eyes are black, but under his shaggy mop of hair, it looks kind of goth and deliberate. The only problem is everyone in Drimshanra knows they really are bruises.

It gets me thinking. Apart from Felice and I, Spike has no people here. He's just the queer kid who gets beaten up all the time.

Up to now, it's all seemed so far away, but suddenly I find myself wondering what will happen next year. When Felice and I come home from boarding school at the weekends, will Spike still be here for us? Of course he won't. He'll stay in Dublin with his new university friends. Why would he come back here?

Everything is changing. And there's no way to stop it.

It's my first time inside Fibbers. The three of us went to an Oasis concert in Dublin at Christmas, but I've never been to a small, local gig. Bathed in purple light, the dim interior of the converted cinema is bigger and more glamorous than I expected. The noisy, excited crowd looks exotic and otherworldly, the kind of place where Aonghus, if he existed, could pass unnoticed, just another music fan. Instead of standing out, the three of us fit right in.

And then Tully comes towards us, waving madly. In boring jeans, boring t-shirt and beyond boring runners, he definitely doesn't look like a hardcore supporter.

"What's he doing here?" I turn to Spike.

"I asked him along. Why? You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not," Felice replies. "He looked after you the other night. We owe him one."

But I'm not pleased to see him. This was meant to be just us, the three of us together watching our favourite band in our home town, a special night out to celebrate Felice's return and the end Spike's exams. I don't want to share it with anyone, least of all a stranger.

"Hey!" Tully's smile is wide and trusting.

"Hey." I don't look at him and my voice is not welcoming.

"Hey." Felice links her arm through his and winds her way through the crowd to the front of the stage.

She's just elbowed enough space for us all when the band leap onstage to the roars of screaming fans. Up front,  the hot, sweaty crowd presses tight around us, heaving.  But it doesn't matter because we all share the same emotion. 

We are here. This is history in the making.  Mac Whitehead glides around the stage, like a being possessed. Wild-haired and bare-chested, a bandana knotted around his neck, he dominates the space, all eyes on him, drawn irresistibly to his every movement.

He's the one we all want. It pulses through the crowd, this knowledge, this excitement, this sense of destiny.

Tully moves into my field of vision, waving his arms and pumping his fists. 

Those runners. Shudder. He's not my type, really not my type. Still, with a few basic changes, like if he ditched the runners, got better jeans, and wore a black t-shirt instead of a stupid wine one,  he'd get way more attention. It's easy for a guy to look cool. Much more effort for a girl. Life is so unfair.

Not that it matters what Tully wears. None of us would look twice at him anyway. 

Not when Mac Whitehead is in the room.

Time seems to melt away as he leaps from one end of the stage to the other, mesmerising us all with his husky voice and reckless moves.

He works his way effortlessly through the songs from the first album. We've been playing it back to back out in Felice's all week, and know most of the lyrics by heart, but hearing Mac sing them live is a completely different experience and it blows my mind.

And then, just when it seems the atmosphere couldn't get any better, he launches into 'Plagued By You.' It's the song that's climbing the charts, the song everyone has heard on radio. As one the crowd join the chorus and the sound soars above us, greater than the sum of our parts.

Mac crouches down with his mic to growl out the next verse. His gaze is riveted on me, like he has eyes only for me and no one else. Perhaps every other girl in there is thinking the same thing, but I am convinced it's me. 

I love him so much, he must surely feel it radiating,  carried above the crowd, floating over all the longing pouring out from all the other angsty teen souls, the hearts just waiting to be broken. And when I steal a glance around me, everyone is as spellbound as I am, even the guys, even Spike and Tully.

The building erupts in cheers as their big hit comes to an end. Mac lets the final notes hover and die. They are called back for one encore, then another, and finally, a third.

As the place begins to clear out, we hang around, reluctant to leave and break the spell. The lights go on and the magic of their performance evaporates as Fibbers turns back into a dingy cheaply-renovated cinema.

"They were amazing," Tully says.

"Have you seen them before?" Felice asks.

"Never. Don't know much about them, except that song on the radio."

"Plagued by You." Felice runs her eye over him, from head to toe and gives a slight shake of her head. I know what that means. She's lost interest. Tully may have rescued Spike, but he's not going to get to hang out with us again after this.

I should be glad. 

It's what I wanted, just the three of us, Felice, Spike and I, no one in the way, no one messing with our dynamic. We're best as a trio because we get each other in a way no one else does. 

Yet, for some reason, I feel a little sorry for Tully. 

None of this is his fault. It's just the way it is.

Right at that moment, Spike comes bounding over, eyes alight, "Guys, you won't believe this, I know the sound guy. They need a hand loading up the gear. C'mon, we'll get to meet the band."

No way! Felice and I look at each other in disbelief. Mac Whitehead in the flesh, up close and personal, it's too good to be true.

We race out of the building after Spike. The band have parked their van in a grimy, badly-lit alley at the back. Spike's sound guy introduces us to everyone, but I don't pay attention. The only thing that matters is that Mac Whitehead isn't there.

Spike and Tully don't mind, they're happy to meet the band, but Felice must be as gutted as I am.

Or maybe not.

She's already chatting to the Rastafarian drummer, leaving me with Baz, the lead guitarist. He has a girlfriend whose name I barely catch.

"Gemma?"

"No, Jenna," she replies with an American drawl.

"Where's Mac?" Felice asks the question uppermost in my mind.

"At the bar, chatting up the girls." Jenna rolls her eyes. "As usual."

"It's hard for Mac to get away," Baz says. "They all want a piece of him."

"The rest of you manage it," Jenna says with asperity.

But I know what Baz means. He may be lead guitarist, but despite the cheeky grin under a mop of ungroomed curls, he's no Mac Whitehead. He's never going to be the star, the one everyone wants.

Somehow, Tully and I end up helping Baz and Jenna shift the band's gear, while Felice flirts with Len, the drummer, and Spike chats to the sound guy.

An hour later, there's still no sign of Mac Whitehead, but the van is all loaded up and we no longer have an excuse to hang around.

"Thanks for helping out," Baz says.

"Great to meet you all." Tully is way too cheery and enthusiastic.

Even though he did most of the work, I'm fed up with him. If he wasn't there nobody would have expected me to do all the loading. Instead, I'd have been chatting and laughing with Felice and Spike, all excited about the band. That's the thing about three. You can't leave just one person out — but four is a different dynamic.

"What do you think?" Spike nudges me. Felice is writing something on a piece of paper which she hands to Len, a sure sign she likes him. He's exactly the kind of guy she'd go for, all chill and laid-back with dreadlocks under his rasta cap. There's nobody like that in Drimshanra.

Still, there's not much point in giving him her phone number since tonight was a one-off and there's no chance of them seeing each other again.

And, after all that, we didn't get to meet Mac Whitehead. The disappointment leaves a bitter taste at the back of my throat.

Author's Note

Thank you for making it this far. Hope you're enjoying the story 💜