Cultural Exchange

Paul had spent the last 6 months finding these pieces of music stressful and annoying. But now, with his only responsibility just to listen, he felt himself swept away. He watched Mr Martin, arms gently floating, conducting the musicians and guiding them through the pieces. He watched his talented classmates doing what they loved. They were better without him, and he was happier here in the audience. From now on, I'll stick to Senior Choir and Am-Dram theatre.

His eyes were drawn to Samantha, front row, violin tucked under her chin, body swaying gently as she deftly drew the bow back and forth across the strings, left hand expertly working the vibrato. My god, she does look beautiful, with that intense concentration on her face. Paul realised he was going to have to do something about their situation. Maybe tomorrow night, at the prom, she'd separate from the twins for long enough that they could have a proper conversation. Maybe even a dance?

///

PROM NIGHT

The theatre looked amazing - hard to believe it had been transformed so thoroughly following yesterday's concert. Amazing what a few lights, lasers, and bucketfuls of glitter and streamers could accomplish. The audience seating had been put away; instead there were a few tables and chairs scattered round the edges of the room, but most of the space was given over to a dance floor in front of the live band up on the stage. "Thanks for coming!" shouted the banner hanging between the wings.

Paul tugged at the collar of his father's white dress shirt. The cheap bowtie and cummerbund set he'd picked up at Tie Rack turned out to be too tight; he'd always been a scrawny little thing, so it hadn't occurred to him to get anything but the small. The bowtie had very little give, and it was causing his shirt to chafe round his neck. The sleeves and trousers of his suit were slightly too short, Paul tugged at those to try and stretch them out a bit. Clearly he'd grown a bit since his father's funeral.

The band were playing classic hits, people were dancing and having a good time. Everyone that is except Paul, who was sitting at the side of the hall, looking on. Dancing wasn't really his thing; he was too self-conscious to let go properly, although he had been taking ballroom lessons with his Mum (something to get her out of the flat one evening a week). He was content to sit, people-watch, and sing along to the songs.

At the back of the hall was the "bar", although it was soft drinks only this evening; Mr Martin and some of the Canadian teachers hovered, making sure no-one was sneaking anything into the punch, although they'd not gone so far as to strip-search anyone on the way in. The students were all, technically, adults now after all, and should be responsible for their own behaviour. Nevertheless, Paul spotted Simon fishing a silver hipflask from an inside pocket in his jacket, taking the odd swig, and passing it round his mates. Vodka, no doubt. Well, as long as they left him alone, Paul really couldn't care less. A younger Paul might have reported them to the teachers, but he was older and wiser now. That was a lesson that had been beaten into him over the years.

The boys looked handsome, and the girls looked beautiful. Big hair, big dresses. The locals had gone all-out; girls in cocktail outfits, boys in hired Tuxes, some with canes and top hats and other props. Paul was impressed at the outfits his classmates had brought across from the UK - some of the dresses must have taken up most of the girls' luggage allowance, although he had heard that some had just bought new clothes over here, since they were so much cheaper than at home. They'd be travelling home with a second case full of Levi's and Calvin Klein's.

Paul's eyes didn't know where to look first. He'd never seen his female classmates dolled up like this before; nightclubbing was not his scene. Everywhere he looked, there were tits and thighs on display. It was one thing to have been aware that the girls in school were, well, girls; that they had curves at all. Quite another to be in a room full of pert young tits and arses, shaking and bobbing along to the music. All in all, best he stayed seated, let his inappropriate interest became too obvious to all.

He watched Zee - Sophie's 'plus one' - laying it all out there, dancing with her arms in the air, putting on a show for the boys and loving the attention. She was wearing a strapless corset and a flared skirt, presenting all her best features to the drooling adolescent male gazes. Sophie hovered beside her, stunning yet overlooked, happy not to be the focus of attention. Paul thought she looked classy in her black-and-white zigzagged boob tube and miniskirt, finished with killer heels that had criss-cross straps almost to her knees. It must be hard to walk in those, he thought, and running would be right out. Hope she's not in a hurry to get anywhere.

Izzy and Immy wore matching bridesmaid-style dresses, floor-length skirts with very low-cut bodices, showing off a lot of cleavage. Or at least, as much as they had to show. And with them, there was Samantha.

