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First published in Great Britain 2017
by Egmont UK Limited
The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN
Text copyright © 2017 Beautiful Movements Ltd
Cover illustration copyright © 2017 Beautiful Movements Ltd
Written in collaboration with Siobhan Curham
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted
First e-book edition 2017
ISBN 978 1 4052 8719 7
Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1794 6
www.egmont.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Stay safe online. Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont is not responsible for content hosted by third parties. Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.
Dedicated to LaLa Land and the
choreographers that inspired me to believe in me:
Kennis Marquis, Marguerite Derricks, Robin Antin,
Mikey Minden and Brian Friedman.
Also available in the WEDA series:
Billie’s Big Audition
Tilly’s Time to Shine
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Front series promotional page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Your Vibe Attracts Your Tribe
Back series promotional page
Andre stared hard at his phone and began praying to the God of Blogpost Likes (he wasn’t exactly sure there was a God of Blogpost Likes but he was desperate): Please, please, please, make more people like my post.
‘Here you go, sweetie – spiralized courgettes, with a tofu Bolognese sauce, topped with grated vegan cheese.’
As Miss Murphy placed Andre’s lunch on the table in front of him he glanced up from his phone. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
Tofu Bolognese was one of Andre’s favourite meals since he’d become vegan but today he couldn’t think about the delicious tomato sauce or the way the courgette spaghetti melted in his mouth – nothing could tear his focus from his phone. He looked back at the screen and refreshed the page. His latest post on his fashion blog Spotted still hadn’t got any more likes since the initial five. Why hadn’t it got any more likes? What had he done wrong?
‘Is everything OK, my darling?’ Miss Murphy sat down at the table opposite him.
‘What?’ Andre studied the blog post. Maybe he shouldn’t have chosen to do a post called ‘How to Rock a Pair of Harem Pants’. Maybe it was too niche. Or was it the photos he and Tilly had picked? Maybe they weren’t striking enough. He’d read somewhere that fashion blogging was all about the images, that it didn’t matter how good the writing was – if the image sucked, no one would bother reading it. ‘It’s so cray cray!’ He sighed.
‘Are you all right?’ Miss Murphy repeated.
‘Yes,’ Andre replied, although this was far from true. If his number of likes was dropping then it wouldn’t be long before his number of subscribers would too. He was supposed to be building a fashion blog, not running it down.
‘Well, put the phone away and let’s eat,’ Miss Murphy said. ‘Remember what I said about family time.’
Last week, when Andre had been checking his Instagram likes at the dinner table, his mum had given him a lecture about their Sunday lunches being special. ‘It’s our only quality time together during the school term,’ she’d told him. ‘I don’t want to be spending it with your phone too.’
Andre knew she had a point. With Miss Murphy’s role as Head of Dance and Wellness at the World Elite Dance Academy and Andre being so busy as a student there, plus all his commitments to his street dance crew, Il Bello, and to his fashion blog, they didn’t get much time to hang out as mother and son. But what could he do? How else was he going to get the life of his dreams as a super-successful fashion blogger and dancer unless he put the time and work in? As a former world-famous ballerina his mum should have understood this more than anyone. He refreshed the blog page on his phone one more time.
‘Andre, we set a strict no-phone rule for this time for the two of us. Get off your phone, honey,’ Miss Murphy pleaded.
But Andre could hardly hear his mum he was so far down the wormhole of his online world. ‘WHAT, no way!’ Andre’s heart sank. The number of subscribers to Spotted had gone down by two. When? How? Why?
‘Andre, put down the phone!’ Miss Murphy’s softer mum-voice had morphed into her far sterner teacher’s voice.
‘All right. Geez. No need to yell!’ Andre slammed the phone down on the table. This was a disaster. Why had two people unsubscribed? Why, oh why, had he done a post on harem pants?
‘Andre!’ Miss Murphy stared at him across the table. ‘What has gotten into you?’
