Cultural Exchange

She must have noticed him staring. "What?" Then muttered under her breath, "Creep."

"Sophie!" Annabelle admonished.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

Paul was a little taken back by her attitude, so different to how she'd treated him last night. But then he remembered, it was their secret. Presumably no, she didn't want her mother to know she'd sneaked into the shower with him. And frankly, he didn't want her to know either. Best keep my mouth shut, at least until we're alone together, he thought.

"I will take you both in. Paul, you can ride the tram to college some other time, I don't think Sophie should babysit you in the mood she's in."

"Thanks," he said. Their chat would have to wait for another time.

///

The rehearsal went badly. Paul's musical talents were vocal not instrumental, so Mr Martin's insistence on him "joining in" meant someone had to give up one of their parts. The lead percussionist was Immy; in her own time, she was learning to play the drums and was actually quite good, but there was little call for that style in traditional classical music. She of course resented Paul being dumped in "her" department, and took any opportunity to disparage his efforts.

Which meant that Paul was mostly relegated to playing instruments like the triangle and the tambourine. To Simon's gang, this provided ample material for ritual humiliation.

"Fucking fairy, tinkling his little bell."

"Yeah, what a bell-end, eh?! Ting-a-ling! Virgin twat. Ha!"

Paul wasn't sure why he found the accusations so hurtful. Sure, sexuality was a regular stick to beat him with; but how he could be both a shirt-lifter and a virgin he wasn't quite sure. He took what pleasure he could from mapping out the inconsistencies in their taunting, it helped him process that the things they were saying were not real. He knew he wasn't gay - he certainly had no interest in Simon's gang, whereas he couldn't help checking out the twins and their girl friends. He was just painfully shy, and couldn't approach the girls. The closest he'd ever got was that Valentine's Day card to Samantha, with a cartoon version of his face in lieu of a signature, singing "Hello".

He glanced over to her, violin tucked under her chin, deftly stroking her bow over the strings, concentrating intently. Fingers working along the neck, hand rocking to intone some vibrato into the notes she was playing. Oh, how he dreamed of those hands being on him...

"Hey! Wake up, idiot!" Immy stage-whispered to him. He realised, in his daydreaming, that he'd missed his cue. And now, he was hopelessly lost in the piece they were playing. Paul couldn't read music, or at least not very well - when he was learning piano, it would take him 10 minutes to "sight-read" his way through an 8-bar piece, which is why he'd never got past grade 2. When he sung, he did so by ear and repetition - listening to the song over and over and over on his Walkman, until he'd memorised every word and note. But you couldn't learn to play cymbal in Crown Imperial that way.

"Fuck's sake, just follow me," she said. And it was a fair point; the cymbal and drum parts did follow each other. God how he hated this piece though, there was this long rambling section in the middle that he couldn't follow; he'd happily switch off except there were some 'solo' cymbal parts buried in there.

"Fucking dillweed has no rhythm," Immy said to her twin sister Izzy while they were packing away.

"Probably why he's got no girlfriend," she replied. "Can you imagine him, just flapping about?" She danced, flicking her hands like in the Birdie Song, and now that would be the joke for the day. Great. But she hadn't finished with him yet. "You know," she continued. "Maybe you wouldn't look so bad if you did something better with your hair. What is that, a bowl cut?"

Paul bristled. Actually, yes - spending money they didn't have at a barber's shop was an unnecessary extravagance for Paul and his mum, when they could just give him a trim at home with a pair of scissors.

Izzy smirked knowingly at her sister. "Tell you what," she said to him. "Nikki is training to be a hairdresser. I bet she'd help you out. Why don't you go over and ask her to give you a wash and blowjob?"

Paul turned away. Ha ha. Because of course he wouldn't know what a blowjob was. Bitch. As she strode off, he just caught a glimpse of Immy corpsing with the giggles. There would be no help with the cymbal part from that quarter. Surely all he had to do was count. He could do that. He snuck a copy of the score into his bag, intending to write it back out in a manner he could understand. He should just about have enough time to get it done tonight before the get-together.

///

KARAOKE

Paul was dreading this evening; being forced to socialise with his classmates. Since Ben had left school for catering college, there was nobody there he really got on with. Except some of the teachers, and... Well, hanging out with them would be the death of any possibility of making friends with the other orchestra members. He pulled on his jeans and a smart jumper, and headed downstairs.

