Fangirl Read Online Free PDF

when my feelings get cut
    It’s you, my best friend, my best man, no one compares
    Josie didn’t pretend to know what being “in love” was anyway, having never been before, but all she knew was that the feelings she had for Christopher weren’t the kind that she felt when, say, she saw Peter Maxx sing. Peter made her want to do more than, well, just kiss.
    Recently, someone had asked Josie on her Formspring account, “What’s your definition of being ‘in love’?”
    Josie thought long and hard about it. This was a topic she had spent many hours, if not years, pondering. And, naturally, she wrote over a hundred songs about this very subject by age fourteen.
    An hour later, after careful consideration, she posted:
    I would think that being in love means I am as passionate about a person as I am about music. But, even as I write this, I feel like that is a naïve definition. The truth is, I only know infatuation.
    And infatuation is how she described the kinetic movement she felt with every tingle in her chest when she watched Peter Maxx sing.
    Josie had never before felt like this about any celebrity. Actually, make that anyone—famous or not.
    Peter Maxx was her first and only crush. Period.
    Josie was a goner from the first day she saw a video of him singing his breakout ballad, “No Regrets.”
    You flew into my world
    We took off like jets
    No regrets. . . .
    The pop song became the go-to slow dance at every high school prom, not to mention Josie’s freshman year anthem.
    Make a wish
    Take this kiss
    Girl, I’ve waited a lifetime for this. . . .
    Now the teen star had brought his sexy self to her hometown of Bakersfield, California.
    The sellout crowd of 10,225 started chanting twice as loud as before. When Ashley noticed Josie still wasn’t joining in, she knocked her in the ribs with a peer-pressure elbow. “C’mon, besterz!”
    â€œOkay, fine,” Josie relented, flashing a smile.
    â€œPETER! PETER! PETER! PETER!”

4
    Peter sat with his eyes closed listening to the crowd chant his name.
    The headset-clad stage manager peeked his head through the half-open dressing room door. “Fifteen minute warning, Peter!” he announced.
    â€œOkay, y’all clear out now,” Bobby said pleasantly to the dozen or so roadies, dancers, band mates, and various crew ritualistically gathered in the cinderblock-walled locker room.
    After the door closed, Peter unzipped the inside pocket of his messenger bag and pulled out a manila envelope and reached inside, grabbing hold of a Ziploc bag filled with photos. One by one—about a dozen in all—he pulled them out and laid them on the table. Each picture had one thing in common: they contained an image of his mother. Holding him as a baby. Helping him blow out the candles on his first birthday cake. Hugging him after he got his first guitar at age four.
    Peter had stopped praying many years ago. Raised Baptist, his parents instilled in him solidly Christian values, but, as Peter got older, the idea of talking to God seemed kind of silly. From his perspective, no matter how hard he prayed, his mom would never come back. One day when he was thirteen and was asking God to send various messages to his mom, Peterhad a revelation: Why not just speak directly to mom? I don’t need a middle man.
    Ever since, Peter pulled out the photos and talked softly to his mom, just as he was doing minutes before taking the stage in Bakersfield.
    â€œMom,” he began. “I wish you were with us here. Dad’s doing good. A little stressed lately. But good. He’ll always love you, Mom. I don’t think he will ever love anyone else again.”
    Peter felt calm for the first time that day.
    â€œYeah, things with Sandy . . . well, they’re so-so. I think it’s hard to find a girl these days who’ll just take me for who I am. But, that’s okay. I’m figuring it