by Zoe Sugg
Callum laughs and salutes us as we walk away from him.
Is going slightly jelly after meeting Callum a normal reaction? Maybe it’s a sign that deep down I’m starting to get over Noah? Maybe my heart is ready to be dusted off and get back out into the scary world of boys again?
There are a lot of maybes, but it’s better than the nevers that were there before.
Megan leads me through corridor after corridor, where we pass singing, art, and ballet classrooms. My jaw drops at just how much stuff they have access to. Practice rooms, musical instruments, studios, libraries. For all her bragging, Megan really has entered the big league now.
We cross the campus and she takes me inside her halls of residence. It’s not quite what I expected: it’s small and the ceilings are fairly low, making the light quite limited. Not good at all for photos. Megan is sharing her bathroom and kitchen space with two other girls. One, a dancer, is from Italy, and the other is from San Francisco, doing modern art.
She takes me through to her bedroom, which is in an even worse state than mine—clothes are tossed everywhere and theatre posters cover all the walls.
“Are your roommates nice? Do you get on with them?” I sit down on the end of Megan’s single bed, which is pressed up against her desk area. She pulls out her office chair and takes a seat next to me.
“Sure. I mean Mariella doesn’t speak a lot of English, so our conversations are a little more difficult. She studies interpretive dance, though, so I often just gesture what I’m trying to say by dancing, and I think that helps.”
Poor Mariella. I imagine Megan dancing in frustration, arms and legs akimbo while trying to offer Mariella a cup of tea, and I stifle a giggle.
Megan takes out her laptop and starts scrolling through her Facebook. “I don’t really see the other girl much. She’s very indie, hangs out in Shoreditch a lot, and her friends all have beards and man buns. I’m just not sure I like the whole man bun thing? What do they hide in there?”
“All their secrets?” I say peering over Megan’s screen. She’s hovering her mouse over her direct messages, although there are no new chat notifications. Odd. Normally Megan is buzzing from every device she owns. She senses me peering and slams her laptop shut.
“You know what? Let’s head back to the common room and grab some food and chill. There’s not much to do here; it’s too quiet.” She grabs her handbag and slings it over her shoulder then messes up her hair and applies more lipstick.
“OK,” I say. I’m surprised by the butterflies that flutter in my stomach at a single thought: Maybe Callum will still be there.
• • •
Back in the common room, it’s a hive of activity—but no hunky Scottish guy. Beautiful young people swarm round the table-football table, weirdly good at such a niche hobby, and there are two groups harmonizing a cappella songs back and forth like a scene out of Pitch Perfect. To say I’m out of my comfort zone is no exaggeration, and suddenly the sofa I’m sitting on feels like it’s sucking me into its pillowy depths.
I wonder if it’s too late to get out of there.
But then Callum walks back in, one of his friends in tow. His friend is also tall and attractive, with a head of thick curly dark hair, but he doesn’t have nearly the same magnetic pull for me that Callum does. I sit up a little straighter as he plonks himself down on the sofa next to me and his friend perches opposite, next to Megan.
“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon.” He throws his bag off his shoulder and onto the coffee table in front of us, relaxing down into the seat. God, his accent is amazing. I want to pull out my phone and record it for Elliot, because I know he would go equally wild.
I grin. “Megan thought we should make the most of the cafeteria before I head home. I’d heard the cheese and Marmite toasties here are unbeatable.” I hold up my sandwich, then realize that waving a half-eaten cheese toastie in front of someone’s face is probably not normal behaviour. His mouth twists as he struggles not to burst out laughing and I try to diffuse the awkwardness by ramming the rest of the toastie in my mouth.
Unfortunately, all that does is give me giant chipmunk cheeks and I have to try to eat the toastie without opening my very full mouth, to avoid showing him a pile of chewed-up Marmite and cheese. Attractive.
I’m grateful to him for turning away for a moment, leaving me to recover my dignity. I chew as fast as I can, swallow down the rest of the sandwich, and manage to calm some of the red in my face by the time he’s turned back to look at me. On his lap is his photography portfolio plus an A4 folder of black-and-white photos that look as though they’ve just been developed in a darkroom. I even think I can smell the chemicals on them from the developing.