Her outfit took Paul's breath away, both conservative and very daring. A full-length leopard-print dress, skin-tight, covered her from neck to ankle; the only skin on display was her face, shoulders and arms. And yet it was so tight, almost painted on, that it left very little to the imagination. She couldn't possibly be wearing any underwear, yet her full breasts floated. The dress was unforgiving, clinging to every curve and showing her in all her glory. Paul watched as she prowled, cat-like, around the floor, unable to tear his eyes away.

"That's her, eh?" Zee said. Paul hadn't even noticed the blonde bombshell walking over to him, so distracted was he. "Damn, that is one fine bitch. I think I'm in love with her, too."

"The boys aren't interested. They prefer the twins; they say she's fat. I can't see it myself."

They're probably too intimidated to approach her, she thought. "Not except for those tits, no. And god, what an ass." Zee took a moment to enjoy the view. "Look, you've got to man up and go talk to her. Come on, can she possibly be scarier than me?"

Paul laughed. "It's not her I'm worried about." Izzy was looking over at him, scowling. What's that fox doing talking to the gaylord, he imagined her thinking. Which is why, when Zee held out her hand and dragged him up to the dancefloor, he didn't object. Let them wonder, he thought. I'm going to enjoy this.

He was no great mover, but he was a musician and had a sense of rhythm. Pull on the mask, and go with it. Slowly he realised nobody was watching him, and it didn't matter. He eased into the music, letting it move him. Zee and Sophie however were attracting attention.

"Mind if I cut in," Simon said, and stepped between them to carve Zee out of their little group. He pushed himself against her. She could smell the vodka on his breath, saw his eyes were already slightly unfocused. She pushed him aside, and he stumbled slightly.

"Fuck off loser, I'm taken," she said, and pulled Paul in close to her, making a big show of grabbing his arse. "Trust me, just go with it," she whispered in his ear, and then they were off, spinning round the dance floor.

Paul let her lead - a mixture of foxtrot and tango. Zee wrapped and span herself around him, while he had to do little more than stand proud and watch her show off. She ended with a backward dip, boobs almost spilling out of the top of her corset, to great applause and cheers from the audience. Paul stood, slightly embarrassed but also a little buoyed by his classmates reaction - noddingly impressed, rather than teasing and ribbing.

///

Samantha felt like a million dollars in her fuck-me leopard-print outfit. She remembered the first time Mick saw her in it; it was all he could do to stop himself tearing it off her. And at three hundred quid, she was glad he hadn't damaged it. But it was worth every penny to see the look on everyone's faces. She was slightly nervous in it - it was a no-underwear outfit, but the material was deceptively supportive so "the girls" seemed to defy gravity as she strutted round the hall.

Mick. Asshole. If she never saw that bastard again, it'd be too soon. She was nobody's property, no matter what he'd bought for her.

"Bitch, you look fierce," said Izzy, looking delightfully jealous.

"Hot as fuck," agreed Immy.

"Thanks babes," Samantha replied. "You're both looking incredible. I love the hair." A beat. "Where's Em, then?"

"Not seen her since just after we got here. She's probably off fucking Jez in one of the classrooms."

"Shit, already? We only just got here."

Izzy shrugged. "I give them two weeks, once we're back. Anyway, want a drink? No booze, for fuck's sake, but there's Coke and shit."

The girls wandered over to the bar and helped themselves to soft drinks, chatted, shot the breeze. After a while they became aware of a commotion on the dance floor.

"Who the hell is that?" Samantha asked. Some short girl, all tits and arse and attitude, was throwing herself around the dance floor, making a big show of herself, flashing her assets.

"Some local slut," Izzy said. "Who's she dancing with, I can't quite see..." Her dance partner had his back to them. Tall, messy brown hair, badly cut, in a cheap black suit.

"I think..." Samantha began. Then the guy turned, and Izzy gasped.

"No. Fucking. Way. How the fuck did that loser end up dancing with someone like her?"

"Maybe he's really well hung," said a new voice - a voice with a strong French accent.

Izzy spat out her Coke. "You what? As if."

Samantha looked over the newcomer. Short blonde pixie hair, nice hoop earrings, and a zigzag-patterned boob tube top. Slim and trim. And she recognised the face, just couldn't place it.

Sophie decided it was time they heard some home truths. "Do you even know him?"

Izzy was unimpressed. "Better than you do. Who the fuck are you, anyway?"

