"How does she know who I am? And why does she give a damn about me?" - Wheatus

• • • • •

Absentmindedly, I stir the melted remainder of the ice cream, blending the white, brown and pink into a homogeneous, murky liquid. Having been so absorbed in Harry's story, I haven't realized how much we've been eating. The sundae that was once bigger than my head is now a shallow puddle at the bottom of the bowl. I'm starting to get a little cold now, but the blazing furnace above us helps keep my shivers at bay.

"When are you ever gonna let me pay?" I ask.

"Never," Harry replies without humor.

I groan. "I don't work six days a week for no reason, you know. Let me buy my own ice cream for once."

"I work six days a week, too, sometimes more. Shouldn't I be allowed to spend my money how I'd like?"

"Sure you do, but---wait you what? How do you find time to sit and have dessert if you work so often?"

"How do you?"

He makes a good point. The true answer, if I were being honest with anyone here, is that he's become a sort of escape for me. Between school and work and work and school, time with him is the only downtime I have. And it's always been the highlight of any week.

I don't say any more and he lets his eyes roam around the shop. "I used to work in a place like this, but it was just a bakery. We didn't have desserts and a deli like this one."

Harry and I are the only two customers left. The two middle-aged women behind the counter don't kick us out, but begin to sweep and stack the chairs, which is enough of a cue for us to depart. As we get up from our seats, he adds, "I'd come home everyday from work smelling like cookies. It was the best."

His eyes have a distant, faraway quality, as if there's a slideshow of old memories being projected behind them and he's watching it.

"Do you still bake?" I ask, burying my hands in my pockets upon entering the chilly night.

"Sort of, but I've gotten rusty at it," he replies, folding the sides of his coat over himself. "I used to be able to make a proper corn pie."

"So what happened?" I ask.

"One Direction happened, I suppose," he says. "But even before that, White Eskimo happened."

"I'm assuming that's another band you were in whose name you have to explain," I laugh.

"I know, I know. It sounds kind of silly now that I think about it. I really liked these two bands called Snow Patrol and Arctic Monkeys and I wanted to maintain that cold weather theme, and the best I could come up with was White Eskimo."

"What about... Snow Monkeys?"

He stops in his tracks and stares at me, blinking while his jaw steadily falls closer to the floor. "Why didn't I think of that?!"

I let out a gentle laugh. "So you left the bakery job for One Direction?"

"Not just the bakery but White Eskimo. One Direction took off like I'd never imagined and before I knew it, I was traveling the world, doing what I've always wanted." His words sound trance-like, as if the mental slideshow has started up again.

"How's it feel?" I ask.

"How does what feel?"

"Living your dream. Doing what you've always wanted."

He doesn't respond, staying so quiet and for so long that I begin to think he hadn't heard me. Just before I repeat myself, he slowly says, "There is one thing I've always wanted to do."

His eyes fix on something in the distance. I follow his stare to a double door gate with the words Authorized Personnel Only on a reflective yellow sign. When we approach the gate, he wraps his hands around the railing and presses his face to it.

"What is this?" I ask, peering through and trying to see past the thick shrubs.

"This is Membley Stadium," he says with a strong, distinct reverence in his voice. "It's one of the oldest and most famous stadiums in the world. Names like The Beatles, Elvis Presley and Coldplay have played here."

"And your dream is to one day play here too," I say, looking over at him.

Harry's silent again but I can tell by the radiance in his smile that my conclusion is correct.

"Here, I'll help you up first," he says, preparing to hoist me over.

"Are you crazy?!" I hiss, glancing at the sturdy chain and padlock around the gate. "We can't go in there!"

"We shouldn't," he whispers, a devilish grin tugging at his lips, "but we can."

"I'm not going to get arrested with you," I state, crossing my arms.

"Suit yourself."

He climbs over the gate, seemingly defying the laws of physics and not tearing his incredibly tight pants, and stands on the other side within seconds.

"What happened to not being a badass?" I say in a loud whisper.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he replies with a suppressed grin. "Now hurry up, before someone sees you." I heave a sigh, already feeling regret for what I'm about to do.