JP was waiting for him in the kitchen-diner, looking every inch the rock star in tight leather trousers and jacket. The epitome of cool. Paul saw the look in his eyes when JP spotted him, saw the slight lip curl. But at least he wasn't actively rude. "S'up?"

"I'm okay, I think. Still tired from the trip over."

"Just get some beers down you, and you'll be fine."

Paul wasn't sure that was going to happen. He didn't even drink much back home in the UK, where he was legally allowed to. It was 21 here, wasn't it? But it didn't matter, booze wasn't his style.

Sophie came down the spiral staircase. She'd have no trouble getting served, all glammed up, her outfit leaving no illusion she was a child anymore. Paul knew she was eighteen, a few months younger than he was, but she looked early twenties. Stacked, slim, sophisticated. She looked simply gorgeous in a low-cut top and skin-tight faded jeans, with kicker heels.

Paul wondered if he'd have that body pressed against him again tonight. She had kind-of promised, and he'd kept the secret. Maybe over the evening he'd be able to sneak a quick word with her. Assuming of course he could bring himself to talk to her at all, but what was he afraid of? She'd already seen him quite literally at his most vulnerable.

The party was rocking. Music blaring from the sound system, girls and some boys dancing in a relatively clear area near the speakers. Groups and gangs hanging out on chairs and couches round the bar, drinking long glasses of whatever they could get away with ordering. The bar staff didn't seem particularly discerning, but Paul stuck to his Coke. The odd beer was all very well, but it only took a couple before he'd start feeling dizzy and out of control, then throwing up. That wasn't his idea of a good time, and didn't want to give the others any further material to tease him with.

Instead, he did what he did best - hid in a quiet corner, sat and people-watched. People milling, chatting, joking. Groups of lads telling dirty jokes and leering at the girls, who pretended to be offended but were sure to flash them plenty of leg, and shimmy and shake to highlight their curves. Dressed to impress, and keen to show how well they could move. Guys getting somewhat handsy on the dance floor; some getting a slap for their efforts, but Paul spotted couples in darkened corners, snogging and feeling each other up. He felt simultaneously sorry for them and jealous of them.

Sophie drifted by, asked if he was okay. Paul nodded, raised his glass to her, and she smiled back. Smiled! It lit his soul. He went to follow her, but she spun off into the crowd. Probably wouldn't be able to have a proper conversation against the noise of the music, anyway.

Simon and the gang spotted this moment, and made their way on over. "The hell is that?" he asked.

"That's Sophie, she's JP's sister,"

"Fuck me, she is H-O-T hot!"

"I'd tap that for sure," Jez said.

"As if, no-one likes a short-ass ginger."

"Fuck you. Once she sees my huge cock, she'll be on her knees for me."

"Dream on."

Paul felt rather uncomfortable listening to them objectifying her like that. But was it really all that different to him, checking out her pert arse as she slinked away in those skin-tight jeans?

"Make sure you introduce us later. Actually no, on second thoughts, I don't need a faggot around when I'm talking to her, cramping my style. See ya, loser." And Simon walked off, minions in his wake.

Groups and individuals were taking turns on the karaoke. Some were entertaining, some were painful. Why would you get up there knowing you were awful, Paul thought? Or maybe most people don't realise how bad they are. Some sang ballads; a brave choice in a rowdy bar. Paul would pick something light, something upbeat. Not that he'd dare go up there. Yes, he could sing; but not something he hadn't prepared, even though he'd be given the words.

Then he noticed Samantha taking the stage. The music started, and his heart fell. No, please, anything but that. Surely the universe couldn't be that cruel.

"I've been alone with you inside my mind," she sang, "And in my dreams I've kissed your lips a thousand times..."

Hello. Fucking Hello. The song he'd written in the Valentine's Day card he'd sent to her. She must know it was him, wanted to torture him with it. I bet the girls put her up to it. Fuck, where can I hide?

He looked around. Izzy and Immy stood near the stage, arm in arm, singing along with her. He couldn't see Emma... Ah, there she was, over in the darkness with Jez, trying to swallow him from the face down, his hand right up her skirt and surely fingers deep inside her. Paul looked back at the stage - Samantha was singing, rather beautifully, but also seriously. She wasn't smirking. And the girls weren't looking round for his reaction. Or anyone's reaction. Perhaps he was misreading the situation.

