You Don't Know Me Read online

  KILLER ACT. CAN YOU KILL IT?

  It’s October and the competition has already been running for six weeks. The deadline for votes is in December and there are currently over 2,000 entries, from right across the UK. Last year, the winner was a drummer called Shady from Inverness. Since then, he’s played on several TV shows, guested with two international rock groups, made an ad for Interface which pops up several times a day on the web, and got over half a million fans on his Interface page. Killer Act is a serious competition. The final is televised across the UK and streamed online worldwide. As Shady’s shown – if you win, it could change your life.

  This year, the leading acts all have over 1,000 votes already. Call of Duty, from Castle College, are way down the list with 357. Not that I’m checking on an hourly basis. OK, I am, now I’ve got my phone back. But so is Jodie, even more than me, and so is Nell. Only Rose doesn’t bother. Mostly because I tell her the latest count several times a day anyway, but also because she usually ignores social networking in favour of ‘real people’ and ‘actual conversations’, and finally because she noticed the misplaced apostrophe in ‘it’s 3rd year’.

  Yeah. Of all the information on that page, that’s what Rose focused on: the apostrophe. As a result of which, she has no faith in Killer Act at all.

  85, 97, 109 . . .

  In the course of the next week, a couple of people in our class spot the video and send the link to their friends. Not that we are talking about it to anyone. We’re still really, really nervous about everybody knowing that we revert to our inner six-year-olds on a regular basis.

  I think it might be worst for me. Do you want to know the real secret about my dad? When he left, it was because he wanted to be an Elvis impersonator in Vegas. Seriously. It took him years to make it. Years of not being in touch – until last summer, when he invited me over, out of the blue. I think it was his latest girlfriend’s idea for me to go, and actually it was fun, much to my surprise. Dad wasn’t bad as a performer, but it’s hardly something you brag about. It’s bad enough being the child of a novelty act: I don’t want to be one myself.

  However, as the news of our video spreads, people don’t seem to mind about the boa, or the pyjamas. In fact, if anything, they seem to like them. Over the days that follow, increasing numbers of people nod and smile at us in corridors. When Jodie overhears our French teacher humming the tune of ‘Sunglasses’ while he sorts through some textbooks, she is officially FREAKED. OUT. A week later, the Head has it as her ringtone. I’m not kidding.

  And the votes keep rising.

  205, 207, 323 . . . 350, 370, 410 . . .

  We start hanging out in the school library at lunchtimes, where Rose works as a monitor. It’s good for checking ourselves out on the computers, because the screens are bigger there and we can surreptitiously try to see if anyone nearby is voting for us, to explain the crazy numbers.

  ‘I’ve created a band page for us,’ Jodie announces one day in early November. She brings up Interface on the screen in front of her (which is supposed to block social networking sites, but honestly, there is SO much we could teach our IT department, if they asked).

  ‘There we are. See? Sam helped me.’

  There’s a page with an enormous banner across the top, with a picture of us all in our glittery finery. Jodie’s brother, Sam, must have done that for her – he’s a sixth-form computer nerd, so he’d know all about things like grabbing still pictures from video. Jodie sighs.

  ‘The only problem is the name. I had to use the same one as on Killer Act. Of all our names, why did Mystery Guy have to pick the Manic Pixie Dream Girls? I liked the Powerpuff Girls.’

  Two Year 7s look at us, annoyed because we’re disturbing their study time, but as Rose is currently in charge of the library there’s not much they can do.

  I agree with Jodie. ‘And more to the point, how did Mystery Guy even know what we called ourselves? We didn’t say it on camera, did we?’

  ‘Nope,’ Jodie says.

  We all shiver slightly. Are we being bugged?

  ‘We might have said it on another video, though,’ Nell suggests brightly, keen to find an alternative to the bugging theory. ‘I’m sure I did it at least once. I might have said that name, because it was the stupidest. Why’d you pick it, Rose?’

  Rose blushes.

  ‘It’s a literary device. A trope.’ She catches us staring at her. ‘A . . . thing, I promise you. Look it up on Wikipedia. It’s a name they give to all those girls in books and films who don’t quite seem real. They’re just these kooky creatures who the hero wants to find, or rescue or be like. Jennifer Aniston plays them all the time. We were talking about it in book club. I just thought it sounded funny.’