"Oh, I'm just some local slut," she countered, then turned her back on the twins and talked only to Samantha. "What's his favourite movie?"

"I... Err..."

"Is he a cat person or a dog person?" Sophie continued. "What's his favourite band? What does he do to relax? What's his Mum's job?" She stared at Samantha, who was rather taken back by the onslaught.

Slowly, Sophie spat out one last question. "What colour are his eyes?"

Samantha looked embarrassed, ashamed. She didn't know. How could she not even know that?

"Exactly. You've known him for years, but you don't know anything about him. Yet you lot bully and tease him relentlessly. No wonder he won't talk to any of you."

Izzy was having none of it. "Who the fuck do you think you are, to talk to us like that?"

"Who I am is not important," Sophie said, walking away. "But you should look at yourselves, and decide who you are, and who you want to be." And she strode away.

"Bitch," Izzy spat.

Samantha watched Sophie walk into the crowd and disappear. She turned back to the dance floor, looking for Paul, feeling guilty. But he wasn't there. Then she remembered where she'd seen that face. She was the one who had been hanging around with Paul at Niagara Falls, getting really cosy with him. And tonight, he'd been with that other hottie. He'd gone out with two sexy girls in one week; that just didn't make any sense to Samantha at all.

///

Paul had been hanging around near the stage, watching the band. Secretly he'd always fancied being the frontman for a group like this, singing crowd-pleasers and having a great time. But he didn't know anyone who could play anything; his fumbling piano playing would never cut it; and singing over backing tracks wouldn't be the same.

The band had been on a break. Now they filed back up onto the stage; started tuning up.

Paul spotted Zee sneaking back into the hall, from the same general direction as the band. Her lipstick was smudged, and she was dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a tissue. She put an arm round Paul's back, whispered into his ear. "Showtime."

Paul stiffened. "What have you done?"

"Called in a favour. The drummer owed me one. And I owe you, for yesterday at the mall." She kissed his cheek, leaving a scarlet lip-print behind. "Don't fuck this up." Then she walked off towards the bar, grabbing a drink to rinse out her mouth, pulling at her underwear through her skirt as she went.

"Ladies and gentlemen," announced the singer. "We've got a treat for you tonight! A little birdie has told us there's another great voice here in the hall this evening, and we've watched him singing along with us all set. So, we'd like to invite him up here to do a few numbers with us."

Oh fuck, no, Zee, you didn't.

"Everyone, please give it up for Paul!"

There were, predictably, a few groans from his classmates. Simon shouted something obscene, and Izzy had a face like thunder. But Zee, Sophie and JP led the cheers and wolf-whistles as a reluctant but excited Paul climbed the steps to the stage.

"What do you want to kick off with?" the singer whispered.

Paul thought for a moment, remembering back to what he'd said to Samantha at the karaoke. Something upbeat, that everyone knew and could sing along to. He glanced at her, then knew exactly what song he wanted to sing. What he had to sing. He whispered back to the singer, who passed it on to the rest of the band.

They started to play. "Kicking it off with a Billy Joel classic, I give you Paul from the UK!"

Paul lifted the microphone up near his mouth, prayed for no feedback, and began to sing. "Uptown Girl..."

///

Samantha looked up to the stage. She had to admit; the boy had a hell of a voice. His enthusiasm was infectious, she found herself singing along, caught him watching her. "She's getting tired of her high-class toys, and all her presents from her uptown boys. She's got a choice."

Zee caught up with Sophie by the bar. "What did you do?" Sophie asked.

"The drummer," Zee said, proudly. "Oh, get over yourself. I got Paul a platform. Now he just needs to use it." A pause. "Did you have a word with Samantha?"

"Sort of. I don't know what good it will have done him, though."

They stood back, watching Paul sing. The band's normal singer harmonised round him effortlessly; the two voices melded well together, and the resulting sound lifted them both. On stage, he took on a whole new personality - confident, assured.

Paul surveyed the crowd as he sang. Some people watched; most people danced. That was just fine by him. He was living his best life, for five minutes. And having fun sending a message to Samantha while he did it. He made sure to look back in her direction as he delivered the killer line: "Maybe one day when my ship comes in, she'll understand what kind of guy I've been." He winked at her. "And then I'll win."

"Not exactly subtle, is he," Sophie snorted.

