The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (open ebook .txt) 📕

the history, the facilities, the buildings and couldn’t believe how lucky I was. Tom’s derision was starting to grate a bit.

“So, what do you like? Rugby?” Max persisted, as if this was the only sport played in private schools.

“Yeah,” nodded Michael, earnestly, “I’m the prop forward.”

Max looked him up and down wordlessly, taking in his narrow shoulders and delicate frame. Then Michael smiled, and Max, realising he was joking, laughed.

“You had me there for a moment!”

I was relieved to see Michael employing his usual deadpan humour, but Tom only raised his eyebrows, unimpressed.

“Michael really likes music,” I interjected.

“R ’n’ B? Hip hop?” asked Max hopefully. Tom and I told him all the time that his music was garbage.

“I’m not sure,” Michael said. “Anything, I suppose.”

“Like what?” Tom pressed. “Which bands?”

“Um… I don’t really know the names of that many bands. But I sometimes hear stuff I like. Like when I’m in shops or…I don’t know, just out places.”

Max and Tom flashed each other a discreet frown, although not so discreet that Michael didn’t spy it.

“My dad doesn’t really like me having music on in the house,” he explained, uncomfortably. “Well, not unless it’s his kind of music.”

“Which is what?” asked Tom.

“Classical stuff mainly. Mozart, Beethoven, Bach.”

“So is that what you like?” asked Tom, a smile playing at the edge of his lips.

Michael shrugged. “It’s okay, I suppose.”

Max nodded encouragingly. “Cool, everyone likes different things.” But after that even he wasn’t sure what to say and the conversation ground to a halt.

I squirmed. This wasn’t going to work. I had school in common with Michael if nothing else. We could joke about teachers and other students and all the stupid things we were made to do. But none of that was transferrable, and the gulf between my old friends and my new one suddenly seemed too big.

We remained quiet, Tom returning to his magazine, Max tutting that the game he wanted to play wasn’t uploading, and me picking at a bit of cotton hanging off my sock. Only the music playing on Tom’s stereo saved us from awkward silence. Michael, sitting crossed-legged on the rug, looked painfully aware that this social experiment was failing. He hummed along quietly and didn’t look up for some time.

“I like this,” he offered finally. “Who is it?”

“Who is it?!” spat Tom, incredulous.

“Guns N’ Roses,” Max quickly stepped in. “You could say Tom’s a fan of old metal.”

“Classic metal,” Tom corrected him, “it’s timeless.”

Michael nodded thoughtfully and Tom raised an eyebrow at me, as if to say an unfamiliarity with Guns N’ Roses had pushed things beyond the limit of his tolerance. I glared at him in a way that suggested he was pushing me to the limit of mine. He rolled his eyes and sighed quietly.

“Do you know Metallica?” he asked, grudgingly.

Michael’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully and then lit up. “‘Nothing Else Matters’?”

“Yeah,” nodded Tom, surprised. “So you do know some decent music.”

“I love that song. I don’t know how I’ve heard it…”

“You’ve heard it,” said Tom standing up, “because it’s one of the greatest fucking songs ever written.” He swiftly scrolled through his iPod and the song in question started to play through the speakers. Then he picked up his guitar and sat on the edge of the bed.

Max and I exchanged withering looks. Heavy metal was a passion that neither of us really shared, and while Tom was a decent guitar player and singer, he wasn’t quite as good as he thought. Michael, on the other hand, looked enraptured, and hummed along with increasing confidence as Tom played. In contrast to Tom, his pitch was spot on.

“You sing?” asked Tom, when they reached the instrumental.

Michael nodded, and I was so desperate for him not to set himself back by explaining he was a chorister that I quickly interjected.

“Michael plays keyboard, too. He’s really good.”

Michael looked at me, confused, and I shot him a warning glance. It was actually classical piano he played, but I didn’t think Max and Tom needed to know that right now.

“I’d really love to learn the guitar,” said Michael.

“So why don’t you?” asked Tom, still strumming along.

Michael shook his head, dismissively. “My dad thinks it’s a waste of time. He gave me the choice of violin or piano. Plus, they don’t teach guitar at our school.”

Tom shrugged. “I’ll teach you, if you want.”

Michael smiled sadly. “Thanks, but there’s no way my dad would buy me a guitar.”

“I’ve got a spare one,” said Tom.

“My dad still wouldn’t give me the money for lessons.”

Tom frowned at him like he was out of his mind. “I’m not gonna charge you, you idiot.”

Michael grinned. “That would be incredible. I’d just need to make sure my dad doesn’t—”

“Screw your dad,” said Tom, suddenly turning up the volume and jumping up onto the bed as the next track came crashing through the speakers. He started headbanging and pretending to rock out on his guitar. “Your dad needs to get with the music!” he shouted.

Michael smiled up at Tom like he was some kind of god.

Max jumped onto the bed next to Tom and started playing air guitar. I felt a wave of relief wash over me, hopeful that some kind of bond was being forged, and hopped up there with them, rocking my head in time to the music and playing the imaginary drums.

“Come on, Blondie!” Max shouted at Michael.

For a moment Michael looked shy, but then he too climbed onto the bed and started miming into an imaginary microphone. All four of us were jumping, banging our heads and rocking out on our imaginary instruments, and I could just about hear Tom’s mum yelling at us from downstairs.

Suddenly there was a loud crack, and we tumbled on top of each other as the centre of Tom’s bed folded in. We looked at each other in stunned silence.

“Shit,” said Tom, examining the way his bed now dipped in the middle. “That’s not good.”

Michael looked to each of us, eyes wide with horror.

“That’s rock ’n’ roll, baby!”