The noise in the room gets a little louder as Callum lifts his eyes to meet mine. I take a deep breath. Don’t let anxiety ruin this. Please.
“Oh, sorry, do you mind?” Callum asks, mistaking my rising anxiety for irritation. “We have a big project due already and I want to get it perfect.”
“No, please, go ahead,” I say, glad for the distraction. At least it gets Callum’s attention off me for a moment, and allows me to recentre myself.
I focus on the photographs he’s laying out across his lap. They are portrait shots, so haunting they send a shiver down my spine. The detail in them is like nothing I’ve ever seen.
“What do you think?” he asks. “I’m not sure it’s quite right yet.”
“Some of these shots could give you nightmares!” I say, with a laugh.
He blushes. “I know, they’re a bit gothic, but to be fair they are destined for a Halloween display. What lens do you use for portraits?” He smiles, and his teeth are so straight and white they almost blind me. He has a little freckle on his top lip next to his cupid’s bow and I melt a little more. It takes all I have not to scream out: Who is this guy and where has he come from? He can’t be human! HE CAN’T BE!
Focus, Penny. Photography. I can do this. “I use a prime lens for portraits. I find that the detail it gives is amazing, but not as harsh as a macro lens, especially if you’re shooting analogue. Do you shoot with film or digital?”
“I shoot in both; I think you can get great shots with both mediums.” His tongue sticks out of the side of his mouth as he works his way round the page, glue in one hand, photos in the other. “It really depends what angle you want to go for, I guess. Some of my favourite photos have been taken with a seven-quid point-and-shoot that I developed in Boots. I’m all about capturing the moment.”
“Oh, I totally agree.” I nod enthusiastically, then suddenly a pang of guilt hits my stomach. We’ve just been geeking out about photography, and I’ve been ignoring Megan completely. She’ll hate that. I look up and, with a sigh of relief, notice Megan deep in conversation with Callum’s friend about a house party in building 4B. Megan’s mum would be a frantic mess if she knew Megan was planning to join house parties with hot seventeen-year-old guys, but it doesn’t surprise me at all.
Guilt appeased, I let myself relax back into the conversation with Callum. “How would you describe this photo?” he asks, as he hands me a black-and-white image of an elderly lady holding her hand to her face. You can see the intricate detail of eight gold rings stacked on her fingers. Her eyes look sad, but her mouth is tilted upwards at the edges. Half her face is in darkness, and the other is burned with light.
“I think . . . she’s saying, ‘I’ve lived a long life and I don’t regret a single second of it.’ ” I look at the haunting image, then back up at Callum. Our eyes meet and the lines round his eyes are back as his smile creeps across his face.
“Ladies and gentlemen, can we have some applause for the cheesiest line ever?” He laughs and claps his hands.
“Hey, you asked!” I shrug my shoulders and return his smile.
“And that deep and meaningful analysis, my dear, is why I’m studying here and you aren’t.” He winks at me in a playful manner and my mouth drops open in mock outrage.
&
nbsp; “I might not write great captions, but talent can’t be taught,” I shoot back, and I’m surprised by the words coming out of my mouth. I’m not normally this “on fire” when it comes to banter. Who is this new Penny?
“Touché, Penny Porter,” he concedes. He shifts slightly and his leg falls against mine. We might have jeans on, but the small contact sends a current of electricity rushing through my body. I don’t know if he senses it too, but pink spots rise in his cheeks even as he continues to look down at his photography. Maybe it’s not just me . . .
Then a swell of anxiety follows the current like a tsunami. I can’t even catch my breath, it comes over me so quickly. Everything that was fun and exciting turns terrifying. I can hear every slam of the ball from the table football. The a cappella singing is high and screechy in my ears. The air has become thick and warm, like breathing in honey.
My panicked eyes search for an exit route—and when I see a door I grab my bag and run. I don’t think about Callum, his friend, or Megan. I just run down the corridor, twisting round corners, through fire escape doors, until I’m outside and filling my lungs with fresh air.
