Upon entering the house, you will always be bombarded with music. That's the way she likes it, loud and welcoming. What she plays depends on her feelings. Sometimes you hear techno or dance music, when she's prepping to go to a bop or a pub. Sometimes you can hear some rad British punk. Most of the time, you hear rock. She loves rock and roll music. Today, as I walked through the all-too-familiar doorway into the living room that I could see in my sleep, a new kind of music filled my ears. It's sweet and melodic tones hit my ears unwelcomed. The words I could not quite make out, because the shut door muffled them. I almost walked out, for fear that I had somehow entered the wrong house. But I knew that I couldn't be in the wrong house. The furniture and decor were exactly what I expected. The oversized white down settee, the paintings her mother had done in earlier times of innocence adorning the walls, and the ever present scent of Earl Gray tea. Her mother loved that tea. The walls, painted a bright sunny yellow, seemed to glow from underneath the paintings. Tracks, the family dog, didn't even look up upon my entering. He only allows strangers the courtesy of a head raise. Tracks got his name from her mother, Eileen, after 8 track sound. Music, I guess you could say, runs in her family.
     I made my way up the carpeted stairs. She hadn't heard me come in, but then again, she never does. As I neared her door, I began to brace myself for the impact of opening it. I knew that once I did, I'd be overwhelmed by the blaring volume of her music that makes the walls downstairs vibrate. I fix a crooked painting outside her bedroom that is hanging haphazardly on the wall. Knocked astray, undoubtedly, by the heavy bass beats that seeped through the four walls of her room.
     I paused outside the heavy pine door and listened to the song. I listened to some bloke lamenting about how much he loves some girl. The music seemed very out of place, because she never listens to music like this. I heard her voice going along completely off with the words of the bloke, she hadn't been singing along. I found myself a little confused, and listened harder. I gave up finally, and simply opened the door.
     "Uh huh....right...oy!" She jumped upon my entrance, nearly dropping the phone into which she had been talking. "What? Oh, bloody hell!" She looked at me. "You nearly scared the piss out of me, Sals!"
     "Blimey, Lis, I came in hollerin' but you have your bloody music up so high that you couldn't hear me!"
     Lissy turned back to the phone. "What? Oh, that's Sal, my best mate. I'll have to ring you up later, all right?" She scribbled something down on the tablet of writing paper that rested haphazardly on the small blue Formica table that stood next to her king size bed. "All right, I'll ring you after supper. Cheers." She hung up the phone. "Honestly, Sals, that barging in here was hardly necessary--"
     I cut her off. "Lis, since when do you listen to this pop music rubbish? And who was that on the phone?"
     "Greg Joffe." Lissy said, a slight blush crawling up her cheek as she attempted to hide the faint smile that passed across her lips.
     "GREG JOFFE?!?! Have you gone absolutely mad?"
     "No, his mum and mine are mates, and we get a long quite well. He asked me out to the pub tonight."
     "Well I'm gobsmacked. That's absolutely brilliant, Lissy."
     She moved across the room, and shut off the music. She smiled. "I just got this CD and it seemed so right, the words and everything, it just completely said exactly what I happened to be feeling."

     Being with Lissy made everything so much fun. We constantly pissed ourselves silly. We defined ourselves as the epitome of trouble. Around school, we became known as the shrieking Siamese twins, which we often did, and often seemed like. We did everything imaginable together. However, when Greg intervened, it all went down the rubbish bin.
     Greg fills the role of the popular senior that every school has. The one all the girls dream of snogging with, and only one choice female gets to, and then becomes the instant dislike of all the other slags dying to get into his trousers. Greg's the one that stares at the short skirt and tight blouse that passes his table as if he has x-ray specs. The one that makes you self conscious about your loose T-shirt and looser-than-tight jeans. Yea, you know the bloke I'm talking of. I can see the recognition in your eyes. A real bugger, ain't he? Well, he sure worked miracle surgery on us Siamese twins. Lissy detached from me and attached to him within two days. I stopped by Lissy's flat one typical London day--gray, foggy, dismal and damp. I removed my jumper and anorak to find a large jacket on my hook, and huge trainers in the place where I always put mine: the indubitable trademarks of an unwanted senior. Lissy and I had plans to go tog shopping for a party that was coming up the following weekend. I had a feeling that our plans had been unexpectedly changed. Thundering footsteps jarred me from my thoughts. Greg lumbered down to the kitchen, where a noisy kettle sat on top of the stove.
     "Damnit, Lissy, the kettle's been whistling for over half an hour!" he screamed angrily, throwing me a nasty glance. "And your mate's here!"
     Lissy came down the stairs, completely disheveled. It became more than obvious to me that they happened to be alone in the flat, and they used that fact to their advantage.
     "Sals!" She said with fake enthusiasm. "We're just about to watch a movie, would you care to join us?"

