reading

Welcome to Inner Giant. This project was created by a group of dedicated individuals who wanted to join the fight against bullying. It is our hope that in the pages of this book you will be able to find examples of courage and strength that will serve as inspiration to anyone who needs the confidence to tackle any instance of bullying they come across. We fervently believe that every human being has the right to live without the fear, doubt and self- loathing that results from being bullied and persecuted.

A quick reminder of what this project is about and why we are doing it. It is about bullying. Bullying in all its ugly forms is endemic in our world. It makes no distinctions of race, culture or religion. It doesn´t respect national borders. It doesn´t recognize wealth or poverty. It doesn´t limit itself to the hale and healthy, on the contrary, the less physically able a person is, the more fragile, the more likely it is that the individual will be a victim of bullying in some way.

Bullying doesn´t restrict itself to one gender or one age group. An overweight middle aged man can become a victim of bullying almost as much as an anorexic ten year old girl. Bullying can happen anywhere, at any time. At school, at work, at the social club or at the local swimming pool and sadly it can also happen at home.

Gone are the days when a student who was picked on at school, would run home to find sanctuary.

The advent of social media has broken all the locks on our doors and laid bare our last refuge. Bullying has three distinct types of victims. The person who is picked on being the obvious one. But often, witnesses of this kind of behaviour, turn themselves into victims by feeling guilty at not having taken some action in the first place. The third type of victim are the bullies themselves.

Nobody is totally good, just as nobody is totally evil. Even the biggest mass murderers in history had to be children at some point. Recognizing the reasons for bullying is half the battle towards preventing it.

So that is the subject of our project, and WHY are we doing it? Is our aim to stamp out bullying altogether? Sadly no! Not even someone as naively optimistic as I am could possibly hope to stop such an entrenched practice. Our primary aim is to raise awareness!

I have recently spoken with a group of secondary school students, and there wasn´t a single one of them who had not been affected by bullying in some way. All 22 of them fell into one of the three victim categories I described earlier. When I asked how many incidents of bullying had been reported and dealt with, I wasn´t surprised to find out that less than five per cent had been reported.

Our job, nay, our mission is to make kids especially, feel more comfortable or confident discussing the subject. And if along the way, we manage to prevent just one woman, one man or one child from being bullied, then it will all have been worth it.

Before we begin, we need to tell you a little bit about how the book is laid out. No, not the table of contents. You’ve already had that. The first section of the book is being presented by George and Andy, two twelve-year-old boys who live inside Frank’s head. It features a collection of short stories written by our talented and generous contributors. The stories have been classified into three different categories according to their content. The classifications use the traffic-light system to indicate if a story is suitable or unsuitable for young readers.

For example, a green light with the picture of a baby giant means the story is suitable for all ages. A yellow light with an adolescent giant means the story contains some aspects that are best read with adult supervision, and if you see a red light with an adult giant, then the story is unsuitable for young readers. An example of the traffic lights is below this message.

Just to remind you, dear readers, that everyone or our contributors gave their time, energy and talent for free, with the proviso that all the proceeds of the book go to help victims of bullying. Thus every penny earned from the sale of the book, in any of its forms, is being donated to anti-bullying organizations. Now is the time to get your friends to buy a copy, by telling them what a wonderful book this is. Yes, even before you read it! Go on, what are you waiting for?

Please note: these guidance markers are merely suggestions, and should be used as such, you may find that your opinion of what is and isn’t suitable varies from ours, in which case fell free to use your judgement.

On with the book, and it is time to introduce you to our hosts, George and Andy…

George- Good grief! You mean you’re not ready yet? Come on Andy, get a move on.

Andy- Jeepers, where’s the fire?

George- No fire, I just hate it when you make me wait.

Andy- Why do you have to act like a bully all the time, George?

George- Who? Me?

Andy- Yes. You. I wasn’t talking to Frank, was I?

George- Why not? I understand he can be a bit of a bully at times.

Andy- Don’t be ridiculous, Frank doesn’t even live in our world. He’s just a human who writes what we tell him to write, how could he be a bully?

George- Because sometimes he tries to write stuff that we don’t say, tries to put words in our mouths, and that is bullying!

Andy- George, George, do you even know where the word bully comes from?

George- Don’t be ridiculous, of course I do. Who doesn’t?

Andy- Come on then, spit it out.

George- Why are you being soft in the head, Andy? The word bully comes from the animal, and its aggressive behaviour.

Andy- And what animal would that be then, George?

George- The Aardvark. What other animal could possibly sound like the word bully?

Andy- Actually…

George- The BULL, you dimwit.

Andy- But George…

George- Honestly Andy, you can be a right pain sometimes.

Andy- But….

George- As if I wouldn’t know where the word bully comes from, for crying out loud…

Andy- GEORGE!!!!!!!!!