"Leave the guy alone. He had about three seconds to choose a song, and I reckon he nailed it."

"She probably doesn't realise he's talking about her, anyway."

The song concluded, to scattered applause. The singer tried to persuade him to stay on for a couple more, but Paul was done. He'd made his point, and tonight wasn't supposed to be about him. It was a celebration for everyone, and he didn't want to outstay his welcome. Just have his own time to perform on the stage, like the rest of the orchestra had done, doing what they loved.

"I need the bathroom," Sophie said, and started off out into the corridor.

///

Paul walked the room, pointedly ignored by most of his fellow pupils, but some had the good grace to nod, or give him a "nice one". He wanted to find Zee, to thank her and Sophie for all they'd done for him. But they had both disappeared. Probably gone to the bogs, he reckoned. Time for a drink, to soothe his throat. He was no professional singer, and would need practise on his technique if he wasn't to rip his throat out.

Suddenly he was grabbed by the arm. He spun about, and came face to face with the sneering, feral face of Simon, his nemesis.

"What the fuck was that?" he spat. Paul reeled from the smell of vodka.

"I just..."

"Thought you were better than everyone, as usual, huh?" Simon gave him a shove, and he bounced off Andy. Jez and Matt completed the quartet, and he found himself boxed in, pushed from one to the other as they jeered at him.

"Ever since Joseph and his fucking multicolour coat, you've been so up yourself."

Dreamcoat. Technicolour Dreamcoat. It always got him so disproportionately angry when people got the names of things wrong.

"You know why you got it? Cos you were the only boy in the fucking junior choir."

"Yeah, they'd have given it to any of you queers who could hold a note."

"So, don't go thinking you're so fucking special."

"It's all me me me, isn't it? You wouldn't understand teamwork and friendship if it smacked you in the face."

Paul slipped under an arm and was out of the 'cage', and quickly scurried away.

"Yeah, fuck off, you pathetic loser."

In many ways, the verbal bullying was worse than being punched and kicked, because it served to enforce his own anxieties and sense of inadequacy. He stumbled over to the bar area, trying to compose himself. Where were the others? The emotional whiplash - so great on stage, so miserable back down here after the confrontation - left him reeling; he needed to find someone to centre him and help restore his sense of proportion. He chugged down a can of Coke; the gas just made him feel bloated. He collapsed into a chair in a quiet corner, mind in turmoil.

///

Another Coke later, he was buzzing on a sugar and caffeine high. People-watching had become dull; the room had coalesced into couples and gangs, and he was once more the outsider. And his girlfriends - was that even the word? - were still not back. Maybe it was time to grab some air, take a walk outside, calm his thoughts. It had been a hell of a week.

Outside the hall, through the empty school corridors, there was a curious 'underwater' vibe to the sounds echoing along the hallways. His own footsteps ricoched off the metal lockers and whitewashed plaster walls, with nothing soft to dull their passing. Memories of terrors past flashed through his mind; only then did he realise he could hear a genuine scuffle coming from a few corridors away. There was talking, some mumbling. Two pitches of voice - one high, one low. Then a very definite "No!", followed by more scuffling.

That didn't sound right at all. Paul was a rank coward, but he couldn't have lived with himself if he later found out someone was in trouble and he could have done something, but didn't. As he closed in, he recognised the voices. That soft French accent must be Sophie, and the sneering growling voice belonged to Simon.

"You know you want it," he leered. He was drunk, although that was no excuse. He had his hand clamped round Sophie's wrist. There was an angry red handprint on the side of his face. Looks like he wasn't taking no for an answer.

With a bravery he didn't feel, Paul started to walk over. "Let her go, Simon. She said no."

"Fuck off, this doesn't concern you."

"Sophie is my friend. And you're being an arsehole. Leave her alone, or I'll go and get Mr Martin."

"That's right, prick. Go run to teacher. Let them sort it out for you. Shit, you're pathetic. You think you're so much better than the rest of us, don't you? But you're just a cunt. A gay stupid cunt who doesn't realise everyone hates him. Why don't you just fuck off and die?"

Paul was so close now he could smell Simon's breath; see his eyes were unfocused. "You okay?" he asked Sophie, not taking his eyes off the bully for a second. "Has he hurt you?"

"Just my arm," she said, looking down to her captured wrist. He held her so tight the skin was red.