Читать книгу Andre's Showcase - Kimberly Wyatt - Страница 8

As his History teacher, Mr Benson, droned on about Queen Elizabeth I Andre’s head started feeling warm and fuzzy with tiredness. He’d hardly slept at all last night – he’d been too preoccupied with Spotted and trying to figure out ways to get more subscribers. Things that had seemed like a great idea at three in the morning – like creating three hundred thousand different online personas to follow Spotted – now seemed pretty insane. But what could he do?

‘Queen Elizabeth I was just two years old when her mother, Anne Boleyn, was beheaded,’ Mr Benson said as he strolled around the class.

Next to Andre, Raf whistled through his teeth. But Andre really couldn’t see what the big deal was. That’s how things were back then – queens got beheaded. It was almost part of the job description. At least they never had to deal with the internet. At least they never had to worry about things like subscribers and likes and hashtags . . . Hashtags! Andre’s heavy eyelids jolted open. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe he had to up his hashtag game.

‘Eleven days after Anne Boleyn’s execution, Henry VIII married Jane Seymour,’ Mr Benson continued.

Andre’s eyelids drooped back down again. It was as if his entire upper body was feeling a huge gravitational pull towards the desk. Maybe if he just rested his forehead on it for a while, had a think about some killer hashtags . . . He closed his eyes and let his head sink desk-wards. Then he felt a sharp dig in his ribs.

‘Hashtag harem!’ he yelped. ‘Ow!’ He frowned at Raf. ‘Why’d you do that?’

‘You were falling asleep, bro,’ Raf hissed.

‘Hashtag harem indeed,’ Mr Benson said with a grin and laughter rippled through the class.

‘What?’ Andre stared at him blankly. Oh shoot, had he actually said that out loud?

‘Henry VIII and all his wives,’ Mr Benson said. ‘His Tudor harem.’

‘Oh . . . right.’ Andre sat up straight, trying desperately to wake himself up.

Mr Benson carried on chatting about Queen Elizabeth and Andre took a deep breath. It was so frustrating being in this dumb class having to learn about people that meant absolutely nothing to him. It was such a waste of time. No wonder he was almost falling asleep. He could be doing something far more useful – like coming up with a list of hashtags or brainstorming fresh new blog ideas. He thought of his phone in the pocket of his jacket. The urge to check it was almost as strong as the urge to sleep. While he’d been sitting through blah-blah-beheading-blah he could have got more notifications from Spotted. Other people might have commented. Other people might have liked the stupid nappy comment. These were the things he needed to know – not where the young Elizabeth had lived while her psycho dad was out killing wives.

Finally the bell rang for end of period. Andre leaped to his feet.

‘Easy, bro,’ Raf said with one of his dazzling grins.

‘I need to check something,’ Andre said, heading for the door. ‘I’ll see you in tap.’ He raced to the toilets, locked himself inside a cubicle and checked his phone. He had a new email. His heart quickened. What if it was a notification from the blog? But it was just a message from a fashion newsletter he subscribed to. He clicked it open. The layout of the newsletter was so slick. He clicked on their Instagram link at the bottom of the page. They had over one million subscribers. How was that even possible? He unlocked the cubicle door and went over to one of the sinks. He splashed some water on his face and stared at his reflection. He’d give anything to have that kind of following. When you had that kind of following you no longer had to worry any more – you knew that you’d made it. What if he never got where he wanted to be? What if the online empire he dreamed of building never materialized? What if all he ever achieved was an online cul-de-sac? He couldn’t bear the thought. The bell rang again, signalling the start of the next period. Shoot! His tap class was over in the new building. He was going to be late. Mrs Jones was not going to be pleased.

Mrs Jones wasn’t pleased. As Andre raced into the studio, clutching his tap shoes in his hands she rapped on the polished wood floor with her cane.

‘And what time do you call this?’ she asked.

‘Time you took pity on a poor, defenceless soul who just got trapped inside a toilet cubicle?’ Andre looked at her pleadingly. He wasn’t sure how convincing an excuse getting trapped inside a toilet cubicle was but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

‘You got trapped inside a toilet cubicle?’ Mrs Jones looked at him sternly while the rest of the class grinned.

‘Yes. It was terrible. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be rescued. Now I know how Anne Boleyn felt right before her execution.’

‘You’re likening getting trapped inside a toilet with being beheaded?’ Mrs Jones raised her eyebrows so high they practically met her snowy white hairline. The other students started to snigger.

‘Don’t laugh!’ Andre retorted. ‘The panic was real!’

‘OK. I’ve heard enough,’ Mrs Jones said. Although she was still frowning Andre could see that her gaze had softened a fraction. ‘Get your shoes on and take your place.’

‘Why do you always have to be such a drama queen?’ Cassandra whispered as Andre put his shoes on.

‘Same reason you have to be such an ice queen, I guess,’ Andre retorted. ‘I was born this way.’ Andre had no time for Cassandra. Ever since they’d started at WEDA she’d gone out of her way to make Billie and Tilly’s lives hell. As far as Andre was concerned, if you messed with a member of Il Bello, you messed with him.