George- What? Why are you shouting?

Andy- Because it’s the only way I can get a word in edgewise.

George- And what word is so important that you have to interrupt me interrupting you?

Andy- You’re wrong.

George- What?!

Andy- I said, you’re wrong.

George- About what?

Andy- Bully. The word has nothing to do with the animal.

George- Of course it does, it’s almost identical, and besides, that’s how bulls behave. They are aggressive and clumsy, like most bullies.

Andy-I’m telling you it has nothing to do with bulls.

George- And just how would you know that, Mr Smarty Pants. Andy- I looked it up.

George- Don’t tell me you believe what you read in Wikipedia…

Andy- Actually I do, some of it is really good and informative, but like I always do when I want to prove you wrong, I cross-checked the information and it matches.

George- Go on then, I suppose you’d better tell me, before grin starts to fade.

Andy- The word bully is derived from the 15^th century Dutch word Boele.

George- Don’t tell me, the Dutch for BULL, right?

Andy- Actually no. It’s the Dutch word for lover.

George- What?! But that’s preposterous!

Andy- Preposterous it may be, but that is exactly what it means. The term in the middle ages had a very positive sense. If someone called you a bully, they were calling you lover or sweetheart.

George- Well then bully, let’s introduce the first story.

Andy- Why the heck are you calling me a bully now?

George- Ahem… I was calling you sweetheart.

Andy- Oh Yuk! I think I prefer when you call me bully as it is used now.

George- Whatever. Let’s talk about the story.

Andy- OK. Dear readers, the first story caused a bit of an argument between me and George. We just couldn’t agree on how we would handle the same situation if it happened to us.

George- That’s right. But let’s not give any bits of the story away.

Andy- The story is called “Cheek”, it is written by Anita. Read on and enjoy!

This story has been classified as medium sensitivity, which means parent or teacher guidance may be required for younger readers.

Big trouble at church today! How could God do that to me? My English teacher was there, with her tough face and eyes which stare at you like a police scanner. Hate her! The woman actually goes there to pray! All alone! Always looking like she’s got nothing else to wear but those old-fashioned dark blue or black dresses. And that awful hairstyle! Looks like she’s a hundred years old, the frump!

And my mum! Being all polite and God-fearing, always sucking up to teachers, actually goes over and says ’hi’ to her! I mean – really?!? Why, God, why? So, now mum knows I have an essay to write for tomorrow. If I don’t do it well, it’s a B. Hate Bs. But I won’t write it. She can’t make me.

Mum might forget. The whole family is over for lunch again, keeping her too busy. I hate them, too! The only things good about them is the fact that my piggy bank gets filled to the top every time they visit. Love it when they buy my love!

Mum remembered. I told her I’ve already done it. Gonna get one of those nerds to do it for me. Can’t just pick anyone. I’m Erica Brown – the Browns don’t get Bs. I must get me an A kid to do it for me. Hmmmm… I know! Gonna get me that Gemma Something kid. Gemma Paulson, I think. Who cares! She’s good – writes well and fast. Looks like a freckled chicken, tiniest in class, too. Haven’t used her services much. I need her to act fast.

I know. I will get some reinforcements. Daisy and Joanne, as usual. Stupid enough to do whatever I tell them to and not ask why. Will even take the blame if need be! One fat and huge, the other one uglier than a toothless witch on a bad day. We’ll get Gemma to do it in a sec! She’ll get me an A+, that one!

Or else… Head first in the toilet? T-shirt up in gym-class? Trip her down the stairs? Cut her hair uneven from behind? Throw her books out the window in the rain? Trash her on the Internet? Send fake text messages to her parents? All of the above?

Daisy on my left, Joanne on my right. I put on my meanest face and pull the Gemma-dwarf by the hair from behind. Kid actually trembles.

’You’re gonna do my English essay now. Sit and write. And make it an A+. Now!’ I shout.

’Nooooo?’ I scream and put my nose right next to hers. Gonna break that nose of hers, sleezy little wimp!

’And do my handwriting. In my notebook. Don’t waste my time!’ I say coldly and in a low voice, hissing through my teeth.

I push her like a wrecking ball, she falls on the floor, bites her lip, hits her head and cries.

Daisy pulls out Gemma’s notebook from her handmade rucksack and gives it to me to copy from it. Unbelievable! No time for this hassle! Would ask Joanne and Daisy to do it, but idiots write horribly! Need an A! If Mum tells Dad, I will have hell to pay.

I must copy it myself. This time. Hurry! Joanne watches the door for teacher’s arrival. Time is scarce. Daisy holds Gemma from behind, screaming in her ear to shut up and stop crying. Joanne even gets other kids quiet by shouting, hitting, kicking and tripping them as they come back. Routine that works!