  ‘It does,’ Jodie grumbles, ‘and now we’re stuck with it. Imagine them announcing that at the Grammys.’ She rolls her eyes.

  ‘We’re not going to the Grammys,’ I promise her, laughing.

  ‘We might,’ she retorts. ‘A boy in sixth form has already asked us to do a gig at his birthday party. Well, half a gig, anyway. And if we carry on at this rate, we could make the Killer Act top 100, you know. Then we could be on TV.’

  Rose and I shake our heads sadly at her insane optimism. Nell practically chokes on a Starburst.

  ‘Really? Aren’t we way behind everyone?’

  Jodie pouts. ‘Not way behind. Slightly. We’re catching up fast, haven’t you noticed?’

  Then I suddenly think of something.

  ‘Which boy?’ I ask.

  ‘Hmm?’ Jodie says.

  ‘Which boy in sixth form has asked for us?’

  She checks the details on the page. ‘Er, someone called George Drury. My mum knows him vaguely. They have a big house the other side of Crakey Hill with an awesome party barn. We’d be performing in there and we’d get £100. Paid money for a gig! £25 each! Are you OK, Sash?’

  George Drury: the boy who had a crush on me last summer. I had a feeling it might be him.

  ‘Fine,’ I lie.

  Was this whole video thing just some trick to get us to play at his party? And if so, why? And what is he going to do next?

  ‘Who else is playing?’ asks Rose. She sounds edgy too, picking up on my nerves somehow.

  Jodie grins.

  ‘Call of Duty. George is a friend of theirs. They do the first half, we do the second.’

  All the laughter abruptly disappears from Rose’s face. So does the colour. She shakes her head.

  ‘We can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ I ask gently, concerned for her, and confused. I mean, I can think of a million reasons why not, but they only affect me.

  She pauses for a while to think, then gives a nervous, high-pitched laugh.

  ‘This is getting ridiculous. We’ve never sung live before. They do it all the time.’

  ‘But people like us,’ Jodie insists. ‘Mrs Richards has our song AS HER RINGTONE. And we get to go to a George Drury party. They’re famous. We’ll get a million cool points and everyone will want to friend us. Please please please?’

  Rose hesitates, looking increasingly panicked.

  ‘When I joined, you made me promise to keep the band a secret, remember? That was the point.’

  ‘Yeah, but that was before we got a million trillion votes,’ Jodie pleads. ‘It’s different now. You’ll be fine. Just think of all the boys who’ll want your number.’

  Rose shudders. ‘They won’t,’ she whispers in a tiny voice.

  ‘Oh, they will,’ Jodie grins. ‘Trust me.’

  I hate to see Rose like this. She’s so interesting and fun in private, with us, and so shy in public. She’s been like this ever since I’ve known her. People don’t know what they’re missing.

  ‘You’d have us,’ I promise her. ‘We’d look after you.’

  She bites her lip.

  ‘Nell, what do you think?’ she asks.

  ‘You do whatever you want, Rose. I don’t mind.’

  Kind, sweet, unhelpful Nell. I sa
y I’m happy to do the gig. I don’t want to let anyone think I have a problem with George Drury (because I so do). Rose hesitates some more. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to do it, but she can’t face letting us down.

  ‘OK,’ she says eventually. ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘Great!’ Jodie says, patting her on the back. ‘I’ll let George know.’

  Seminal Leotards

  550, 620, 901 . . .

  I’ve never told anyone about the kiss behind the speaker stacks at the festival last summer. I’d noticed George looking at me a bit, but then I’d been staring too. He’s six foot tall and plays football for the county Under-18s team. He is definitely not the ugliest boy in his class.

  His girlfriend, Michelle, was off buying him beer at the time. I asked him what time one of the gigs was starting and we got talking. He seemed very friendly and yes, there was a kiss. I was too shocked to stop him.