He found himself joining the song, along with half the room. By the time they reached the end of the chorus, he was singing at the top of his lungs, carried along by the emotion of the song, singing to her, hoping yet not hoping she could hear. "Tell me how to win your heart, for I haven't got a clue, but let me start by saying..." and he choked on the final words, tears rolling down his face.

///

Samantha really didn't want to get up on stage. She loved singing, but in private. However, when the girls dared her... She didn't back down on dares; she was no chicken. She just had to find something simple that would suit her voice. Something with an easy pace, simple note progression, and no surprises. She found a classic Lionel Richie number, and decided to plump for that. It had been a while since she'd listened to it, but she was sure it would come back to her as she got into it.

She stood, nervous, up on the platform as the opening notes rang out. Just breathe, relax, it'll be fine. And she started to sing.

As the words scrolled by, she suddenly remembered where she'd last read them - on that mystery card she'd found in her locker on Valentine's Day. One of several that had been tucked in through the vents, but the only one that was unsigned. She'd torn them all up before her boyfriend Mick could find them and act all jealous. Mick, that arsehole. She was well off away from that bastard. She realised most of her class was in this room; maybe it was one of them that had sent the mystery card to her?

She looked around; some people were singing along, but most were busy in their own conversations, or otherwise engaged like Emma. What a bitch, she thought - she pushed me up here, but rather than listening, she's off getting fingered by that slimy fuckbuddy of hers.

Then Samantha saw Paul standing over to the side, staring at her, singing along word for word. God, please no, not him. Unlikely he'd have the balls to send a card though; and besides, everyone knew he fancied Izzy.

The song ended, she got a few cheers, but mostly nobody was paying attention. Paul was waiting for her as she stepped down off the platform. "You have a lovely voice," he said. Creep.

"Thanks," she said. "Did you like the song?"

"Well, it's not my favourite Richie track." He seemed shifty.

"What would that be, then?"

"Still," he said. "Not a great song for karaoke, I'll admit, but that that last spoken 'still' at the end? It breaks me every time."

He knows his songs, she realised. Not just a nerd, perhaps. "Okay maestro, what would you have sung?"

"Something upbeat, that people would join in with. Dancing on the Ceiling, perhaps, although personally I hate it."

"We could do a duet?" she teased. Disbelief flashed over his face, showing how unlikely he thought that was.

"Hey bitch, that was freaking awesome!" Izzy jumped on Samantha. "Let me rescue you from this douchebag."

"Actually, we were just talking about doing a song together," Samantha replied.

"Oh really?" Izzy didn't look convinced. "What did you have in mind?" She grabbed the track list folder off the table, and started flicking through. "I got it," she said, and dragged the pair of them over to the stage. She whispered something to the guy running the equipment, then stepped up onto the platform and grabbed the mike. Immy collected some props from the bin - silly hats, huge sunglasses, feather boas - and draped them over the group. Izzy had her arm round Paul's waist, stopping him from running off; Immy went to her other side, with Samantha at the far end. The girls all looked rather pleased with themselves.

///

Oh god, what have they chosen? Paul wondered. Then he heard Slash's familiar strong intro scream out over the Tannoy, and he knew it was going to be okay. He could sing this blindfold, backwards and upside down. But he bet the girls wouldn't have guessed that. If they had wanted to trap him by choosing a rock song, boy were they going to be disappointed. What did they think he listened to?

He belted out the first verse, strong but not screaming. "She's got a smile that it seems, to me, reminds me of childhood memories..."

The room had stopped to watch the unlikely quartet on stage - Paul, and three hot babes banging out classic Guns N Roses. He soaked up the attention, saw people nodding and slapping their legs in appreciation. He looked round at the girls, and smiled. Were they all actually having a good time?

Paul loved being up there. He became a different person when performing - like donning a mask; he was playing a role, and became a confident, more assertive version of himself. Or was this the real him, and the nervous shy loner was the mask he wore to get through school days? Sometimes, he wasn't sure. But ever since the first year, when he was picked to play Joseph in the school production, he'd loved performing, loved musical theatre. He threw himself into the song; so familiar, he had the mental space to look around and take in the surroundings.