‘Nothing – I . . .’ Andre picked up a forkful of courgette spaghetti.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ His mum’s voice was gentle again, her eyes wide with concern.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just having a couple of issues with my blog.’
‘Hmm.’ Miss Murphy frowned. ‘Do you really have time to be blogging right now what with all your school work? Maybe you should put the blog on hold for a while.’
Andre looked at her, horrified. Was she crazy? How could she even suggest such a thing? He bet his hero Dr Dre never had to put up with this kind of negative talk when he was his age. ‘No! Of course I have time.’ He took a deep breath and began speaking slowly and calmly, as though addressing an untrained puppy. ‘It’s all good, Mum. I just had an issue with my last post, that’s all. Let’s eat.’ He took a mouthful of spaghetti. ‘Mmm, this is really good.’ The truth was Andre was far too stressed to even notice what he was eating – it was as if dread had destroyed his taste buds – but he couldn’t let his mum stop him blogging. That would be the biggest disaster since the death of Tupac.
‘Thank you. I have to say I’m really enjoying cooking vegan.’ Miss Murphy laughed. ‘If your dad could see us now . . .’
Andre stiffened, the way he always did at the mention of his dad. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Eating vegan food. You know how much he loves a steak.’
‘Yeah, the flesh-eating monster. Oh well, I guess it would give him yet another reason to hate on me.’
Miss Murphy’s brow furrowed again. ‘Your father doesn’t hate you.’
‘Oh, really?’ Andre sighed. He didn’t want to have to think about his Neanderthal, steak-loving dad right now – he had way more important things to be worrying about. He wondered if anyone else had unsubscribed from Spotted since he’d last checked, or if he’d got any more likes. His phone buzzed with a notification and he grabbed it.
‘Andre. Please.’
He pretended he hadn’t heard her. He had received a new email. Someone called @fashattack had commented on the blog post. Please, please, please let it be something good, he silently pleaded as he clicked the email open.
I never did get the whole harem pant thing – they make people look like they’re wearing giant nappies! Lol ☺
Andre’s heart sank. Now people were openly mocking his post. The whole thing was a total disaster. He was in Harem-Pant Hell!
‘Andre, for the last time, will you please put down your phone?’
‘Sorry, Mum. I thought it might have been an emergency.’ He put the phone back on the table.
‘A fashion emergency?’
‘Yes . . . I mean, no. But you never know, do you, when an emergency might strike. It’s always better to be, like, prepared.’
Miss Murphy looked at him like he was the crazy one. And maybe he was – he was certainly starting to feel it.
‘Mmm, so delicious,’ Andre muttered, shoving half a plateful of spaghetti into his mouth in one go. He needed to get out of his mum’s apartment and back to his dorm room where he could figure out how to put things right on Spotted in peace.
Fifteen minutes later, and with painful indigestion from eating so quickly, Andre was back in his room. He opened his laptop and logged on to Spotted. He’d got a handful more likes since he’d last checked but the number was way lower than he normally received. And there was still only one comment – the snarky one about the nappies. Maybe he should delete it. No, if he did that it would be even more embarrassing. It would look like he couldn’t take criticism. And he, Andre Murphy, was brave enough to take criticism. He looked at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror and pulled himself upright into what he called his Statue of Liberty pose. He pursed his lips as he gazed admiringly at his fuchsia-pink vest top and ripped skinny jeans and at the way the gold trim on his high-tops perfectly matched the gold flecks in his hoodie. His look was f-e-t-c-h. It always was. He wasn’t going to let one snarky comment get to him. He couldn’t afford to. There were so many other things he had to think about – like his dance classes at WEDA and what to do with Il Bello next and his academic work and his History homework . . .
Oh shoot! My History homework! He stared at the heap of harem pants on top of his desk. Somewhere buried beneath them was an assignment that had to be done by tomorrow.