  Pretty quickly though, he remembered where he was, and who I was – or rather, who I wasn’t – and he brushed past me as if nothing had happened. I tried to forget the whole thing, although I have to admit I haven’t done a very good job of it. Even while I was in Vegas for that whole summer, staying with Dad, I still couldn’t get the kiss out of my mind. Every time we sing ‘Sunglasses’, I think of George. Now we’re about to be in his house.

  Why did he ask us? Was it purely coincidence, or was it something to do with me? Was he connected to my phone disappearing? I have such a bad feeling about this.

  Rehearsals are a disaster. We’ve never actually rehearsed before. We’ve just been dressing up, or doing makeup tutorials, or playing computer games, and ended up accidentally singing. And we always ended up accidentally singing whatever Jodie happened to be playing, because it didn’t really matter. And Jodie always happened to be playing something poppy and preferably cheesy, because she has, as Rose says, no musical taste AT ALL, but nobody minded.

  Now it matters. Now we mind.

  Well, Nell doesn’t mind. Nell will sing anything, and look gorgeous doing so, and sound it. Nell’s real passion is animal husbandry (which I always used to tease her was marrying animals, but so isn’t), and if it’s anything to do with the ethical treatment of animals she’ll argue with you to the death, but if it’s music, she doesn’t really care. However, Rose’s real passion is music, and she cares a lot. If we’re going to do this at all, she wants us to do it properly.

  Jodie wants Abba; Rose wants Alicia Keys. Jodie wants Britney; Rose wants Amy Winehouse. Jodie refuses to do anything by her because her life was ‘so so tragic’. I don’t know what I want – only that I don’t want this stress. The whole point of the band was to relax, and this is definitely not relaxing.

  In the end we pick song titles out of a hat. I don’t know how she did it, but all the choices are Jodie’s anyway.

  Turns out that’s the least of our troubles.

  Nell’s dad delivers us to the house a couple of hours before the party. When we meet George, his eyes hold mine for a split second longer than the others. He’s remembering, I know he is. For a moment, he seems wary, but then he switches into a different mode: cold, distant and polite. He flicks his eyes past me, as if I hardly exist. I wish, suddenly, that I had told somebody about him, because then I could explain how crushed I feel. Which is crazy – because I wanted him to pretend it never happened, same as me. Even so, the crushed feeling persists.

  I wait with dread for the others to notice my downbeat mood and ask me about it, but as George shows us where we’ll be playing and changing, nobody does. Slowly I realise that, for their different reasons, they’re all feeling worse. Nell’s terrified she’ll forget the words. Jodie’s excitement has turned to pure fear, and even though Rose couldn’t sing a bum note if she tried, her shyness is making her physically shake with the effort of imagining a hundred people packed into the barn at the end of George’s garden, all watching us and listening to every note.

  I make the mistake of thinking about it too. In two hours, a hundred cool sixth-formers will arrive, cool sixth-formers who could kill us on Interface with a single well-armed putdown. And all we have between us and them are three glitter belts, a silver waistcoat and a couple of moth-eaten comedy hats. We are crazy.

  ‘I don’t think I can do this,’ Rose says, slipping into her costume in George’s parents’ bedroom, which we’ve adopted as the Manic Pixie Dream Girls’ changing room. ‘I know I promised, but . . .’

  We’ve checked out the barn, done the sound check (where we rivalled Alvin and the Chipmunks for squeakiness) and we’re supposed to be performing in forty-five minutes. Rose looks wonderful in a stripey black and white dress with the silver waistcoat. But her face is whiter than the dress, and she has thrown up twice in the ensuite.

  ‘Just try,’ Nell says gently, rubbing her back. ‘You know all the notes. You look amazing. Don’t worry if you can’t sing when we get there. We’ll cover for you.’

  Meanwhile, Jodie is applying her makeup for the third time, because her hands are shaking so much she can’t get her lipstick straight and she keeps poking herself in the eye with her mascara.

  ‘All those girls . . .’ she says. ‘Did you see them?’

  Indeed we did. Before we came upstairs to change, we watched a good portion of our sixth form arrive, dressed up in tiny, body-hugging dresses and skyscraper heels, with lashings of lipgloss, and enough hair products to launch a major salon. Most gorgeous of all was Michelle Lee, George’s girlfriend, who could happily body double for Cheryl Cole if she ever needed the job. She kissed me on both cheeks when she met me. I wanted the ground to swallow me up.