     Forty minutes later, I lay sprawled out on Lissy's floor, staring with fake interest at the telly. I didn't even know the absurd plot, because of the background noise that interfered with my concentration. I heard the unmistakable sounds of smacking lips and Lissy's infamous flirtatious giggle, accompanied by the creaking of the couch behind me, in the shadows. I dared not look back.
     Greg got up off the couch, and put on some music, oblivious to the fact that I had been trying as hard as I could to ignore whatever the hell lurve they were engaging in behind me. A song by an American group, Boyz II Men softly wafted from the stereo. "I'll make love to you/Like you want me to/And I'll hold you tight/Baby all through the night." I certainly hoped that Greg's thinly veiled message wouldn't occur right then. I unhappily rolled my eyes as a tear rolled down my cheek out of sorrow towards myself and my current predicament.

     I stayed away from Lissy after that. I couldn't bare to bring myself back to her flat and walk in on her and Greg snogging, or even worse, find them bonking each other. It took about three months of seeing her walk around the halls wearing polo-neck sweaters to cover her love bites for me to actually ring her up.
     She answered on the fourth ring. "Hello?" Her voice sounded harsh and tired.
     "Lis?" I asked, my timid voice squeaking. There was a long pause, I could hear her breathing on the other end.
     "Sals? That you mate? Oh Sals, I miss you so much. You never call or ring me anymore."
     "Aw, Lis, I'm sorry--"
     "Can you come to my flat now, Sals? Please?"
     I paused, sensing something in Lissy's voice. All was not well. "Sure, be there in five." I said before hanging up.

     I got there, and it seemed like a step back into time. The old aromas, everything was just like it was three months ago. I began to wonder if anything in her house ever changed. I climbed the stairs and heard her music, loud as ever. I could tell that it was angered female voice this time, no more lamenting blokes. It was Alanis Morrisette, another American singer. "Cause the love that you gave that we made/Wasn't able to make it enough/For you to be open wide, no/And every time you speak her name/Does she know how you told me you'd hold me/Until you died/But you're still alive." I was taken slightly aback by this new transformation in music that flowed from her stereo, but I walked into the room all the same, pretending not to notice it.
     Lissy had tissues strewn all over the floor and was in the process of reapplying mascara to her puffy red eyes when I entered. She jumped a little, but attempted a fake smile. It was quite clear to me what had happened, and I wondered why Lissy even bothered to hide it.
     "Greg broke up with you, didn't he?" I said, not allowing her the chance to speak first.
     Lissy nodded meekly before bursting into tears for undoubtedly the umpteenth time that day. She collapsed into my arms a horrible, weeping mess. I brought her over to her bed, where she could sit down and be comfortable. She sank deeply into the heavy down comforter and sighed heavily.
     I stroked her hair for a bit before saying, "think of it this way. Think of the poor slag that's desperately trying to get into his trousers, but, out of habit, he slips up and calls her by your name. Imagine her face, and imagine how the rumors will fly....then poor Greggie boy will have to turn into a filthy wanker!"
     Lissy giggled. "He never could snog properly, anyway." She laughed again, and I instantly had the old Lissy back. The evil senior bloke curse had been lifted, and we were picking up where we left off.
     And that day, her CDs played on. Only this time, the whiny blokes and angered girls had been banished. Instead, the sounds of rad British punk, techno, dance music, and especially rock, crept out her bedroom windows, making all the pictures in the hallway crooked in the process. And when the weeping, lamenting blokes return, I know where she has hidden her Alanis CD.