The Butterfly Effect Read Free Page A

it when I got home, but by then it was already a fact. The next Sunday, they worked their way through their list in a businesslike way and left a good chunk of time for my two songs, one with Olga and one on my own. They sounded good, I knew they did. There was never any discussion about whether it would actually happen, it was only a question of when, and they decided I would sing the last number of the first set with Olga, then kick off the second set with my solo song.
    “Before you have a chance to change your mind,” said Anton with a smile.
    I could have changed my mind. I had nearly another full week to think about it, and I did seriously consider it, more than once, but somehow the days passed without any decision being made and the closer the day of the gig came, the more unreasonable it seemed to pull out. Mostly I didn’t have time to worry about it anyway, as the Headteacher was convinced that the school would be inspected at any time, certainly before Christmas, and suddenly a culture of fear and panic seemed to descend on many of the staff. Even more work, even more scrutiny. Sometimes a whole day would pass without a single thought of the gig, and then it would hit me, as the last child left the last class of the day. Oh my God. Haven’t I got enough bloody stress in my life? Why am I doing this to myself?
    But then there were also the happy reveries as I drove home and imagined my song going down well, heard the applause and even the odd whoop of appreciation. I was never going to miss this opportunity, not really, and if I’m right and everything else flowed from that gig, well actually it all started weeks before that, in the shower of a cheap hotel room. That was my very own butterfly effect. The beating of tiny wings that would stir up a storm. And what a storm it would turn out to be.
    So that’s how I got to be rushing around like a crazy person on a damp Friday afternoon, dumping my school work in a corner, showering, dressing, looking at my reflection in horror, undressing, dressing again, applying make-up, swearing, wiping it off, applying it again. I was like a silly teenager on her first date, my heart pounding away and my stomach churning. Behind the fear and anxiety there was a little thrill of anticipation at the thought of Richie being in the audience, but mostly that was completely swamped and, when it did pop up, I told myself it was only casual, it had never been a real date. He probably wouldn’t even come.
    The early part of the evening passed in a blur. I was aware of a trickle of people coming into the room as the band finished setting up and carried out a sound check. I was aware of the lights that flooded the stage and of all the kit sitting there, like some kind of deformed, electronic copse: the spindly saplings of the mic stands, the guitars leaning against their stands like stunted little trees doomed to failure and the cables snaking around everywhere like creepers. Olga and the others were at the bar, enjoying a quick drink before it was time to start but I could not stomach the thought of anything, let alone the fairly substantial glass of wine that Olga set on the table in front of me.
    “OK chick?”
    I nodded, and thanked her for the drink, but it must have been obvious how nervous I was, so she sat down beside me and gave me a little pep talk. Everyone, she said, feels the same before their first performance, but once you are up there, it all falls into place. She told me to enjoy it, which did not seem likely, and told me how good I was.
    “We wouldn’t have invited you to sing with us if we weren’t sure you could do it, isn’t that right Tim?” she called. Tim joined us and said the same thing, and then Anton and the others, and I was bombarded with encouragement until Anton looked at his watch and announced it was time to start.
    To be fair, they were only a pub band. They played covers and they mostly did it for fun, to give themselves a creative outlet away