Andre made his way over to his desk, stepping over the tangled piles of clothes and hats and scarves and other random accessories that littered the floor – his half of the floor anyway. As usual, his room-mate MJ’s side was immaculate. Andre itched to be able to invade MJ’s floor and wall space – their bareness seemed such a waste, especially when there were so many fun things he could be filling them with. He flung the harem pants on to the floor and retrieved the piece of paper detailing his History assignment. Andre really didn’t see the point in history. It was over and done with; been there, done that. All Andre was interested in was the future. Because the future was the place where your dreams came true. He didn’t have time to be harking back to some pre-historic king who liked killing his wives or whatever. How was that ever going to help him achieve his dance and fashion dreams?
He returned to his laptop to make a start on the assignment but couldn’t resist having one more check of Spotted first. His heart sank. Three people had liked the nappy comment! What the hell? His blog wasn’t supposed to be for people to come and have a laugh. It wasn’t a comedy site. It was supposed to be for serious fashionistas. He bet other fashion sites didn’t get this kind of disrespect. He clicked on to one of his favourite fashion blogs and started randomly checking the comments. They were all positive. There wasn’t a single joke. He clicked on to another fashion site, one that had 475,820 subscribers. Andre sighed. How was he ever going to get that many people to subscribe to Spotted? He clicked back on to his own blog. He had 357 subscribers. And instead of growing, that list had shrunk by two today. All because of those stupid harem pants. He went over to the offending pile of trousers and grabbed some scissors from his desk. He started slashing at one of the pairs. They were bright green with silver sequins sewn into the waistband. Tilly had found them in a charity shop. At the time, the trousers had passed the tingle test – anything they featured on the blog had to make their skin tingle with excitement – but it turned out that the tingle test itself had failed. Andre started ripping the harem pants apart with his hands. ‘Die, stupid trousers, die! What was I even thinking?’
The door to the dorm room opened and MJ walked in, followed closely by Tilly.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ she asked, staring at him in shock.
‘I’m killing the harem pants,’ Andre replied, with yet another satisfying rip.
‘You can’t kill an inanimate object,’ MJ said drily, dumping his overnight bag on his bed.
‘Just watch me,’ Andre responded.
‘But why?’ Tilly asked, playing with the ends of her peacock green hair, the way she always did when she was confused or stressed.
‘Because they’re a laughing stock,’ Andre replied, sinking down on to his bed. ‘Have you seen the comment, Tillz?’
‘What comment?’ She came and sat down beside him.
‘Nice eye-liner by the way,’ Andre added. Even in the grips of a crisis he was still able to acknowledge a cosmetics win when he saw one.
‘Thank you. Now what on earth’s going on?’
Andre passed her the laptop. ‘Look. The harem-pant post has got way fewer likes than normal, plus one snidey comment and two people have unsubscribed. It’s a catastrophe!’
‘Hmm, tell that to the people of Syria,’ MJ remarked.
‘Not helpful, MJ, not helpful at all,’ Andre muttered.
Tilly looked at the screen and started to laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ Andre stared at her.
‘The comment.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Well, it is kind of true. There could be a giant nappy under there.’
‘Great!’ Andre sighed. Tilly was supposed to be his second-in-command at Spotted. She was supposed to be on his side. Not on the side of some smarty-harem-pants-hater who thought @fashattack was a good profile name. Geez!
‘Hey, lighten up, Dre,’ Tilly said, nudging him gently in the ribs. ‘It’s only a joke.’
‘What does that say?’ Andre said, pointing to the banner of the blog.
‘Spotted . . . unleash your inner fashionista,’ Tilly said, reading from the screen.
‘Exactly. Does it say, unleash your inner comedian?’
‘No.’
‘And does it say, please feel free to leave your lame jokes in the comments?’
‘No but –’
‘There can be no buts,’ Andre interrupted. ‘And there should be no jokes. Fashion is a serious business.’
