LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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