After a couple of seconds Megan is by my side, her arm round my back. She’s seen this before, and for all her faults I’m grateful she never makes a big deal about this. She’s just there for me.
When my breathing has calmed down to normal levels, she ventures a question: “What happened? Did Callum say something?” Her forehead scrunches into a frown.
“No, not at all. I think . . . I don’t know. I suppose everything just got a bit much. I’ll be fine.” I force a smile onto my face, and Megan squeezes my hand.
“It’s OK, you know, to like someone else,” she says quietly.
My heart skips a beat as Megan manages to put into words the source of my anxiety. Because deep down inside, another voice is telling me I’m not so sure.
Chapter Five
Megan leans against the side of the building, tapping away at her phone, while I perch on a wall and focus on my breathing. When I feel a measure of calm, I lift my eyes to watch people going about their day. What are you up to? I think, following the crowds. I pick out certain individuals. Where are you going with that giant backpack—are you travelling the world? That couple holding hands—are they on a first date? Their third?
Turning my focus outwards, concentrating on what might be happening in the lives of other people, is something my therapist told me to do when managing my anxiety. I only started seeing a therapist after coming back from the tour, and she has already helped my confidence massively. She’s helped me learn that, while anxiety is part of my life, it doesn’t have to define it. Little tricks, like people-watching, stop me focusing too much on my spiralling thoughts and the physical symptoms that dominate my body whenever I start to panic. Already I can feel my heart rate slowing down and the clamminess on my palms evaporating.
I look over my shoulder. “Megan, I think I’ll be OK now. If you don’t mind, I just want a few minutes by myself to completely clear my head before going back inside.” I can tell I’ve caught her by surprise: she’s smirking at a viral video of a puppy slipping on ice that she’s had on a loop, but she turns off her phone and nods.
“Of course, Penny. I’ll be in the common room. Think you can find your way back?”
“Yeah,” I reply.
“Cool. See you in a bit.” She walks back inside, leaving me sitting on the wall.
I continue to scan the scene in front of me, and my eye is caught by a young girl sitting on the bench opposite me, ending a call in a fury and wiping a tear away. I wonder who she’s just argued with. A parent? A friend? Her partner? It’s little things like this that remind me that absolutely everyone has their “stuff”—stuff they struggle with or have to deal with on a regular basis.
To my alarm, the girl’s single tear turns into uncontrolled sobbing into her hands. There’s a battered rucksack between her black pumps on the grass by her bench and her glossy black hair is up in two neat buns, one on each side of her head. Suddenly she lifts her head and makes eye contact with me. I almost fall off the wall. Now she knows I’m just sitting watching her.
An awkward lump rises in my throat. She averts her eyes again and wipes her tears away, obviously aware I’m still watching her. I spot a Madame Laplage patch on her rucksack and realize she must be a student here. I slide off the wall. I can’t just ignore her now that she knows I’ve been watching. There is a small possibility she’ll tell me to clear off and yell at me for being so nosy, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. If she needs someone to talk to, sometimes a sympathetic stranger is as good as anyone.
She looks up when she hears the gravel crunching beneath my Converse. Despite the fact that her face is splotched red from crying, I’m struck by how pretty she is. Her delicate almond-shaped eyes are a beautiful dark brown and a small smile creeps over her face, displaying a dimple on one of her cheeks.
I take the smile as a promising indication that she doesn’t mind me approaching. “Sorry for intruding, but are you OK?” I slide onto the bench next to her. She’s trembling slightly, reminding me of a delicate butterfly. She might fly away at any moment.
“I’m so embarrassed!” she says. She wipes her nose with the crumpled tissue in her hand. “I hate crying in public. And I especially hate crying at school. I’m sure everyone’s going to know now.”
“Do you want to go for a walk? Get away from here for a bit?” I say, and she nods.
We walk in silence away from the school, back towards the South Bank. There’s always something soothing about water, I find. I prefer the sight of the sea off Brighton beach, but even the River Thames will do. The girl sniffs loudly. “I . . . I don’t recognize you from any of my classes, but please don’t tell anyone at school about this.”
