Girl Online (6 page)

Dean had also been part of Noah's plan to convince my parents it would be all right to let me go away with him. Dean had spent a whole afternoon at our house, reassuring Mum and Dad that a rock tour with Noah and The Sketch was not going to be the crazy alcohol-and-drug-fuelled environment that gets depicted in Hollywood movies and TV shows.

“What with smartphones, social media, and paparazzi nowadays, we can't take
any
risks with our talent,” Dean had said. It felt strange to hear Noah being described as “talent.” “The moment they step out of line, someone will capture it on film and it will go viral, so it's my job to make sure it never comes to that.”

That afternoon feels so long ago, and now everything is actually happening. I can hardly believe it.

Dean snaps me back to reality. “Noah, you're onstage in an hour—we have no time to mess around!”

“I spent all afternoon here rehearsing. I think I'm allowed to take a break.”

“Well, it probably would have been good for you to
tell
me where you were going rather than leaving me running around like a headless chicken!”

Noah winks at me. It's typical for him to run off without telling his management team where he's going. I stifle a giggle.

It's far less glamorous backstage than I thought it would be. In my head, I had imagined a lot of leather furniture and big mirrors with naked bulbs surrounding them, or maybe somewhere really industrial, with exposed metal pipes and lots of speakers everywhere. Instead, we are ushered through a series of narrow hallways towards a door with a piece of paper tacked on the front that reads:
NOAH FLYNN
. Inside is a small, beige-painted room with a couple of grey sofas round a coffee table. Just that on its own would look really boring, but it's made much livelier by the sheer mess that's dotted all around. There are lots of instruments stacked in the corner, suitcases open and spilling their contents onto the floor, and several leather jackets laid across the back of the sofa. On the walls are photographs of famous people who have performed at the Brighton Centre, from Bing Crosby (who I now know all about, thanks to Elliot) to more modern bands like The Vamps, The Wanted, and even One Direction. I wonder if Noah's picture will end up there one day too.

“Are The Sketch in a room like this too?” I ask.

Noah shakes his head. “No, they get the fancier dressing rooms.”

“Well, that makes sense. Will I get to meet them?”

Now he laughs. “Heck, I haven't even met them yet! I'm
just the support act, remember? Their management keeps them on an even tighter leash than Dean does me. I'd be surprised if we see them at all this tour, unless you're really lucky. Wait, you're not hoping to upgrade your rock-star boyfriend, are you?”

I punch him lightly on the shoulder and stick out my tongue. I quickly get over any disappointment at not meeting The Sketch as soon as I spot the array of treats laid out on the coffee table. There's a HUGE bowl full of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Jolly Ranchers, several bottles of neon-yellow Lucozade . . . and Cadbury Mini Eggs.

“Wait, Noah, how did you get these?”

“What do you mean?”

“It's the summer—these mini eggs are only around at Easter! I guess that's your big diva request,” I say with a grin.

“I'll have to trust your chocolate expertise on that fact,” says Noah. He reaches down, grabs a mini egg, and pops it in his mouth. He pulls a box out from underneath the table, and when he opens it the room fills with the aroma of chocolate-chip cookies. “But, seeing as Sadie Lee made me
promise
to give these to her favourite Brit and not eat them all by myself, mini eggs are the next best thing!”

“Nothing beats Sadie Lee's cookies!” I say, grabbing one. They're still soft on the inside. Even though I could eat the whole batch, I offer one to Noah and then to Dean, who has followed us in.

“Hey, who wants some beer?”

I look up from the box of cookies and there's a guy leaning in the doorway, a long, grungy fringe covering most of his forehead. He's wearing a black T-shirt like Noah, but
unlike Noah he has a lot more tattoos running down his arms. In one of his hands, he grips the necks of two beers. Instantly I feel goose bumps prickle the back of my neck, though I can't explain why.

“Not for me, man,” says Noah. “Blake, meet my girlfriend, Penny. Penny, this is Blake—he's one of my best friends from back home and the drummer in my band.”

Blake barely looks at me—or, if he does, I can't tell because his hair obscures his eyes too much. I do hear a small grunt of acknowledgement from him, I think.

“Hey,” I say. My voice squeaks and now I do see Blake's expression change—his lip curls up into a sneer. My heart sinks. I wanted to make a good impression on Noah's friends. Now I just feel awkward and a little pathetic. For the first time, I feel out of place.

The other two members of Noah's band pile in behind Blake—they are both carrying beers too, but they're much friendlier and smilier than Blake. Noah introduces them as they come in: the bassist, Mark, and a keyboard player named Ryan. Mark and Ryan sit on the chair opposite me and Noah, but Blake strides in and plonks himself down next to Noah so that I get squished between him and the arm of the sofa. He passes one of the beers over to Noah.

Noah takes it, but, rather than taking a swig, he puts it down on the coffee table.

“This is England, dude. You're legal,” urges Blake, after taking a large gulp himself.

Noah shrugs. “I said I'm cool.”

Blake looks about to push the issue, but Dean claps his hands together and the band looks up at him together. “OK,
guys, this is your first big gig together, and you sounded great in rehearsal. Just repeat what you've been doing and you'll smash it. I don't think I have to explain how important this is for Noah, for all you guys. This could be a real game changer. No pain, no gain. Now, it's only ten minutes until lights up so, all of you, get out and get ready. This is your time to shine.”