Bell rings. I’ve copied it all just in time. I toss her notebook on the dirty floor and spit on her. Useless crybaby! Gonna teach her a lesson after this one! She knows that. She knows who I am. She knows who my folks are. Knows what I can do. That scrawny, little, welfare maggot!

Teacher comes in. Everyone keeps quiet in their seats. Midget Gemma Paulson sits in front of me. She won’t tell. Knows what I will do if she does. Who’d believe her anyway?

My dad would fix it. Ain’t like we’re in church for nothing every Sunday. Knows the principal, the ministers, the mayor, everyone who counts.

’My mum and dad say ’Hi’,’ I say, just letting the teacher know who’s in charge, in case she starts getting any ideas other than As.

The wretched woman ignores me. I must set her up for something at the end of the school year. Wouldn’t be the first teacher my family gets fired!

Gemma sobbing. I kick her chair with my leg from behind to stop. Snivelling crybaby. I could just squash her like a bug right now. Daddy always says wimps should be obliterated. But too much audience around now. And Mum’s just texted – she’s taking me shopping if I get an A. I saw this great cell phone with some extra stuff.

Teacher gives us some worksheets to do as she corrects essays. Yeah, right! As if I’m gonna! Slip it backwards to Tom to do it for me. Knows what I’d do to his little sister if he doesn’t.

Time ticking away. Good! I play on my cell. Log into Joanne’s profile, send some fake messages in her name to her parents, post some photos I took of her in the school toilet this morning… Bitch can be useful, but she did wear the same top as me to the party last Friday! Had it coming!

Five minutes till recess. Need that A now. Teacher gets up. Here comes my A! And my new cell! New everything. Gonna make mum splurge on me for being a good girl. She’ll believe anything, that one, even Dad’s fibs.

Is she mental or what? She’s praising Gemma right now – to the whole class! Gave her an A+!

I get up in the middle of her sentence, push Gemma’s chair on the way and demand an explanation from the teacher.

I shove my notebook into her self-righteous face. She opens her mouth and dooms herself to my vengeance.

’Stop copying other people and start taking responsibility,’ she says coldly.

I could throw my notebook into the back of the teacher’s head. Nah… witnesses.

I grab Gemma by the hand and point to Daisy and Joanne to watch the door. No patience to wait for everyone to leave this time.

’You bloody idiot, you cost me my grade. Wanna see just how much I can hurt you??? Wanna feel some pain? Huh? Huh?’

My face is in her face and I see tears springing from behind her frightened pupils. My head is pounding with rage. I lose control and slap her right across one cheek with all my might. Good! All five fingers leave a mark! Burgundy red, yes, you are. Well-deserved, too!

Blood in the corner of her mouth makes me want to inflict more pain. She slowly wipes it off with a sleeve, hand shaking like a leaf. But no tears come out.

She looks straight at me. Gemma Paulson dares to look at me??? Unbelievable. Wants to speak?

She just stands there, her white cheek turned to me. I start hearing a church sermon in my head. I hear Dad in my head. I hear Mum in my head. My middle brother has just been ordained minister. I hear him in my head, too.

She just stands there. Stands there looking at me. No tears. Not daring. Just surviving.

A thousand drums pounding in my head now. My belly hurts as if punched by a heavy-weight champion showing no restraint. Heart beating louder than club music on a Saturday night. Head hurts beyond belief. All those voices blending in, preaching, teaching… and that cheek! Oh, God!

Teacher’s hand on my shoulder from behind pulls me back to reality. Taking me to the principal’s office. I glance back at Gemma, that tiny kid still standing there, my five-finger slap tatooed on her right cheek, her left one still glowing proudly, forever etched in my mind.

The principal is mad. I don’t care. Any punishment will do. I deserve it. And more. He calls Dad. Dad comes, smooths things over in the office, promises a donation, yells in the car. I don’t care.

We get home. Dad tells Mum. She is shocked. I just stand there. They talk about my sentence. Who cares?!? I deserve every punishment they can think of. And more.

They take me to church for confession. I go through the motions. She was just standing there, showing no fear. Feeling horror, but showing none. Time comes to actually confess. Her other cheek glaring at me with its pride. I cry. I disgust myself. The minister talks about forgiveness, penance and finding peace.

My brothers and sisters have all said their prayers and everyone is asleep. I am lying wide awake in my bed.

I get up. I go over to my walk-in closet, find my biggest suitcase. No, take two. Empty my box of cell-phones, not one over a year old, but discarded, already bored by them. Jewellery is next. Then brand name clothes, shoes, bags… Fill both suitcases, sit on them, zip.

Go to laptop. Enter Joanne’s account, send anonymous apologies and delete account. Go back to closet. Pick up that hat Daisy likes so much. Put it in a gift bag. Her birthday was last week. I ruined it by flirting with Bob. She has a crush on him. I write an apology card and put it in the bag, too.