‘OK, everyone, places, please,’ Mrs Jones called. ‘Let’s begin with a single file line for our tap cannons, starting with a stamp slide into a spank heel step flap ball change. Listen to each other to stay in time or you will end up sounding like a herd of buffalo stampeding. We need to make beautiful rhythms, not a mush of melodies.’

As the music started Andre focused hard on waiting for his turn to step in beat and stay in rhythm but his entire body ached with tiredness and his limbs felt as limp as a rag doll’s. Each time the cannon came to him he was a split second behind the beat and pulled everyone else out of rhythm. Come on, focus, he told himself but it was no good. It was as if his brain and his feet were living separate lives.

‘Aaargh!’ he exclaimed, as Mrs Jones tapped her cane on the floor to get them to stop.

‘So, a herd of buffalo it is. Is everything OK, Andre?’ she asked.

The whole class turned to stare at him.

‘I do hope you’re not still traumatized by your toilet ordeal.’

As the others giggled Andre felt an unfamiliar warmth in his cheeks. ‘No. It’s not that, it’s . . .’

‘What?’ Mrs Jones asked.

Andre saw Cassandra smirking. Great.

‘I just don’t like it when I don’t bring my A game,’ he muttered.

‘Yes.’ Mrs Jones nodded. ‘And there’s only one answer to that – wake up and work harder!’ She rapped her cane on the floor. ‘OK, everyone, let’s take it from the top.’

As the cannon started again Raf placed his hand on Andre’s shoulder. ‘Go easy on yourself, bro. We all have those days.’

Andre nodded. But Raf didn’t understand. This wasn’t just one of those days. He had great big, clumsy buffalo feet and a blogging empire crumbling around him.

At lunchtime Andre made his way to the Stable Studio. Normally, these lunchtime sessions with Il Bello were the highlight of his school day but today, as he made his way along the winding path through the trees at the back of the old building, he felt a creeping sense of dread. The others would all be expecting him to have come up with some new choreography ideas and what with Harem-Pant Hell, History Homework Hell and Buffalo Herd Hell he just hadn’t had a chance to think of anything.

He let himself into the stable. The others were there already, gathered together at the far end. Hazy gold pools of sunlight poured through the skylights on to the shiny wooden floor. It was hard to imagine that at the beginning of the school year, when Andre had first claimed the building for his street crew HQ, it had been a run-down old stable. So much had changed since then. Now, not only was the stable converted into a state-of-the-art studio but, thanks to Il Bello, street dance was on the curriculum at WEDA. He should feel proud of this but instead it only added to his feeling of exhaustion. He looked at Tilly’s graffiti mural on the wall – the three street-style bumble bees that symbolized the Il Bello three Bs ethos: Be fearless. Be authentic. Be you. No one had warned him it could be so stressful being authentic.

‘Dre!’ Billie exclaimed, running over to greet him. Her blond hair was swept back into a ponytail and she was wearing a vintage AC/DC rock-band tee over ripped leggings. Normally Andre would have commented on her fashion win but today he was so tired he couldn’t summon the energy to gush.

‘Hey, Bill,’ he said.

‘We were just wondering what music to play. What do you reckon?’ Billie looked at him hopefully. It was a look he was used to. And he’d always liked that they valued his opinion so much but today it made him irritable. Why should everything always be down to him?

‘I don’t know,’ he said, making his way over to the others.

‘Oh, come on, Dre – you always know,’ Billie replied.

The others started nodding. It made him want to scream.

‘No. No I don’t. My playlists are played out and anyway, why do we even need to rehearse? It’s not as if we have a show coming up.’

Billie’s face fell. ‘You don’t want to dance?’

Tilly came over and placed her hand on Andre’s forehead. ‘Have you got a fever or something? That’s the second time in two days you’ve said you don’t want to dance.’

‘I’m just having a down day, don’t make such a big deal of it. I can’t carry you all the time . . .’ Andre stopped, mortified at what had just come out of his mouth. This wasn’t how he was. He had to get out of there.

‘Actually, you know what, maybe I am coming down with something.’ Andre picked up his bag. ‘You guys go ahead without me. I need some fresh air.’

He made his way back outside, feeling drained and embarrassed. What the hell was wrong with him, talking to the others like that?

He heard footsteps running up behind him and turned to see Tilly.

‘Oh, Dre, what’s wrong?’ she said, grabbing him in a hug.

‘Nothing – I . . .’ Andre leaned his head on her shoulder. It felt so nice. He was so sleepy. Maybe he should tell her everything. But he was supposed to be the strong one – the leader of Il Bello. It was bad enough that he’d just had a mini-meltdown. ‘I’ve been a bit stressed about Spotted, that’s all.’

‘But why?’ Tilly took a step back and stared at him. ‘Spotted is doing great.’

‘I wish we had more subscribers.’

‘We will. It takes time.’ Tilly smiled. ‘I know. Let’s go out tomorrow – spot some new looks. That’s guaranteed to make you feel better.’

Andre nodded but inside he wasn’t so sure. In his current mood, even the thought of his favourite pastime fashion-spotting left him feeling flat.