Call Me, Maybe Read online

  Call Me, Maybe

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  DEDICATION

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Epilogue

  A LETTER FROM STEPHIE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Copyright

  Call Me, Maybe

  Steph Chapman

  DEDICATION

  This book is for anyone who has ever been deeply besotted with a boy in a band.

  And also for all the boys who are in bands. Keep on keeping on, fellas.

  Prologue

  Omaha, Nebraska, 1993

  A car pulls up on the drive, the hum of the engine stops and Adam glances out of the window.

  ‘They’re home,’ he says, and sits back against the wall again. It’s neutral. Like they could have just been gone a half hour. Like they could have been out running errands. Except they haven’t. They’ve been on vacation. Ten days in Hawaii and we didn’t get to go with them. We had to stay home with Grandma Ada.

  Neither of us move. We don’t look at each other, or even make any attempt to switch off the TV. We just sit there, our eyes glued to MTV. We’ve spent a lot of time up here, doing that, whilst Mom and Dad have been away. Grandma Ada is not good at enforcing the rules Mom set when they left. Soon enough there are footsteps on the stairs, absorbed by thick, spongy carpet, and then Dad pops his head around the door. A tan version of himself. His forehead is shiny. His shirt has flowers on it and I realize how much I’ve missed them. Ten days is a long time when you’re twelve. He comes over and sits between us on Adam’s bed.

  ‘Whatcha watching, kiddos?’

  ‘MTV,’ Adam says. Dad puts his arm around my neck and ruffles my hair.

  ‘Missed you guys,’ he says.

  ‘Missed you, too, Dad,’ I say.

  ‘Have you been good for Grandma?’

  ‘Duh,’ Adam says, rolling his eyes. Dad laughs.

  ‘I bet you’ve given her hell,’ he chuckles.

  ‘Well, Travis said asshole at the dinner table and she made him take a time out,’ I say. I whisper the word ‘asshole’, because I don’t want to get in trouble. Not so soon after they’ve got home.

  ‘You’re a snitch, Jesse, you know that?’ Adam says. He throws a pillow at me.

  ‘Who was the asshole?’ Dad asks. He wedges the pillow between his back and the wall and leans against it.

  ‘Grandpa Nev,’ Adam says, sniggering.

  ‘Oh my god, not Grandpa Nev,’ Dad says, and now we’re all laughing. Dad doesn’t like Grandpa Nev. Grandma Ada doesn’t really like Dad. It’s like a circle. Everyone knows about it, but no one ever says anything.

  ‘Well, I guess I should go and find your brothers.’ Dad stands up and walks towards the door. ‘We brought you back something from Hawaii,’ he says. ‘Come down in a few minutes, okay? Your mom’s missed you heaps.’

  We traipse downstairs when our show has ended. Mom is curled up on the couch. She’s hugging Brandon and she’s stuck her nose in his hair, but she rushes over when she sees us and envelopes us both in her arms and kisses the tops of our heads. She can only just reach when she stands on her tiptoes. We are tall and gangly.

  ‘My two eldest babies,’ she coos. ‘Let me look at you!’

  She holds us back at arm’s length and grabs us by our chins. ‘Handsome,’ she declares. ‘So handsome.’ Adam rolls his eyes again. He does that a lot. ‘Jesse, honey, I think Travis and Dad are out in the yard. Can you please go and tell them it’s time to do the gifts? I can’t wait a moment longer.’

  They’re shooting hoops at the back of the house. The ball bounces off the wall and down to the end of the yard and Travis runs after it as I open the back door.

  ‘Hey, sport,’ Dad says. ‘Want to play?’

  ‘Mom sent me out to get you. She wants us all inside now.’

  Travis hurls the basketball at me. ‘No fair, we only just started.’

  ‘We can play again in a while. Maybe when Mom’s making dinner. We have something for you from Hawaii, though, and I’m pretty sure you’re gonna love it.’

  Back inside, all four of us crowd onto the couch whilst Mom and Dad dig through their bags. They pull out boxes, slightly narrower at one end than the other. Dad hands us one each.

  ‘Go ahead and open ’em up,’ Mom says. She nods her head, encouragingly.

  Inside are what look like miniature guitars, but they have four strings instead of six.

  ‘What is it?’ Brandon asks. He looks confused.

  ‘It’s a ukulele,’ Dad replies. He takes them off us, one by one, and tunes them up. I had no idea he knew how to do this. He has an old electric guitar but I’ve never seen him play it. The strings are a little rusty and one of the pickups has fallen off, and anyway, he sold the amp.

  ‘Lots of people play them in Hawaii,’ Mom says. ‘The man in the store made it look so easy. Oh, we also got you chord books.’

  She doles them out, too, and I flick to the first page and copy the image to make a C major chord. It sounds nice. Cheerful. I play it a few times and then move on to the next one. A minor. I move my finger up to the G string, press down on the second fret and strum. All the notes ring out. It’s not as happy as C major, but I like it just as much. There’s something about playing it that makes me feel good. I like the way I can hear all the different and distinct notes and how they sound all together. I’m not really sure what I’m doing. I just play all the notes one at a time, up and down the neck. Figuring out a scale, one string after the other.