“Is he always like this?” I whisper to Noah.

“What, always speaking in clichés before we go onstage? Yep, that pretty much sums up Dean.” Noah looks at his manager. “Can I get a minute alone?”

“
One
minute,” Dean says, narrowing his eyes at the two of us so we know he means business. “All right, everybody out.”

“Everyone except Penny.”

Dean nods, but Blake lets out a loud grunt. Every move he makes seems heavy with reluctance, but eventually he shuffles out of the door after Dean.

Once we're alone Noah turns to me, and his body seems like it's overflowing with nervous energy. Then I realize he's not excited. He looks really worried.

“Penny, I don't know if I can go onstage.”

Chapter Six

Those are the last words I expected to come out of Noah's mouth. His trademark dimples are gone, his jaw tight. His face is drained of colour, and he's biting his fingernails. I've never seen him like this before. He stands and paces up and down the dressing room, running his hands through his shaggy brown hair.

I get up and race over to him. To stop his nervous pacing, I take both of his hands in mine. He stands still, but I can feel his hands shaking. Our foreheads touch and we breathe together for a couple of moments. Then I lift my hands to his face. “You're
amazing.
Of course you can do this. You're Noah Flynn. You can do anything.”

He leans down and kisses me. It's a different kind of kiss to the one in the car. He presses his lips to mine and they feel fuelled by a desperate kind of energy, as if he's hoping our kiss will transport us to a different world, one where he doesn't have to worry about performing in front of a crowd of 4,500 screaming fans.

When we finally break apart, he says, “Penny, I really,
really
don't know if I can do this.” His voice is so quiet I can barely hear him.

There's a pounding on the dressing-room door. “Your minute's up, Noah!” says Dean, who sounds slightly on the verge of panic—but not in the same way as Noah.

Noah slumps down onto the sofa, burying his head in his hands.

Seeing him like this makes my heart ache. I want to reach out and wrap him in something warm and comforting, like my mum's old sweater, but he can't exactly walk out onstage wrapped in a blanket (although, thinking about it, he might start a new fashion trend if he did). That's when inspiration strikes me. Maybe that's what he needs: his comfort object.

I cast my eyes around, and they land on the one thing that I know always makes him feel at home: his old guitar. The one he brought from Brooklyn. The one with the message from his parents on the back:

I pick it up and walk over to him. “Here. Take this.”

“My guitar? How's that going to help?”

“Just do it,” I say, more firmly.

He sighs, taking the guitar from my hands and lifting the strap over his head. As soon as it's nestled in his arms, he strums a chord. Music fills the room, and it feels like we're transported back to the basement of Sadie Lee's house in New York, just the two of us in our own world. Instantly I see the tension leak from his shoulders.

“You should take it onstage with you,” I say.

“What do you mean?” He stares down at the guitar.

“That's the guitar you wrote your songs on, right? Take it with you and play the first few chords with that guitar. Then, during the buildup, you can switch to your stage guitar.”

The room is silent for a few moments, and I wonder if I've suggested something really stupid. But then his face lights up. “Penny, you're a genius.” He jumps to his feet and kisses me again.

“Careful of the guitar!” I laugh.

“Come on. Let's get out there before Dean has a heart attack,” he says, slinging the instrument over his shoulder.

He holds his hand out to me, and I take it. Then, with his other hand, he opens the door.

Dean is leaning up against the wall outside, his head in his hands. He looks up as we emerge. “Oh, thank the Lord. Are you ready?”

“Yep, Dean, I'm coming.”

“Good. You worried me for a moment.” Dean starts striding through the backstage area. Noah and I hurry after him, dodging wires taped to the ground with thick black electrical tape and people wearing headsets who are frantically running around. I crane my neck to look up; the set for The Sketch is suspended above us. They're using giant screens that they'll bring down to the stage during their first act. Noah told me that they've hired live illustrators to draw onstage while the band performs, and the pictures will be shown on-screen. I almost trip on one of the wires, but Noah's hand tightens round my own, steadying me.

Dean looks over his shoulder. “What are you carrying?” he asks Noah.

“It's my guitar. I'm going to use it for the first part of the
song—sing it a cappella—and then Blake can come in with the drum intro and I'll switch to the main-stage guitar.”

Dean stops us all in our tracks and turns to face Noah, cocking his head to one side. Then he nods. “That sounds great. Not what we rehearsed, but, hey—it will be like a throwback to how you used to sound on YouTube. Let me go tell the rest of the guys and the crew. You never make my life easy, Noah.”

“And yet you wouldn't have it any other way.” Noah grins.

Before we know it, we're in the wings of the stage. I can feel the pulse of the audience, everyone waiting with bated breath for Noah to appear.

He turns to me, his dark eyes sparkling. I can see now that his nerves have gone—replaced by sheer adrenaline and excitement. “Thank you, Penny. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

I smile. “See you after the show,” I whisper.

Then the entire stage goes dark and even the audience is quiet. You could hear a pin drop. The anticipation for Noah's performance is so thick, I don't know how he can bear it.