Andre's Showcase. Kimberly Wyatt

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СКАЧАТЬ trousers, die! What was I even thinking?’

      The door to the dorm room opened and MJ walked in, followed closely by Tilly.

      ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she asked, staring at him in shock.

      ‘I’m killing the harem pants,’ Andre replied, with yet another satisfying rip.

      ‘You can’t kill an inanimate object,’ MJ said drily, dumping his overnight bag on his bed.

      ‘Just watch me,’ Andre responded.

      ‘But why?’ Tilly asked, playing with the ends of her peacock green hair, the way she always did when she was confused or stressed.

      ‘Because they’re a laughing stock,’ Andre replied, sinking down on to his bed. ‘Have you seen the comment, Tillz?’

      ‘What comment?’ She came and sat down beside him.

      ‘Nice eye-liner by the way,’ Andre added. Even in the grips of a crisis he was still able to acknowledge a cosmetics win when he saw one.

      ‘Thank you. Now what on earth’s going on?’

      Andre passed her the laptop. ‘Look. The harem-pant post has got way fewer likes than normal, plus one snidey comment and two people have unsubscribed. It’s a catastrophe!’

      ‘Hmm, tell that to the people of Syria,’ MJ remarked.

      ‘Not helpful, MJ, not helpful at all,’ Andre muttered.

      Tilly looked at the screen and started to laugh.

      ‘What’s so funny?’ Andre stared at her.

      ‘The comment.’

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      ‘Well, it is kind of true. There could be a giant nappy under there.’

      ‘Great!’ Andre sighed. Tilly was supposed to be his second-in-command at Spotted. She was supposed to be on his side. Not on the side of some smarty-harem-pants-hater who thought @fashattack was a good profile name. Geez!

      ‘Hey, lighten up, Dre,’ Tilly said, nudging him gently in the ribs. ‘It’s only a joke.’

      ‘What does that say?’ Andre said, pointing to the banner of the blog.

      ‘Spotted . . . unleash your inner fashionista,’ Tilly said, reading from the screen.

      ‘Exactly. Does it say, unleash your inner comedian?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘And does it say, please feel free to leave your lame jokes in the comments?’

      ‘No but –’

      ‘There can be no buts,’ Andre interrupted. ‘And there should be no jokes. Fashion is a serious business.’

      ‘Hmm, tell that to whoever invented platform heels,’ MJ remarked.

      ‘Er, still not helping, MJ!’ Andre retorted.

      ‘OK, I’m not sure what happened to bring about this crisis, Dre, but I do know what will fix it.’ Tilly stood up and held out her hands to him.

      Andre looked at her blankly. ‘What?’

      ‘Dancing, of course. Let’s hit the Stable Studio. Do a little free-styling. What do you say, MJ?’

      MJ got to his feet. ‘Yep, sounds good to me.’

      They both looked at Andre. Andre frowned. If he went to the studio they’d probably expect him to come up with some kind of new routine for Il Bello and he just couldn’t deal with that right now. He felt like an iPhone that had run out of storage space. He needed an urgent reboot.

      ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I have homework to do.’

      ‘What?’ Tilly’s mouth dropped open. ‘But, Dre, you never say no to dance.’

      ‘Yeah well. I used to have three hundred and fifty-nine followers on my blog.’

      ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

      ‘Things change, Tillz, and so do people.’

      Tilly looked dejected. ‘Wow. OK then.’ She turned to MJ. ‘Shall we see if Raf ’s about?’

      ‘Good plan,’ MJ replied.

      Tilly took hold of Andre’s arm. ‘You know where we are if you change your mind.’

      Andre nodded.

      ‘Take it easy, Dre. You’re just having a bad day.’ Tilly gave him a quick hug then headed for the door.

      As Andre watched them leave he felt a bitter-sweet mix of sorrow and relief. He couldn’t believe he was turning down the chance to dance but at least it eased the pressure a fraction. He needed to get that History assignment done. But first, he’d have another check of his blog.

      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?’ СКАЧАТЬ