  ‘Well,’ Mom says. She wipes her hands over her pants. ‘Looks like these are a roaring success. Who’s hungry? I’ll make grilled cheese.’

  Dad stretches out on the floor. He puts his arms behind his head.

  ‘Hey Trav,’ he says. ‘You still want to shoot some hoops?’

  He looks up from his chord book and plucks at one of the strings on his ukulele.

  ‘Nah, I’m good thanks Dad.’

  * * *

  We usually spend Thanksgiving at our grandparents’ house the o
ther side of Omaha, but Grandma Ada called and told Mom their oven is on the fritz. So this year we’re having it here. Dad made a comment about Grandpa Nev just not wanting to host anymore, but Mom batted his arm and told him that was nonsense.

  Now the house smells of turkey and cranberry sauce and sweet potatoes baked with marshmallows. We’re all in the garage, practicing something on our ukuleles we’re going to play before we eat. Now it’s winter, it’s freezing in there but it’s the only place in the house we’ve been able to go where we know Mom won’t hear us. She’s mad on Duran Duran, and we’re going to play ‘Ordinary World’ for her because it’s her favorite. Every time she hears it she sings along. Sometimes she hums it when she’s cleaning. Sometimes she jokes that the only reason she married Dad is because Simon Le Bon was spoken for.

  ‘One more time before your cousins arrive,’ Dad says, but right on cue, the doorbell rings. Inside, I’m beginning to feel a bit nervous. Playing that song in front of Adam and Travis and Brandon and Dad is easy; they don’t care if I mess up. But I don’t want to screw up in front of the rest of my family, and especially not Mom. I want it to be perfect for her, because it’s for her.

  At two o’clock, we’re called into the dining room to eat. The table’s been decorated and Mom’s put out the fancy napkins. When everyone’s seated, Dad clears his throat.

  ‘Before we start,’ he says, ‘the boys have something to perform.’

  Everyone looks at us and Mom clasps her hands together under her chin. Dad brings our ukuleles in from the hallway and we line up by the wall. This is it. My mouth has dried up, and all I want to do is take a drink. ‘You ready?’ Dad says, looking at me. I nod. He counts us in.

  And then I start playing and I forget everything else. I forget that everyone is staring at me playing the beginning part of ‘Ordinary World’ by Duran Duran. I forget that no one knew we could do this until right this second. All I think about is how my fingers are gliding around the neck of my ukulele, pressing on the strings at various frets and how easy and natural it feels to me. In my head I can see where everything is meant to go. I can hear how everything is meant to sound.

  Mom gasps. She’s realized what I’m playing and I think, if the look on her face is any indication, that she loves it, and that makes me love it, too. I love that our version of that song is recognizable and how happy we’ve made her. I love how Travis and Brandon’s harmonies sound with Adam’s lead vocals. I love how I didn’t mess up, not even once. Not even a single note. But most of all, I love the happy rush I’m feeling right now.

  ‘That was just beautiful,’ she sighs, when we’re finished, and it’s almost a whisper. ‘My favorite song!’ She’s all choked up. She dabs her eyes.

  ‘Can we dish up now?’ Grandpa Nev asks, gruffly. ‘What’s an old man gotta do to get a meal round here?’

  ‘Dad! Rude!’ Mom snaps.

  * * *

  It’s Christmas Day and Dad has lit the fire already. Usually he tells us to put extra layers on and suck it up, but today he built up a fire right after we ate breakfast, no questions asked. So either he doesn’t care, or he sold a lot of cars last month. The lights on the Christmas tree twinkle and I stare at them until my eyes glass over. Mom’s menorah is still in the window with the candles all burnt down. She does this every year. Lights the candles for Chanukah but that’s really the only way she celebrates being Jewish at all, and she never remembers to put it away again when it’s over.

  Now she wanders into the living room with a basket of muffins, and sets them down close to the fire.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ Travis asks. He’s asking this not because he particularly cares where our father is, but because he knows we’re not allowed to open gifts until we’re all together after breakfast.

  ‘In the garage,’ Mom says. Travis makes a move towards the interconnecting door but Mom stops him and now we’re all intrigued. He looks from the door to her and back to the door again. Mom looks nervous. She knows if we all go, she won’t be able to stop us. There’s one of her and four of us. ‘Can everyone just settle down?’ she says. ‘He’ll be right out. Eat a muffin.’ We do as we’re told.

  Besides, she’s right. Soon enough Dad emerges. He’s got his jacket and his hat on and he looks pleased with himself. He and Mom share a look.

  ‘So, Santa came last night,’ he says. Adam rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s for Brandon’s benefit. ‘But your gifts were a little too large to fit down the chimney.’

  Mom squeezes Brandon’s shoulders.

  ‘You guys,’ he says. ‘I’m eight. I’m not stupid.’

  ‘Right. Well. Come on through,’ Dad says. He gestures for us to follow him into the garage. It’s freezing in there, makes the rest of the house feel like a sauna. He switches on the light and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. There’s a drum kit. There’s a keyboard. There’s a guitar and a bass. There are tags with our names on.

