Seventeen-year old first year college student Josie Clarke would prefer not to blush the colour crimson at every little thing, but Idiopathic Craniofacial Erythema, a chronic facial condition doesn't play fair.
In fact, it's as uncontrollable...
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I should have known the day wasn't going to get much better, when Ben, a guy I used to share (read: forced) a bunsen burner with during Science class, yells "Break a leg," at me. Right in my face. In the college corridor.
Not even thirty seconds after my arrival.
And I'm barely awake. Barely breathing. My tummy tight from skipping breakfast and from not hearing anything from Max since I turned him down yesterday during lunch.
My text messages have been either ignored or met with short responses. He tells me that he's tired. Doesn't have a lot of phone credit left.
That he just needs a day or two to figure out what he's going to do.
My mum would call this type of behaviour 'dramatic' or 'nonsense' but I soon understand just why Max hasn't been very forthcoming. And I realise that, if anything he's being a lot less dramatic than he really could and should probably be about it.
Because there's now a bit of ominous buzz around the notice board outside of the drama theatre, which I don't have a good feeling about.
And I pretty much crap my pants the second I shimmy past and spot my name. Right there: scrawled in a cursive that can only belong to one person. Don't ask me how, but I could and can recognise those swirly little flicks at the end of her J's anywhere.
Two above my sign up signature - the not so subtle 'Rosie Josie Clarke' is Maddie Parish's name. One below her's is Rosalyn Allen a.k.a the songbird. A musical wunderkind of sorts with an angelic voice and a face made for all the magazines.
Ten or so spaces above hers is Max's name in all caps, as is his talent is the singular word guitar.
Maddie's has medley, whatever that could mean.
The byline for talent on mine is left blank. I suppose in a way that's kind of her, to not put me down for something like fire juggling or the works of Shakespeare spun into modern rap, but still, it causes me to sweat. And my cheeks begin to flush. And my body goes into overdrive, awash with panic and fear.
The dryness in my mouth as I slowly trace a finger over my name only intensifies with the sound of it being repeated, out aloud.
Jamie's tanned forearm comes to rest beside the notice board. He corners me good and proper before I can turn away. Before all my desires to tear the sign up sheet down, to screw it into a ball and burn all evidence can become reality.
