Amy Williamson

RUNNER UP

At Twenty One; I Learned the Truth

During half time at the pub quiz, my Dad’s friend told me that he heard a song that he thought I’d like. Initially I sort of brushed it off, thinking it was another one of his windups - the ones I willingly allowed myself to fall for in the same way I did when I was fifteen and righteous in the way you only are when you’re half formed. I was expecting him to deliver the punchline now that I had given him the reaction of a moody teenager, (likely in the form of a scoff and an indignant eye roll) but when nothing else came except his expectant stare, I felt weirdly rejected that he wasn’t joining in the usual routine. It was like he’d turned off the filter that made us both kind of blurry and undefined, like he was actually, truly, seeing me.

I became suddenly desperate for him to tell me, in excruciating detail, precisely what he thinks of me. I realise upon reflection that my first thought perhaps should’ve been to ask for the title of the song, but the thought truthfully only crossed my mind after I theorised all the different ways I might be perceived by him. I wanted to know what the abbreviated version of myself might be. Feeling slightly frazzled and oddly exposed, I asked him to write it down for me so that I could go home and listen to it. I expected him to tear a corner off the answer sheet and scribble it down in almost illegible handwriting, which I would put in my handbag with the promise of giving it a go. Instead though he reached for the beer mat I had been doodling on when the questions got too hard and wrote in the empty space: ‘At Seventeen’. He slid the mat back over to me and there was something about the way my drawings and his writing intertwined that made me take a picture so that I wouldn’t forget. 

I didn’t recognise the title and as the quiz picked back up, I sat with the vandalised beer mat on the table in front of me, thinking of all the things the song might be about. When the quiz ended I was desperate to get back home so I could listen to the song. There was something about sitting in the possibility that made it so thrilling, like I was about to finally uncover the mystery of myself through another’s eyes (or ears, as the case may be). I left the pub with little fuss and when I got home I didn’t even bother to take my boots from my feet before putting my headphones on. I held my breath and pressed play on the song. I lay there in a kind of stunned silence. I didn’t move, barely breathed, all I could do was listen. 

It was on my second listen that I realised I was angry. Angry at the lyrics, angry at the music, angry at how soft Janis Ian was singing, angry that the guitar was so gentle. I was angry at him for thinking of me when he heard the song, angry at the softness in his eyes when he told me to listen. I think I was perhaps the most angry of all at myself - for thinking no one else knew how I felt. But here was this song, written almost fifty years ago, singing all of my thoughts, all my fears out loud for the world. 

The only part of the song that didn’t feel like a spotlight poking holes through my skin was the fact that I’ve never played basketball. Now if the line had gone something like ‘And those whose names were never called when choosing sides for dodgeball’, then I might have been concerned that Janis had lived her life in perfect parallel to my own. But as it stands, she was never picked for basketball, and I was never picked for dodgeball - huuuge difference. Trust me - the details matter when it feels like your diary has been plagiarised, turned into song, and broadcast into the past, present, and future. 

I wrote out a message to send to Dad’s friend, something along the lines of ‘great song - never played basketball though…’, but that felt too specific, too defensive. So I deleted it and tried again, this time typing something like, ‘good song recommendation - shame she was such a loser’, but that felt too mean, too judgemental (hypocritical). I tried once more, writing, ‘thank you for the song, it was beautiful and relatable - I'm glad you recommended it to me’, but that was too sincere, too honest. 

I settled on silence. I didn’t send a text, didn’t mention it next time I saw him, didn’t tell anyone else about the encounter nor the song. I kept it to myself. I felt ashamed, exposed. I regret that now. 

There are a lot of things I should’ve said to him. He should know that I’m grateful. Grateful for the song, yes, but more grateful that he saw me when I didn’t want to be seen and found a way to show me that I wasn’t alone - didn’t have to be alone. I don’t know if that was his intention or if he just thought it was a good song (it is), but it doesn’t matter because something shifted in the space between the pen and the beer mat regardless. Writing in the space between my drawings, he showed me the truth - whether he meant to or not. Even after all of my defenses, my Dad’s friend from the pub somehow knows me. And that doesn’t scare me anymore.