‘Hmm, tell that to whoever invented platform heels,’ MJ remarked.
‘Er, still not helping, MJ!’ Andre retorted.
‘OK, I’m not sure what happened to bring about this crisis, Dre, but I do know what will fix it.’ Tilly stood up and held out her hands to him.
Andre looked at her blankly. ‘What?’
‘Dancing, of course. Let’s hit the Stable Studio. Do a little free-styling. What do you say, MJ?’
MJ got to his feet. ‘Yep, sounds good to me.’
They both looked at Andre. Andre frowned. If he went to the studio they’d probably expect him to come up with some kind of new routine for Il Bello and he just couldn’t deal with that right now. He felt like an iPhone that had run out of storage space. He needed an urgent reboot.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I have homework to do.’
‘What?’ Tilly’s mouth dropped open. ‘But, Dre, you never say no to dance.’
‘Yeah well. I used to have three hundred and fifty-nine followers on my blog.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Things change, Tillz, and so do people.’
Tilly looked dejected. ‘Wow. OK then.’ She turned to MJ. ‘Shall we see if Raf ’s about?’
‘Good plan,’ MJ replied.
Tilly took hold of Andre’s arm. ‘You know where we are if you change your mind.’
Andre nodded.
‘Take it easy, Dre. You’re just having a bad day.’ Tilly gave him a quick hug then headed for the door.
As Andre watched them leave he felt a bitter-sweet mix of sorrow and relief. He couldn’t believe he was turning down the chance to dance but at least it eased the pressure a fraction. He needed to get that History assignment done. But first, he’d have another check of his blog.
As his History teacher, Mr Benson, droned on about Queen Elizabeth I Andre’s head started feeling warm and fuzzy with tiredness. He’d hardly slept at all last night – he’d been too preoccupied with Spotted and trying to figure out ways to get more subscribers. Things that had seemed like a great idea at three in the morning – like creating three hundred thousand different online personas to follow Spotted – now seemed pretty insane. But what could he do?
‘Queen Elizabeth I was just two years old when her mother, Anne Boleyn, was beheaded,’ Mr Benson said as he strolled around the class.
Next to Andre, Raf whistled through his teeth. But Andre really couldn’t see what the big deal was. That’s how things were back then – queens got beheaded. It was almost part of the job description. At least they never had to deal with the internet. At least they never had to worry about things like subscribers and likes and hashtags . . . Hashtags! Andre’s heavy eyelids jolted open. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe he had to up his hashtag game.
‘Eleven days after Anne Boleyn’s execution, Henry VIII married Jane Seymour,’ Mr Benson continued.
Andre’s eyelids drooped back down again. It was as if his entire upper body was feeling a huge gravitational pull towards the desk. Maybe if he just rested his forehead on it for a while, had a think about some killer hashtags . . . He closed his eyes and let his head sink desk-wards. Then he felt a sharp dig in his ribs.
‘Hashtag harem!’ he yelped. ‘Ow!’ He frowned at Raf. ‘Why’d you do that?’
‘You were falling asleep, bro,’ Raf hissed.
‘Hashtag harem indeed,’ Mr Benson said with a grin and laughter rippled through the class.
‘What?’ Andre stared at him blankly. Oh shoot, had he actually said that out loud?
‘Henry VIII and all his wives,’ Mr Benson said. ‘His Tudor harem.’
‘Oh . . . right.’ Andre sat up straight, trying desperately to wake himself up.
Mr Benson carried on chatting about Queen Elizabeth and Andre took a deep breath. It was so frustrating being in this dumb class having to learn about people that meant absolutely nothing to him. It was such a waste of time. No wonder he was almost falling asleep. He could be doing something far more useful – like coming up with a list of hashtags or brainstorming fresh new blog ideas. He thought of his phone in the pocket of his jacket. The urge to check it was almost as strong as the urge to sleep. While he’d been sitting through blah-blah-beheading-blah he could have got more notifications from Spotted. Other people might have commented. Other people might have liked the stupid nappy comment. These were the things he needed to know – not where the young Elizabeth had lived while her psycho dad was out killing wives.