  ‘So, we thought that since you got on so well with your ukuleles, that you might like to try something a little more challenging,’ Dad says.

  I take the bass out of its stand. It’s so heavy. There are four shiny chrome tuning pegs and the thickest metal strings I ever saw on anything. It’s bright red. And huge. And beautiful. I love it. The neck is so long. It makes my little ukulele seem like a toy. I’ve seen people play bass on the TV and I like the way it sounds on records. I don’t know how to play it but I can’t wait to plug it in and have a go. Mom’s helping Brandon with his keyboard, and Travis is already trying to figure out a rhythm on the drumkit. Dad walks over to where Adam and I are standing.

  ‘You like them?’ he asks. But he knows. He can tell that we do. He rubs his hands together and blows on his palms. It’s that cold in here.

  ‘Dad, this is the most amazing thing ever. Thank you guys so much.’ I put my new bass back in the stand and hug him.

  ‘You’re welcome kiddo,’ he says. ‘Now you can start a band.’

  Chapter One

  Cassie

  London, April 2012

  There’s a knock at my front door. The hollow rat-a-tat echoes around the hallway.

  ‘That’ll be dinner,’ I say, jumping up off the floorboards.‘Free prawn crackers. Bonus!’ Down the corridor, Rachel’s clanging about in the kitchen, gathering together cutlery and plates, and back in the lounge I unpack the aluminium cartons and peel off the cardboard lids one by one.

  ‘After dinner I want to get your thoughts on table centrepieces,’ Rachel says, nodding towards a pile of wedding magazines she’s brought over with her. She picks up a fork and scrapes a pile of noodles onto her plate. ‘I’d talk to George, but he’s got stupid amounts of marking at the moment, and to be honest, Cass, I don’t think he really gives a shit.’

  I put on a serious face and salute her. ‘Maid of honour, reporting for duty,’ I say. She looks at me slyly.

  ‘Are you bringing anyone?’

  ‘To your wedding? You know I’m not,’ I say, crunching on a prawn cracker.

  ‘Because you can, you know. I’ve budgeted for you to have a plus one.’

  ‘Aw that’s kind. We can talk about my imaginary date later if you like.’

  ‘There’s time for you to make sure you bring someone non-imaginary. I’ve been thinking –’

  ‘Oh, there it is,’ I say. Rachel ignores me.

  ‘Charlotte from work’s just started seeing someone.’

  ‘Bravo for Charlotte.’

  ‘I’ll show you how they met.’

  Rachel grabs my laptop and types for a bit, then she spins the computer around on the floor and points at the screen. There’s triumph in her eyes.

  ‘Date My Mate dot com,’ I say. ‘No thank you.’

  ‘You get a friend to write your profile.’

  ‘Hard pass.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You’ve been out of circulation for ages now. Anyway, I’ve already written yours.’ She pulls a notebook out of her bag and hands it over. ‘Did it on the t
rain on the way here.’

  ‘Out of circulation. You make me sound like a manky old penny. I hope no one saw you write this,’ I say, skim-reading. ‘Meet Cassie. Almost thirty, five feet seven, slim, eyes like lagoons, face of an angel, tits like the Venus de Milo… Tits like the Venus de Milo? I don’t think so.’

  ‘You do have great tits though.’

  ‘Rachel! Think of the sort of replies I’ll get if you put that in there.’

  ‘It’ll be fine. Carry on.’

  ‘Cassie loves thoughtful dates, decent wine and being swept off her feet. She works in retail (Head Office – fun but sensible), has two odd but well-meaning housemates, and a mild dust allergy. She’s keen on creative types (but not if that creativity is with the truth) and bonus points if you can play an instrument. Any will do. Probably. Maybe not the kazoo or bagpipes. Tories and marrieds need not apply… I don’t know what to say.’

  Rachel grabs my computer back and logs into the site.

  ‘I’ve actually already signed you up, on account of Charlotte’s good fortune. She had a ton of matches, apparently.’

  ‘No one is going to admit to having none,’ I mutter. But it’s pointless to argue. Rachel’s like a dog with a bone, and I watch as she types in my bio, including the line about my boobs. She links my Facebook account so the photos pull through, and looks pleased with herself.

  ‘Keep me informed,’ she says, picking up the chow mein.

  We turn our attention back to the TV. All Whitney on Box Hits.

  ‘Too sad,’ Rachel says, forlornly. She reaches for the remote. ‘All she wanted was to dance with somebody who loved her. She didn’t want to die in the bath.’

  ‘Yeah. Still shocking,’ I agree. ‘It’s nice to reminisce though, and that is a great song.’

  But she flicks away all the same, only stopping on each channel long enough to register what’s playing and make a snap decision about it, until we reach Now 90s. We sit and watch the Backstreet Boys dance around chairs, Take That sing in the pouring rain wearing very dubious coats, and NSYNC in matching outfits, dancing an energetic, highly choreographed routine. A teenage Justin Timberlake is lying on a bed, and his hair reminds me of dried ramen noodles. I thought differently when the song was in the charts. I still remember all the words.