Simon Snow is a pop star. Basilton Pitch is a lesser-known singer and violinist. Obviously, Baz loathes Snow. Or does he?
“Bloody Simon Snow,” I say for the umpteenth time. “He doesn’t know the first thing about music! I’m so sick of seeing his stupid face in every channel on TV,” I continue as I turn off the telly.
“Stop ranting, Baz! You’re obviously jealous that he’s famous and you’re not!” My sister, Mordelia, she fucking adores him. Mother has bought her tickets for next week’s concert and wants me to babysit her. Outrageous. I think I’ll wear my headphones.
“He looks like a nasty copy of Troye Sivan to me,” I complain. “And, for your interest, I do have some fans, too. Not as many, but more loyal. Snow would be jealous of my fans. None of his snowflakes is as devoted as my rosebudboy61.”
Seriously, I think this guy has been stalking me. He has an insane amount of pictures of me on his blog.
“Sure, Baz. I think you secretly love him. You never stop talking about him.”
“I never stop complaining about him. And rightly so,” I say. “Anyhow, do you still want that ice cream?”
“Yes!” She shouts.
“Then let’s go before I change my mind.”
“I don’t understand how you can love pistachio ice cream so much,” I say, as we leave the ice cream stand.
“Says the guy who only eats pumpkin mocha ice cream,” Mordelia replies. “Like, how did anyone come up with the idea? It’s disgusting.”
I stick my tongue out at her. How ungraceful. I hope rosebudboy61 isn’t around to photograph me.
Suddenly, a mysterious person appears out of nowhere and bumps into me, spilling my ice cream on my new jeans. Great.
“Hey!” I yell at them. But they’re already running away. I didn’t even get a chance to see their face. Only a glimpse of their eyes. Blue.
“I think this belongs to that person,” my sister says, picking up something from the floor and handing it to me. An ipod.
“Well, it’s not like I can return it to them,” I say, dropping the rest of the ice cream in the nearest trash can. “Let’s go back home, so I can change into clean clothes.”
After my daily hour of practice, I feel a bit unsettled. It hasn’t been my best performance. I can’t stop thinking about the strange person with blue eyes.
Out of curiosity, I decide to go through the playlist on the stranger’s ipod. There are only ten tracks. I press play and put the earbuds on. The first song is Freckles and Constellations, by Dodie Clark. Wow, one of my favourites.
Next one is BITE, by Troye Sivan. I love this one, too. And Troye is ten thousand times better than Simon Snow.
The following song starts with a violin solo. One of my violin solos. Ice and Fire. And then, the sweetest voice starts singing my song. It’s a male voice. It’s the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.
I keep listening to the tracks. More of my melodies sung by this brilliant singer. Until I reach the last track. It’s not a song, it’s a recording:
“Hi, Basilton Pitch. I hope you are listening to this. What a stupid thing to say. Shit.” I laugh despite myself. “Anyway,” the voice continues, “I want you to know that you are my inspiration and the reason I am a singer.” There’s a brief pause. I can hear the boy heavily breathing. The next words are said so quickly I have to press replay to understand it. “If-you-want-to-meet-me-I’ll-be-every-day-from-four-to-seven-p.m.-at-Bea’s-of-Bloomsbury-back-table-I-love-you.”
I look at the clock. Half six. If I take the Tube I can be there in twenty minutes. I don’t think it twice and dash out.
It takes me five extra minutes because I lose the first ride, but I’m there at five to seven. I go straight to the back table, and there he is. The stranger from before. Blue eyes. Where have I seen them before?
“Hello,” I say, as I sit on the chair opposite from him.
“Hi,” he greets me through his red scarf. It covers most of his face. I can only see his eyes. And a mole right under his left eyebrow. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”
“I came,” I say, stupidly. There’s something about this bloke that has me smitten. He’s going to think I’m a freak. “And I listened to the songs. You are amazing.”
“They’re your songs. You are the amazing one. I’ve been your admirer since you started your career.”
I blush. Jesus. Me, blushing.
We start chatting about music. It turns out we have very similar tastes. We keep talking about films, football and favourite food. He loves sour cherry scones. That’s why he comes here. He’s so awkward. I love it. God, I’m falling for this guy. Hard.
We keep talking and talking.
He makes a ridiculous joke about a vampire named Gampire, and I burst out laughing. It’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard, but I can’t stop smiling like an idiot.
I wonder if rosebudboy61 is here to capture this.
I can’t believe my thickness.
“Are you…” I start.
“Simon Snow,” he says at the same time I say, “rosebudboy61?”
What? Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Of course, it wasn’t real. Of course, I should have known it was a prank. Fucking Simon Snow. I hate him. I storm out of the cafe without saying a word.
“Wait!” I hear him saying. But I don’t stop. I don’t turn around until I’m home.
I spend the following days locked in my room. Mother comes to bring me lunch and dinner, but she doesn’t ask anything. I’m grateful for that.
I can’t stop listening to Snow’s songs. To my songs, with the painfully beautiful voice of Simon bloody Snow. I can’t stop listening to the last three words of the recording. “I love you,” I say at the same time. Replay. “I love you.” Replay. “I love you.” I throw the bloody ipod to the wall with all my strength.
At that moment, Mordelia comes into my room. I don’t know how she does it.
“Baz, you have to see this,” she says. “You won’t believe it.”
She carries her tablet with her and shows it to me. It’s a youtube video.
She presses play and I see Simon Snow. “This is an apology for Basilton Pitch. I never should have lied to you. I’m sorry. Everything I said was true, though. It was all real,” he says with his perfect voice. And then he starts singing one of my songs. A Charmed Life.
“There are dozens of them, Baz,” Mordelia says. “I didn’t know you knew him.”
“Neither did I, ‘Delia.”
The day of the concert I’m a wreck. I don’t know what to make out of this bloke.
Mordelia finds us place at the front row. Grand. I’m a bag of nerves.
After a few minutes, Simon Snow appears on stage. My stomach flips.
He starts performing without noticing me and I let myself enjoy it. His voice. Until, suddenly, blue eyes lock on mine. He seems lost for a second and forgets the lyrics. Then, I do something very unexpected. I smile at him. That seems to give him confidence to continue with the show. But he doesn’t stop looking at me.
At the end of the concert he says, “I would like to introduce you to someone very special to me,” I’m mortified. “Basilton Pitch. Please, come up.”
I do, because Mordelia forces me to.
Snow turns to his public and says, “This boy here has been my inspiration to become a singer. He’s an extraordinary artist and human being. He’s my idol,” he looks at me again and adds, “and I want him to be even more than that. Will you be my terrible boyfriend?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I’d love that.”
He drops the mic and takes my hands. My heart skips a beat. He squeezes them. I squeeze back. Then, he places a hand behind my neck and pulls me into a kiss. And I kiss him back. And kiss him. And kiss him.
The public cheers agitatedly. Mordelia is ecstatic. I can hear her from here.
After a few moments, we break the kiss. He takes his phone out of his pocket and takes a picture of us. “This one is for my blog,” he says, “I’m rosebudboy61.”
The crowd is shouting for an encore.
“Go on, then,” I smile at him. “Carry on, Simon.”
Ari: I don’t know why I wrote this. Hope you like it! I think I’m going to write a snowbaz one-shot every week or so. I feel the need. I’m so not over Carry On.