for her. She barely spoke to Dakshima and when she did it came out either rude or stuck up.
“The thing is,” I tried to explain to Dakshima, “she’s not really like that. I thought she was a total cow too for ages, and she thought I was one, but she’s just shy and when she meets people she doesn’t know she puts on a front. A lot of us actors…a lot of actors are really shy. I know it seems weird that they can jump about on stage in front of hundreds of people, but that’s because they are being someone else, when they have to be themselves it’s completely different. Once you’ve got to know her you’ll see. She’s a really great friend, plus she could take Adele any day of the week.”
Dakshima looked sceptical. “If you say so,” she said, opening the door of her dad’s car. “Cool DVD though. Do you really know that Hunter kid?”
For about one tenth of second I remembered Hunter kissing me. “Well, I’ve met him,” I said. “Not really the same thing as knowing him.”
“Well, tonight was a laugh. We should hang out more after school anyway,” Dakshima said.
“Great,” I said. “I’d like that.”
“So are you ready for the choir audition tomorrow?” Dakshima asked.
“What?” I exclaimed. “Oh, I’m not going to that.”
“Yeah, you are. Didn’t you read the letter? The head’s making the whole school audition so we can get a choir together for some competition, I’m not sure what it’s for, but it should be a laugh. Everyone has to go and sing for Mr Petrelli tomorrow lunchtime. I want to get into the choir, but don’t worry if you don’t. All you have to do is sing real bad and then you won’t get picked.”
“Singing badly isn’t a problem,” I said heavily.
I really didn’t want to go to any kind of audition ever again, not even one I wouldn’t get picked for. Because even though I knew I didn’t want to be in the choir and that I wasn’t good enough to be in it, the thought of not being picked made me feel sick inside. And it was wanting never to feel like that again that made me leave stage school.
But it seemed my old life kept on finding me, even if it was only trying out for the school choir. I’d just have to be as bad as I could possibly be. And I am good at that. It’s one of my best things.
“You knew him, didn’t you?” Adele said, thrusting her copy of Hiya! Bye-a! under my nose as we queued up outside the hall. “Didn’t he chuck you?”
I took the magazine out of her hand and read the part about Danny Harvey and Mick Caruso.
“Yes,” I said. “I went out with Danny for a bit and then he dumped me for another girl.”
“Why did he chuck you?” Adele demanded.
I was learning that although Adele always talked as if she was about to punch you in the face, that in itself didn’t necessarily mean that she would. And while she hadn’t formally withdrawn her threat to “get me”, she hadn’t actually got me yet either. I was hoping that Dakshima was right and that she wasn’t nearly as scary as she seemed. One thing you couldn’t comfortably say to Adele, though, was mind your own business.
“Because he liked the other girl more than me, I suppose,” I said with a shrug.
“Prettier than you?” Adele demanded.
I nodded. “Probably.”
“Stupid cow,” Adele said, and I wasn’t sure if she was talking about me or Melody. I read further down the page, about the auditions that Anne-Marie and Nydia had mentioned. For a split second the thought of trying out for the show made me feel excited inside – and then I read the bit about the choir competition. My stomach dropped ten floors into my toes.
“That’s mine,” Adele said, snatching the magazine back out of my hands.
“Is that what we’re doing?” I asked her.
Adele frowned at the magazine and then at me. “What?”
“Is that why we have to sing for Mr Petrelli? So that he can get a choir together to enter this competition?”
“That’s right. I told you it was a schools competition,” Dakshima said, appearing at my shoulder. “Thanks for saving me a space in the queue, by the way.” She winked at the girls she had just pushed in front of, who grumbled but didn’t say anything because everyone liked Dakshima.
“I’m not going,” I said, picking up my bag.
“Hey, hang on,” Dakshima said. “You can’t just leave. Mr Petrelli’s doing a register for every year group. If you don’t sing with us now, he’ll only make you go back again and sing on your own. What’s your problem, anyway?”
“Nothing, there is no problem, but this is a waste of time. He won’t want me in his choir and I just…I don’t want to be involved with this. I’ve given it up. I left stage school, turned down film roles in Japan and everything. I don’t want to act any more or sing or do any kind of audition. I want to do biology and show an interest in fractions!”
Dakshima frowned at me and tutted, and I worried that I’d blown our fledgling friendship already.
“It’s only singing in the school hall, not The X Factor. If you’re no good, he’ll tap you on the shoulder and you can go, and no one will even care.”
“That’s my point!” I tried to explain. “I don’t want to get tapped on the shoulder any more. That’s why I left the Academy, because I couldn’t take getting tapped on shoulders any more.”
“What are you on about?” Dakshima asked me, but before I could answer, the hall doors burst open and Mr Petrelli appeared, armed with a clipboard and a determined look. It was too late to escape.
“Right, Year 9, it’s your turn now, and let’s hope you’ve got more to offer than Years 10 and 11. At this rate I’ll be entering a choir with only four members and we’ll never get our hands on the money.”
“Are you religious, sir?” Dakshima said as she walked past him into the hall.
“Why do you ask, Dakshima?
“Because you must be hoping for a miracle!” Dakshima said, making the others giggle.
I didn’t laugh because my stomach was in knots and I felt like butterflies had moved into my chest. I felt exactly the same as I had the time I auditioned for Oscar-winning director Art Dubrovnik and that day I threw up on my feet. This was only a school choir, a bad school choir at that, and I still felt the same. What I didn’t understand was why.
As Mr Petrelli called the register, I looked longingly at the door and wished I could escape.
“OK,” Mr Petrelli called from the stage. We all stood in haphazard lines in front of him, the boys messing around at the back and the girls chatting. Some things never change no matter what type of school you go to. “CAN I HAVE SOME QUIET, PLEASE?” he yelled.
The talking lowered to a murmur and Mr Petrelli switched on an overhead projector. A set of words flashed up on the screen at a slight angle. I recognised them.
“This is how it’s going to work,” said Mr Petrelli. “If I tap you on the shoulder, you have to go. If I don’t, you stay – and don’t sneak off because I will hunt you down and I will make you sing.” There was a collective groan. “Now, I thought I’d give you all a song you know so I’ve picked last year’s dreadful Christmas number one, You Take Me To (Kensington Heights).”
“Don’t make us sing that rubbish,” one of the boys