‘Er…’ Everyone looks at me.
‘There are no wrong answers, Liv. This is a brainstorm.’
‘Okay… er, well… I like to read reviews, and I like toknow what the next big thing is, but you’ve already covered that…’
‘Uh-huh.’ He’s still looking at me.
‘But I guess I’m also interested in artists’ influences. You know, where they get inspiration from, the bands they listen to.’
He writes something in his notebook, then looks back at me.
‘And, er, something that’s always coming up on the social media channels, what gets people talking, is the meanings behind songs. You could do a regular feature explaining where the ideas for songs came from, influences, what they’re about. Do some research, maybe interview the artist? Readers could get involved on social media and request the songs they want you to cover.’
Everyone looks from me to Paul.
‘What would we call it?’ he asks the entire table.
‘Tracks Decoded?’ suggests a girl with a cool sixties-print top and Harry Potter glasses.
‘Yes! Love it, Tumi!’ says Paul. ‘Why don’t you come up with guide questions for this feature? Liv, give Tumi a hand with that.’
Tumi smiles at me. Her nose wrinkles, lifting her glasses up on her face.
I like her already.
The alarm goes off and when I open my eyes, it’s cool blue serenity everywhere. I’m not expecting that. I’m expecting the dusty pink clutter of my room at home – I mean, Mum’s.
Then, I remember it’s my birthday.
I’m sixteen.
I’ve waiting ages for this day but now it’s here, it already feels like an anti-climax.
My phone buzzes beside my bed.
Chloe:Happy sweet sixteen! May your playlists always be full of hits! Can’t wait to celebrate with you. Love you loads x.
She signs off with cupcake and sparkles emojis and it warms my insides.
Dad knocks on the door. ‘Morning birthday girl!’ he trills. ‘Can I come in?’
I sit up. ‘Yeah.’
Carrying a tray, he sings ‘Happy Birthday’ out of tune the whole way across the room. Before I even see it, I know what’s on it: pancakes and hot chocolate with squirty cream – my birthday breakfast request since I was five. As he places it on my lap, the cream avalanches over the side of the cup.
‘No! I kept that balancing all the way up the stairs!’ He rescues a little present from the spillage and hands me the box.
‘Now, I know you asked for Beatland tickets, but Mum saidno wayand I didn’t know what else to get you…’
I knew Beatland tickets were a long shot. ‘Can I open it?’
‘Go ahead.’
I tear off the paper to find a gold box, and inside is a roll of twenty-pound notes tied with ribbon. ‘Ah, thanks, Dad.’
‘This way, you can buy whatever you like.’
‘Except Beatland tickets, right?’