His gaze settled on Samantha. Since he had no need to follow the words, he could just watch her. Watch how her body moved as she sang. Watched her smile at him, 'as fresh as the bright blue sky'. Watched her air-guitar along to Slash's howling solo - and fairly accurately, as best he could tell; did she play? The song was about her, he realised. Her smile, her hair, her eyes. A love song, and he sang it to her. And yes, if he stared too long, he probably would break down and cry. She leant forward to sing into the mike, offering Paul a great view down her top at her impressive cleavage. Oh, what he wouldn't give for 10 seconds on the end of that rope necklace, caught between her boobs.

She shimmied, and her tits shook. Five seconds. Just five seconds, and he could die happy.

The song ended, with far more cheers and less teasing than he thought would follow any performance he was in. He stood, and bowed, encouraging the girls to do so, too. He was on such a high. He noticed Izzy smiling, but it was a mischievous grin.

Suddenly she raised the mike to her mouth. "What do you reckon, people? Like a VIRGIN?" As that last screamed word echoed round the bar; she shoved the microphone into his chest and ran off sniggering, leaving him alone on the stage.

The room was laughing. Laughing at him. Now he knew what they'd been up to. It was all about this moment of humiliation. Hahaha, I see what you did there, it's because they presume I've not had sex. Very funny. He wasn't sure if he was more annoyed about the presumption, or that it happened to be true; the humiliation, or the fact they'd clearly misunderstood what the song was about - a song about a clearly experienced woman, who'd been hurt badly in the past, now opening up to a new lover.

He didn't have much time to react; the song only has a few bars of introduction. He knew what he should do. What he would normally have done. He'd slam down the microphone, storm off out, go hide and sulk and cry somewhere. That's what he should have done.

But then he thought: fuck it. I don't know most of these people, and those that I do already hate me or think I'm a loser. And in a couple of months, I never have to see any of these arseholes again. I'm going to do something for me, for once.

Sure, it wasn't the song he'd have chosen. But it was the one he'd been given. Briefly he considered singing the Weird Al lyrics, but thought he'd probably lose the room pretty quickly. Just sing the song as written, and maybe have fun with it. Time to draw on that amateur dramatics experience.

"I made it through the wilderness..." He stroked the boa back and forth behind his neck, giving it the full camp. He played the role, trying very hard not to think about what he was doing, or he'd have been lost. Channelling Madonna, that sex goddess, he put swing in his hips and sass in his step. He sang sweetly and innocently, but with a knowing smile and a twinkle in his eye. His classmates rolled their eyes and looked away, but the Canadians laughed and cheered, and that just spurred him on. He took the radio mike, started walking the crowd - blowing a kiss to a girl here, suggestively stroking a guy's face there, sat cross-legged on some dude's lap while his girlfriend collapsed into fits of giggles.

"Touched for the very first time..." His eyes scanned for the girl who'd done just that to him... And caught Sophie's eyes across the room. She was watching him, then she was prowling towards him, smiling a naughty smile.

///

She was, she had to admit, a bit tipsy. She'd been given glasses by some of the Brit boys - a triumph of hope over experience - and hadn't been too fussy about what was inside them. So, she wasn't really sure what she'd had. Everything still had edges, but she just felt... Free. And didn't seem to care so much about what others thought. That nagging voice in her head - you're ugly, you're fat, you're not good enough - for now, that voice had gone.

That nerdy guy staying with them, Paul, was up on stage with some pretty girls from his school. They looked like they were having a great time, and he had a decent voice. He seemed confident and secure, everything she wasn't. When they met she'd thought he was a right nerd, and maybe she could make herself feel better by teasing him a bit. But he looked damn fine up there.

Then his girlfriends pulled the bait-and-switch on him. It had all been a set-up. He looked utterly crestfallen; she watched his gaze follow the girls off stage, disbelieving, then glancing down at the microphone in his hands, uncertain. She knew how that felt. To be used, to be the butt of the joke.

Then the intro played, and she was sure he was going to bottle it - but then he snapped upright, brought the microphone to his lips, and began to sing. It was like he'd clipped a mask over his face, and become someone else. That confidence was back, but now with a naughty sexiness, almost predatory. She watched him work the room, making them laugh with his silly antics. She watched his hands playing across faces; long, slender fingers... She found herself wondering what they would do to her.