Without warning, I hurl my bag over the gate and Harry stealthily catches it. I follow him over the barricade with what little coordination I have and land beside him.

We follow along a paved path dimly lit by orange lights. The lonesome, faint padding of our footsteps is more than eerie and I never once release my grip on Harry's arm.

"Where are we?" I whisper, trying to keep the paranoia out of my voice.

"I think we're in the back."

"What if we get caught?"

He looks at me with a casual expression. "Then I'll tell them it was your idea."

I cut him a glare but he's already looked away.

A few feet later, the stadium materializes from over the stairs. Hundreds of thousands of seats encompass the venue and above that, in the way far back, is a gloriously large, green lawn. Blinding fluorescent lights tower above the front of the stage and speakers the size of minivans stand in every far corner of the arena. It's a downright stupendous scene.

Harry and I wander onstage. It almost looks like an ice skating rink because of how frosty white and huge it is. Behind it is a half-dome in a scalloped design, softly lit to create an elegant backdrop.

"What do you think?" I say, looking over at him.

His eyes slowly roam around the stadium, as if he's trying to memorize every seat. "I'm going to make sure I perform here," he affirmatively states. "At least once before I die."

In my mind, I'm back at the concert my brother took me to when he was still around. Gellan was a musician himself. He played bass guitar in a garage band with his best friends and he was the one to introduce me to all the music that I'm into now.

My memory of that concert is crystal clear, even though it has been a while and it was the only one I've ever been to. It was deafeningly loud, there were tons of sweaty people pushed against me, and it reeked of cigarette smoke, but I can confidently say it was one of the best days of my life. The energy, the feeling of music uniting all those people was like no other. Not to mention it was The Smiths, "a legendary band" according to my brother, and that day, I found out why.

It's entirely different when you're on the other end of the concert experience. Even though the seats are deserted, I feel a churning nervousness in my stomach when I stand center stage and stare out. This is what rock stars see, I think to myself. This is how they must feel. This must be what Harry sees and feels too, or a version of it at least. It suddenly occurs to me that despite his being in a band, I've never heard him sing. I tell him this and he turns to me with a quizzical look.

"Really? Even after I told you about One Direction, you never looked up our music or anything?" he asks.

"No," I confess. "I was afraid it would change the way I thought about you, like if you turned out to be horrible at singing or if your songs sucked."

He gives me a slanted grin, nodding. "Fair enough."

"I want to find out, though," I say.

"If I'm horrible or not?"

"Yeah."

He laughs, his eyes crinkling in the corners. "And what if you think I am? Will you avoid me forever?"

"Probably."

He frowns exaggeratedly and begins to slump away.

I giggle, dragging him back. "Sing me something."

He pauses for a long while. I watch as his expression hardens in concentration, as if he's thouroughly searching through his mental song library, taking care to pick the right one. Finally, he clears his throat.

"Her name is Jules," he begins, taking me by the hand and twirling me around. "I have a dream about her. She rings my bell, I've got gym class in half an hour."

His voice is low and smooth, yet wondrously rugged at the same time. As he holds the imaginary microphone to his mouth, I can almost picture him perfectly, harmonizing with the other four boys as the backing band jams with them.

"Oh, how she rocks, in Keds and tube socks. But she doesn't knooow who I am, and she doesn't give a daaamn about me."

He looks so happy strolling around onstage, singing and gesturing to me. It's a different side of Harry that I've never seen before but one that both entertains and enchants me. He seems so natural, like he's been doing this his entire life, or at the very least is meant to do this his entire life.

"'Cause I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby!" he belts out with his eyes squeezed shut. "Yeah I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby! Listen to Iron Maiden maybe with me, oooh."

Harry's voice softens as he fades out and then he's silent. His hair is slightly disheveled from the mini-performance so he sweeps it up and over his forehead to glimpse at me.

"Wow," I whisper breathlessly. "You are... amazing."

The corner of his mouth quirks up into a smile. "No," he says, "I'm a teenage dirtbag."

Notes