  In less than an hour they’ll all be crammed into the barn, watching us muck about onstage, sounding like woodland animals on helium. At least I won’t be in my pyjama top tonight – I’m wearing my best party dress under the glitter belt – but that’s not much of a comfort.

  ‘Just think,’ Jodie announces, looking nauseous, ‘whatever happens, we’ll be able to say we played a professional gig at one of George’s parties. Nobody’ll be able to take that away from us.’

  ‘Nobody’ll want to,’ I squeak.

  ‘We just have to take it one song at a time,’ Nell says, squinting at herself in the mirror. She has the big advantage that she can always take her glasses off onstage, at which point the crowd will become a vague, bouncy blur. Maybe I could put them on, which would blur the crowd for me too. The thought cheers me up slightly.

  Nell’s right, though: positive thinking. I admire her attitude.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, adjusting the straps on my platforms. ‘We’re here now. What we need is some sort of band ritual. Stand over here, everyone. Put your hands in the middle. Repeat after me. I faithfully promise . . . on the spirit of . . .’ Damn, I’ve run out of inspiration already. ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of the seminal leotard?’ Rose suggests, through chattering teeth.

  ‘Of the seminal leotard,’ I agree gratefully, ‘that I will have fun tonight.’

  Still shaking, they faithfully promise. Outside, the barn is already jumping to the sound of Call of Duty. If I could be at home right now, wrapped up in my duvet and playing Fruit Ninja, I totally would.

  When we get to the barn, the Castle College band are already halfway through their set. We slip in through the open door and stand near the back, watching them over the heads of the crowd.

  They’re very good, there’s no denying it. The band is made up of three boys and a girl, sixth-formers like George. There has always been rivalry between their school and St Christopher’s, and Castle College always wins. They have more playing fields, better players, grander music facilities, more teachers, richer parents. That’s one of the many reasons why it’s so amazing that we’ve recently overtaken Call of Duty on Killer Act.

  Watching them now, I can’t make sense of that at all. The drummer at the back is short and wiry, but all three of the others could happily pass for models at Abercrombie, including the two boys at the front
– both on guitar. They look alike, with the same floppy hair and high cheekbones, and the same lazy smiles. Over their jeans and T-shirts, they’re both wearing open red military jackets with lots of gold embroidery. Mrs Venning could sell those for a fortune. They make the boys look super-posh, and very intimidating.

  Scariest of all, though, is the girl who plays bass. She has a huge shock of tawny blonde hair, perfect skin, a tiny body – dressed in a black PVC mini and a leather jacket with the sleeves ripped off – and the same powerful attitude as the boys, leaping around the stage and glaring at the audience, daring them not to have a good time.

  Luckily, everybody’s having the time of their lives. The band are in the middle of a song they wrote that seems to be called ‘It’s Not About You’, given how many times they roar out that line at the crowd. It’s got most of the boys moshing in a self-made pit, while half the girls are practically throwing themselves at the singer. He’s soaking up the attention. Every time he glances out at the crowd, the girls at the front actually scream.

  ‘God, that boy is up himself,’ Jodie shudders from beside me. Even she can’t help doing her moves to the music, though.

  ‘He’s called Ed,’ says a girl in front of us, looking round, beaming. ‘Ed Matthews.’ She laughs and shows us her wrist, where the letters E and M are intertwined in twirling blue.

  ‘That’s not a real tattoo, is it?’ Jodie asks, amazed.

  The girl shakes her head. ‘But one day . . .’

  Jodie rolls her eyes.

  I’m torn. The military jacket thing is very posey and irritating, the screaming and fake tattoos are just plain embarrassing, but the boys are . . . interesting, bordering on hot. Something happens when I’m surrounded by music. All my emotions are intensified. It’s why gigs and festivals are so dangerous for me. However, I refuse ever to sink so low as to be a screaming groupie. And besides, my stomach is performing somersaults at the thought that we’re about to go onstage in just a few minutes.

  I look around to the others for support, and notice that Rose has disappeared. Nell mimes being sick and points to the doorway, looking worried. I nip out straight away to find Rose.