“Oh, I’m not at Madame Laplage,” I say.
“You’re not?”
“No—I’m just here visiting a friend. Look, I’m Penny. I’m sorry for watching you, but you seem really upset. Have you had an argument with someone?”
She looks up at me, her eyes searching mine. I must pass her test because she nods again, slowly. “I’m Posey,” she replies, “Posey Chang. And yeah, an argument . . . You could say that! My mum is my best friend, but she doesn’t half pile the pressure on. She just doesn’t understand. I was trying to explain to her that I didn’t want to play a certain role in the show because I can’t bear the thought of being centre stage.” She blows her nose loudly and drops the tissue in a bin. When she speaks again, her voice is so quiet that I have to strain to hear her over the sound of the birds squawking and tourists chattering behind us. “I know it’s supposed to be an honour to receive such a big part. I’m studying theatre and music here after all, and it’s something I’ve always loved to do, but I find it so difficult in front of an audience, and nobody really understands! Mum told me I was being ridiculous and that I needed to pull myself together and there was absolutely no way I was going to swap my role. I hate it because she’s right. If I don’t do this . . . I might not get my scholarship renewed. Then all the hard work to get in here will be wasted anyway.” She sniffs again and a single tear escapes down her cheek.
“What role do you have? My friend Megan is in the production too; it’s West Side Story, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s right! I’m playing Maria, the LEAD ROLE.” A small tremble shakes her shoulders. “Everyone had to audition and I hoped to get a small part, because it really helps your grades, but I certainly didn’t think I’d get a lead. Now I’m desperate to switch it for a less daunting part.” She nervously bites down on her already non-existent nails.
“You must be really good to get the lead,” I say, trying to hide my confusion—her version doesn’t fit with what I know from Megan, but I don’t want to contradict her while she’s so upset. “And yet I also understand totally about being afraid.” (The closest I’ve come to stage fright was the time my knickers were exposed to the whole scho
ol, but I know it’s not the same thing. That was about being frightened on a stage. Frightened of the gasps, the horror and the embarrassment of remembering I was wearing my oldest pair of frayed knickers.) Posey’s stage fright sounds like it runs a lot deeper. To know that you have a duty to perform but to be terrified of the very platform you’re supposed to love. “The whole reason I came outside,” I tell her, “is because I suffer from really bad panic attacks and anxiety.”
“Really? What helps you?” she asks, her big brown eyes open wide.
“Well, when I get anxious when I’m travelling, I wear my mum’s old cardigan—it’s like a security blanket. I guess you can’t really take a security blanket onstage with you!”
To my relief she giggles. “No, that probably wouldn’t work—unless we switched plays to Les Misérables and I could pretend it was my rags.”
To my surprise, she closes her eyes and starts singing the opening lines to “On My Own” from Les Misérables, her haunting voice drifting out across the water. She hits each note perfectly, but there’s a delicate tremor in her voice that delivers the emotion of the song straight to my heart. I feel my own tears spring up in my eyes.
Her delivery builds and builds until she hits the crescendo, barely pausing for breath. I can hardly breathe myself, shocked that such a powerful voice can come from such a tiny body. When she finishes, the final note lingering in the air, I burst into applause. But I’m not the only one—behind us a small crowd has gathered and they clap wildly.
Posey spins round, her face beetroot red, but she gives a little curtsey and a small smile to the crowd. Gradually, they disperse and then we are alone again.
“Posey, that was amazing! I know you’re not happy about it, but . . . I can see why they cast you as the lead.”
Her small smile droops. “Thanks, Penny. I used to love singing to people—when it was just me, on my own, with a microphone and maybe a piano. That way, if I messed up, it was only me who suffered. But if I screw up in this show, it’s not just about me. There are all the music students in the orchestra pit, the dance students in the chorus, the technical arts students doing the lighting and the sound work—not to mention all the other actors onstage. I’d be messing up for everyone. That’s why I can’t do it. So it’s back to Manchester for me.”
