My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend Read Online Free PDF Page A

the car. My earliest memories are of wailing along from my booster seat in the back, along
with the whole of
The Hounds of Love
and
Never for Ever
. I still know all the words now. ‘Running Up That Hill’ would be one of my Desert Island Discs. I spent a lot
of time perfecting my crazy Kate Bush dance moves.
    Crazy was the key you see.
    I’m sure it was the early influence of Kate that got me into the idea of beautiful, talented and mad women for evermore – from PJ Harvey to Björk to
Florence. It’s a deep lifelong love in me.
    Basically I wish I could be beautiful and talented enough to be that barking mad and get away with it. I want staring eyes and cloudy hair like Kate Bush. I want to stand
on a hillside in a thunderstorm quoting the Brontë sisters in shrieking verse. There’s something deeply sexy about being that mental, right? Well, so long as you’re good-looking
enough. Then you’re fascinating and different, and just too divine for this world. Otherwise, you’re just mental and/or a bit silly.
    If I tried this, my mum would tell me to brush my hair and my friends would all laugh at me. (They frequently do anyway, obviously – have you met me?) So I’ll
stick to dancing in my room in my old jazz leotard with my charity-shop shawl, thanks.
    Comments
    Aw, Chew – you are a special little snowflake. Now brush your hair. Love ya!
    Nishi_S
    nice piece. I only found yr site cuz I was googling myself . . . but I’ve stuck around for the writing! Stay beautiful!
    jackson_e_griffith

The canteen at college is so much better than school ever was. It’s massive and there are different stations where you can get pizza or baked potatoes, instead of just
one rubbish shepherd’s pie with grey meat.
    Nishi and I are sitting at our usual table. It’s not like it’s a particularly amazing table but we’re creatures of habit.
    ‘How was your date with Seymour last night?’ Nishi asks me.
    ‘Date?’ I screw up my face. ‘And how
was
it? You know us so well you might as well have been there. We went to Moshi Munchers; we had miso soup and those really
amazing dumplings, and I ate about a million of those octopus balls that everyone else thinks are really gross. He walked me home, then I watched telly with my mum and stuffed my face with
chocolate biscuits because I am a fat, disgusting piglet with no self-control gene. Standard. It was fine.’
    ‘Then why do you think I’m asking you a polite and uncharacteristic question like that, Chew? Think.’
    She pushes her plate away and looks at me, eagle-eyed, as I absent-mindedly pick up one of her wholemeal sandwich crusts and gnaw on the end of it while I ponder her question.
    ‘I don’t know. Really. Dunno. You’re going to have to tell me.’
    ‘Because I want you to ask me about Anna, of course!’ Nishi exclaims, with a look of exasperation. ‘You’re so desperate for everything to be great all the time that you
don’t even ask any more.’
    This strikes me as grossly unfair, but I suppose she’s right, in a way. Nishi usually is. I
do
want everything to be great. I don’t see what’s so wrong with that.
It’s why I didn’t tell Nish about Seymour’s mum not wanting him to see me any more; I just said my evening with him was ‘fine’ so as not to bore her stupid with all
the less than perfect details. There’s no point.
    I suppose that’s why I like writing so much; it gives me some power over my sad little life – you can at least try to be funny, or make a crap party sound so much better than it was
just by concentrating on the little details or making a joke about its very crapness. Those details are always there if you look for them – the tiny sparks of glitter and neon in a doomy,
dark Wednesday. Even if it’s just doing a good job on painting your nails for once, or eating a particularly crispy-skinned baked potato.
    So I take a deep breath before I reply. If things aren’t great between Nishi and Anna, then I’m