I Was Born for This(44)

It doesn’t matter that they don’t know me.

Being a fan isn’t always about the thing you’re a fan of. Okay, well, it sort of is, but there is much more to it than just going online and screaming that you love something. Being a fan has given me people to talk to about the things that I like for the past five years. Being a fan has made me better friends online than I’ve ever encountered in real life; it has entered me into a community where people are joined in love and passion and hope and joy and escape. Being a fan has given me a reason to wake up, something always to look forward to, something to dream about while I’m trying to fall asleep.

And people sneer. Sure. I get it. Adults especially. They see all these teenage girls and they think it’s because we’re stupid. They only see the tiny percentage of fans who take it too far – the stalkers – and they think we’re all like that. They think we only love the band because of their looks; they think we only like their music because it’s relatable. They think all of us are girls. They think all of us are straight.

They think we’re dumb little girls who spend all our time screaming because we want to marry a musician.

They don’t understand half of it. Any of it. How could they? Adults don’t think teenagers can do anything, anyway.

But despite everything in the world being terrible, we choose to stand by The Ark. We choose hope, light, joy, friendship, faith, even when our lives aren’t perfect, or exciting, or fun, or special, like the boys from The Ark. I might be a disappointing student, without many close friends, with a life of mediocrity waiting for me back at home – an average degree from an average university, an average job and an average life – but I will always have this.

In an otherwise mediocre existence, we choose to feel passion.





‘Lister,’ says Rowan, sighing heavily as Lister walks out of his bedroom wearing a jumper that appears to be made of plastic. ‘Not that I’m not passionate about grunge, but you look like a bin bag.’

‘Looks good, though,’ I say. ‘I mean, if anyone could get away with wearing a bin bag, it’d be you.’

Rowan shoots me a ‘don’t encourage him’ look.

It’s 10 a.m. and our apartment has transformed into a clothes shop in the space of half an hour. This is the routine every time we do a show. Tasha and her crew of stylists have clothes delivered from a variety of designers, and then we choose what we want to wear. With some advice from the stylists of course. Right now, me, Rowan and Tasha are all sitting on the back of the sofa, watching Lister twirl like a kid in a party dress.

Lister puts his hands on his hips and lunges deeply. He’s wearing very tight jeans. Rowan puts a hand up to block the view.

‘So are we voting yes or no?’ Lister asks.

‘No,’ says Rowan.

‘Yes,’ I say, making the okay signal with my non-bandaged hand.

‘No, sweetie,’ says Tasha. Her American accent makes her feel almost motherly. ‘Come on, you look like trash. Where’s that bomber jacket I got you? The Vetements one! It’s from this year’s spring/summer collection!’

Lister sighs. ‘I just thought it’d make a change.’

‘This is the last tour stop. You can’t look like trash on your final show of the tour.’

Lister winks at us. ‘Come on, Tash, I never look like trash.’

Tasha chucks a shoe at him and he laughs and retreats into his bedroom.

‘Jimmy, have you chosen?’ asks one of Tasha’s team.

I shake my head. I’m terrible at choosing what to wear because there’s always too much choice. I love everything. All of it. The ripped jeans and sloganed hoodies and button-ups and military boots and Vans and earrings and soft cotton T-shirts. Sometimes I enjoy choosing what to wear for a show more than the show itself.

‘How about this?’ Tasha wanders over to one of the clothing racks and withdraws an oversized black hoodie with a black-and-white photo of Jake Gyllenhaal in Donnie Darko on it. On one sleeve the word ‘TRUTH’ stands out in white bold lettering, and on the other sleeve the word ‘LIE’.

‘That looks good,’ I say.

‘With some ripped black jeans?’

‘Yeah, definitely.’

Rowan suddenly appears, wearing only boxers. ‘Hey, Tash, you got that dress that I wanted to wear?’

‘Sure, hun, check the rack near the door. To go with the Metallica jumper, right?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one. D’you think black leggings or jeans?’

‘Leggings, I think.’

‘Sick.’

Lister reappears wearing what can only be described as a cape.

Tasha folds her arms. ‘Now you know I didn’t order whatever that is.’

Lister starts running around the lounge, cape billowing behind him, singing the Batman theme tune.

Tasha picks up a shoe and hurls it at him, and when she misses does it again. Lister shrieks and dodges, then runs towards us and throws the cape over me, so both of us are concealed under it. I can’t stop myself laughing, trapped under the cape, and I catch a glimpse of Lister grinning at me, a soft smile, one that reminds me of years ago, back when this was all new and exciting and fun, back when we really were children. Then he yanks the cape and skips away.

‘When I dump you all and start my solo career, I’m wearing all the capes I want,’ he calls.