Finally the bell rang for end of period. Andre leaped to his feet.
‘Easy, bro,’ Raf said with one of his dazzling grins.
‘I need to check something,’ Andre said, heading for the door. ‘I’ll see you in tap.’ He raced to the toilets, locked himself inside a cubicle and checked his phone. He had a new email. His heart quickened. What if it was a notification from the blog? But it was just a message from a fashion newsletter he subscribed to. He clicked it open. The layout of the newsletter was so slick. He clicked on their Instagram link at the bottom of the page. They had over one million subscribers. How was that even possible? He unlocked the cubicle door and went over to one of the sinks. He splashed some water on his face and stared at his reflection. He’d give anything to have that kind of following. When you had that kind of following you no longer had to worry any more – you knew that you’d made it. What if he never got where he wanted to be? What if the online empire he dreamed of building never materialized? What if all he ever achieved was an online cul-de-sac? He couldn’t bear the thought. The bell rang again, signalling the start of the next period. Shoot! His tap class was over in the new building. He was going to be late. Mrs Jones was not going to be pleased.
Mrs Jones wasn’t pleased. As Andre raced into the studio, clutching his tap shoes in his hands she rapped on the polished wood floor with her cane.
‘And what time do you call this?’ she asked.
‘Time you took pity on a poor, defenceless soul who just got trapped inside a toilet cubicle?’ Andre looked at her pleadingly. He wasn’t sure how convincing an excuse getting trapped inside a toilet cubicle was but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.
‘You got trapped inside a toilet cubicle?’ Mrs Jones looked at him sternly while the rest of the class grinned.
‘Yes. It was terrible. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be rescued. Now I know how Anne Boleyn felt right before her execution.’
‘You’re likening getting trapped inside a toilet with being beheaded?’ Mrs Jones raised her eyebrows so high they practically met her snowy white hairline. The other students started to snigger.
‘Don’t laugh!’ Andre retorted. ‘The panic was real!’
‘OK. I’ve heard enough,’ Mrs Jones said. Although she was still frowning Andre could see that her gaze had softened a fraction. ‘Get your shoes on and take your place.’
‘Why do you always have to be such a drama queen?’ Cassandra whispered as Andre put his shoes on.
‘Same reason you have to be such an ice queen, I guess,’ Andre retorted. ‘I was born this way.’ Andre had no time for Cassandra. Ever since they’d started at WEDA she’d gone out of her way to make Billie and Tilly’s lives hell. As far as Andre was concerned, if you messed with a member of Il Bello, you messed with him.
‘OK, everyone, places, please,’ Mrs Jones called. ‘Let’s begin with a single file line for our tap cannons, starting with a stamp slide into a spank heel step flap ball change. Listen to each other to stay in time or you will end up sounding like a herd of buffalo stampeding. We need to make beautiful rhythms, not a mush of melodies.’
As the music started Andre focused hard on waiting for his turn to step in beat and stay in rhythm but his entire body ached with tiredness and his limbs felt as limp as a rag doll’s. Each time the cannon came to him he was a split second behind the beat and pulled everyone else out of rhythm. Come on, focus, he told himself but it was no good. It was as if his brain and his feet were living separate lives.
‘Aaargh!’ he exclaimed, as Mrs Jones tapped her cane on the floor to get them to stop.
‘So, a herd of buffalo it is. Is everything OK, Andre?’ she asked.
The whole class turned to stare at him.
‘I do hope you’re not still traumatized by your toilet ordeal.’
As the others giggled Andre felt an unfamiliar warmth in his cheeks. ‘No. It’s not that, it’s . . .’
‘What?’ Mrs Jones asked.
Andre saw Cassandra smirking. Great.