One True Thing Read Online Free PDF

‘Rewriting lyrics is one thing, but the chorus too? I mean, “It’s Time”? Could you be more obvious?’
    â€˜What? There’s no copyright on that line.’ Kessie won’t look at me, pretending instead to adjust the microphone stand – a dead giveaway because the stand is all rustedand fixed, and none of us has been able to move it even a millimetre since the day Van brought it home from a neighbour’s hard rubbish pile. We’ve had some paid gigs since then, family stuff mostly, and we’ve made enough money to buy new amps and instruments, but we’ve never replaced the mike stand and probably never will. It was the first piece of equipment we collectively owned and we’re kind of sentimental about it.
    â€˜I’m not worried about copyright,’ I say through clenched teeth. Kessie’s having a pretty obvious dig at the upcoming election. ‘It’s Time’ is straight from the Whitlam election, back when TV was black and white and there were virtually no women in politics – or none that were paid, as Mum is fond of pointing out – which all just reminds me of Dad’s wig-out this afternoon, and that’s something I really don’t want to think about. ‘It’s a love song, not a political slogan,’ I argue. ‘Besides, we’ve talked about this. We don’t do politics here.’
    â€˜So that’s where our name came from?’ Kessie asks. ‘“No Politics” means no politics ? Huh. Who’d’ve thunk it.’
    â€˜You. Are. Hilarious.’
    â€˜You can’t live in a vacuum, Frank,’ Kessie says. ‘Politics is everywhere.’
    â€˜Right. Which is exactly why I don’t want it here! “Love Song” has nothing to do with politics!’ I shout. ‘Or copyright,’ I add.
    There’s a long, stilted silence where Kessie and Van try not to look at me, and Tyler is virtually cowering behind her drum kit.
    â€˜I agree with the noisy one. Copyright is not relevant in this case.’
    I swing around to see a tall, good-looking guy blocking the doorway. The tall good-looking guy from this morning. The same one. Here.
    â€˜You can use a song title without breaching copyright,’ he continues, oblivious to our collective gawping.
    I manage not to audibly gasp at the sight of him. But instead of being pleased to see him – I can’t pretend I wasn’t looking for him before lunch – right now, I’m royally pissed off. Because …
    Because.
    I don’t really know why except we’ve got so much to do, Kessie’s being a tool, Dad’s words are still ringing in my ears and now there’s this … guy just standing there, oozing arrogance. He’s leaning against the doorjamb as if he owns the place and, even though it’s obvious he’s interrupted us, he seems in no hurry to leave.
    Wait. Did he just call me noisy?
    â€˜Can I help you?’ I ask, not quite managing to keep the snark out of my voice.
    â€˜No, no. Carry on.’ He saunters into our studio, then hugs Kessie like they’re old mates.
    â€˜Hey, Jake,’ she says, kissing him on the cheek.
    I instinctively stand taller, not that it helps much, since Jake towers over the lot of us. He’s probably a jock, I decide, noting the Hawthorn hoodie now tied around his waist. Sometimes the school sponsors footballers with scholarships as a way of improving their profile. It’s a public school, but it’s select entry. You have to have some special or extra ability beyond schoolwork. I got in because of my music. Kessie got in for, well, everything. And there’s a handful of sports scholarships too, which accounts for Travis Neanderthal Matthews making the cut. Mum rails against these scholarship programs all the time for ‘entrenching privilege’ and ‘sending the wrong message’. But not enough that she didn’t