I Was Born for This. Alice Oseman

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СКАЧАТЬ for me to tell he hasn’t had a drink or a cigarette since yesterday – while he does look like he’s about to explode from excitement, he’s subconsciously gritting his teeth and has bags under his eyes. Cecily, our manager, enforced a no-alcohol-for-five-hours-before-events rule on Lister after the Incident at The X Factor that We Do Not Talk About Any More, and he’s not supposed to smoke on singing days, even though he usually does.

      No one else can tell that, though. To everyone else, he’s beautiful, perfect, flawless, etc. He’s got the James Dean, Calvin Klein model, I-just-tumbled-out-of-bed look. Tonight, he’s wearing a Louis Vuitton bomber jacket and ripped black skinny jeans.

      Lister pats me a little too hard on the back.

      ‘You’re at least a bit excited about it, right?’ he asks, grinning.

      It’s hard not to grin back. ‘Yeah, I’m a bit excited.’

      ‘Good. Now, back to the important topic at hand: what are the chances of me running into Beyoncé and what are the chances of her knowing who I am?’

      I squint out of the car window. It’s tinted, and Hollywood looks darker than it should, but the too-fast beating of my heart is an indiscernible mix of anxiety and excitement and I get a sudden wave of I can’t believe I’m here. It happens less and less nowadays, but sometimes I remember how weird my life is.

      How good it is. How lucky I am.

      I glance back at Rowan. He’s looking at me, a faint smile on his lips.

      ‘You’re smiling,’ he says.

      ‘Shut up,’ I say, but he’s right.

      ‘You boys should all just try to enjoy yourselves,’ says Cecily. She crosses her legs and doesn’t look up from her phone as she talks. ‘After this week, things are gonna get five hundred per cent more hectic for you guys.’

      Cecily, who is sitting opposite Lister, is the only one of us who looks anything like a normal person – she’s wearing a blue dress, tight black curls swished to one side, and she’s got a lanyard round her neck. The only seemingly expensive thing about her is the massive iPhone in her hand.

      Cecily Wills is our band manager. She’s only about ten years older than us, but she comes everywhere with us and tells us what to do, where we’re going, where to stand, who to talk to. If we didn’t have her, we’d have literally no idea what we were doing, at all, ever.

      Rowan rolls his eyes. ‘So dramatic.’

      ‘Just keeping it real, babe. The new contract is very different to your current one. And you’ll be adjusting to post-tour life.’

      The new contract. We’re all signing a new contract with our record label, Fort Records, once we return home from our European tour later this week.

      It’ll mean longer tours. More interviews. Bigger sponsors, flashier merch, and, above all, it’ll mean finally breaking the US. We’ve recently had a top-ten single in America, but the plan is to get us a real audience here, a US tour, and maybe even worldwide fame.

      Which is what we want, obviously. Our music spread across the world and our name in the history books. But I can’t say the thought of more interviews, more guest appearances, more tours, more everything, is making me feel particularly thrilled about my future.

      ‘Do we have to talk about that right now?’ I mutter.

      Cecily keeps tapping away at her phone. ‘No, babe. Let’s get back to poo and anxiety.’

      ‘Good.’

      Rowan sighs. ‘Now look what you’ve done. You’ve made Jimmy grumpy.’

      ‘I’m not grumpy—’

      Lister drops his mouth open in faux shock. ‘How is this my fault?’

      ‘It’s both of you,’ says Rowan, gesturing to Lister and Cecily.

      ‘It’s none of you,’ I say. ‘I’m just in a weird mood.’

      ‘But you’re excited, yeah?’ asks Lister again.

      ‘Yes! I promise I am.’ And I mean it. I am excited.

      I’m just nervous and scared and anxious as well.

      The three of them are all looking at me.

      ‘Like, we’re performing at the Dolby!’ I say, and find myself grinning again.

      Rowan raises his eyebrows a little, arms folded, but nods. Lister makes a whooping noise, then starts to unwind the window before Cecily smacks his hand and winds it back up again.

      The screams coming from outside are piercing now and the car comes to a halt. I feel a bit sick. I don’t really know why all this is bothering me so much more today. I’m normally fine. Wary, always wary, but fine. The screams don’t sound like a tide any more. To me, they sound like the metallic screech of heavy machinery.

      I’m sure I’ll enjoy myself once we get in there.

      I rub my fingers over my collarbones, feeling for my tiny cross necklace. I ask God to calm me down. Hope He’s listening.

      I’m wearing all black, as usual. Cigarette trousers, Chelsea boots that are giving me blisters, a big denim jacket, and a shirt that I have to keep pulling on because I feel like it’s choking me. And the little transgender flag pin I always wear to events.

      Rowan undoes his seatbelt, pats me gently on the cheek, pinches Lister’s nose and says, ‘Let’s walk, lads.’

      The girls aren’t anything new. They’re always there, somewhere, waiting for us. I don’t mind, really. I can’t say I understand it, but I love them back in a way, I guess. The same way I love Instagram videos of puppies tripping over.

      We get out of the car and some woman touches up our hair and make-up and some other woman brushes down my jacket with a lint roller. I sort of love how they always seem to appear out of thin air. Men holding massive cameras, wearing jeans. Bald bodyguards wearing black. Everyone’s got a bloody lanyard on.

      Rowan puts on his Serious Face. It’s hilarious. Kind of a pout, kind of a smoulder. He’s not so smiley in front of the cameras.

      Lister, on the other hand, is flashing his smile all over the place. He never looks miserable in photos. He’s got the opposite of a resting bitch face.

      The screams are deafening. Most of them are just screaming ‘Lister’. Lister turns round and holds up a hand, and I dare to take a glance too.

      The girls. Our girls. Clawing at a chain-link fence, waving phones, crushing each other and screaming because they are so happy.

      I hold up a hand and salute them, and they scream back at me. That’s how we communicate.

      We get ushered on by the adults that escort us everywhere. Bodyguards and make-up artists and women holding walkie-talkies. Rowan walks in the middle, Lister walks slightly ahead and I linger at the back, finding myself more excited than I usually am at these awards ceremonies. They’ve got СКАЧАТЬ