Finishing primary, moving off to secondary school. We are all going our separate ways. I’ll be getting into any high school my parents pick, probably be married before university, have a bunch of kids.

At the party, I hug Gemma goodbye. Kept her safe from other brutes these last years. She kept me safe from my darkness.

My nephew took an international English exam and passed with flying colours. The whole family is proud and threw him a huge party. My twins are toddling around, almost two years old now. Hubbie’s gone to get me a drink.

My nephew gives a speech. Thanks us all for the support. Flying off to New York next week on a scholarship.

At the end of his speech, he wants to thank someone who is not family and not at the party.

Andy- I still think it is harder to do what Gemma did than it is to stand and fight.

George- And I’m still not sure about that, fighting someone who is obviously bigger and more powerful than you isn’t easy you know.

Andy- I never said it was, I just think what she did was much harder. Anyway, we will just have to agree to disagree on that one.

George- Yeah! I’m sure the readers will have their own opinions on the story. But I want to know how come the term ’bully’ became so negative, if it started out so positive.

Andy- The meaning didn’t just go from good to bad overnight, it deteriorated over the course of the seventeenth century.

George- How?

Andy- Historians do not agree on how, but they say that it went from ’lover’ to ’brother’, to ’fine fellow’, to ’blusterer’, and onto ’harasser of the weak’.

George- Which is a pretty good definition of the meaning these days. Ok, on to the next story.

Andy- Any of our readers who watch “The X-Factor” will quickly identify with the next story.

George- It is by Frank, and it is called ’Dancing UK’. Enjoy!

This story has been classified as medium sensitivity, which means parent or teacher guidance may be required for younger readers.

The breakfast show is in full swing. The daily news bulletin is over, as well the national and local weather forecast. The hosts, James Martin and Sandra Lewis are getting ready to welcome their first guests. As the make-up crew fuss around Sandra’s already impeccable hairdo, the suave and sophisticated James looks up from reading the bio of the guests they are soon to introduce.

James frowned, and the small brown mole in the middle of his left cheek vanished briefly into the dimple that formed whenever he grimaced.

“This is simply sensational! These two are going to be huge!” he said, staring intently at the bio cards.

“My darling James …” Sandra had extricated herself from the clutches of the make-up crew and was adjusting her mike absentmindedly. “ Where were you last night? Didn’t you watch the show?”

“I was getting some much needed beauty sleep. You know I don’t watch those darned talent shows. They bore me to tears.” James flashed a full set of perfect white teeth at the reflection staring back at him from the stainless steel cabinet at his side.

“Well, darling, thirty five million viewers happen to disagree with you. That is ninety five per cent of the audience share which tuned in last night to see those two. So, yes, they are going to be huge. They are huge.”

“Ninety five per cent? Are you sure? Of course you’re sure, silly me. But that is incredible! Even the royal weddings didn’t get that much.” James’ brow furrowed as if the number was preposterous. He was in his late forties and extremely easy on the eye for at least half the female viewing public, and no doubt some of the male viewers also. James Martin had not been touched by even a hint of middle-age spread. He was trim, naturally tanned and devilishly handsome. Age had not started catching up with him yet, though he did have a hint of silver on the hair of his temples, but then again he had been dying it that way for years, convinced that grey hair gave him the kind of debonair, sophisticated, millionaire look that women found irresistible. He was yet to be proved wrong. James hadn’t lost hope of being given his own prime time chat show, and was always looking for opportunities to impress his bosses, the network executives.

“Daydreaming again?” Sandra asked as she adjusted her sitting position to show the camera just a little more leg and less skirt. “Or has that German gentleman started to pester you, darling?”

“German gentleman?” James asked tilting his head slightly to the left, as he often did when he was confused.

“Herr Alzheimer.” Sandra actually laughed at her own joke. Her perfectly made up face showed no sign of the scarring which had cost her many news anchor jobs. The selectors’ opinion being that, as a news anchor, the frequent close ups would eventually show a hint of the car crash scars, which might offend the sensitivities of the audience. Thus she had to settle for being James Martin’s sidekick. Not that she minded though. She got plenty of air time, and had even developed her own small band of dedicated viewers. Not a large one, but enough to have her ignoring the tele-prompt every now and then.

“How very funny of you, my dear Sandy.” James had his best camera face on, showing no hint of the sarcasm that was bubbling just below his oesophagus. “But back to our two guests, how do you want to play it?”

“I think you’d better forget the good cop, bad cop routine with these two, darling. They are the nation’s favourite couple, so if we try to ridicule them, we’ll be flooded with hate mail for the next three months.”

Hate mail was something that James Martin feared above all else. He could handle a drop in the audience share, having invented a thousand and one excuses to explain it away. He could ride roughshod over any amount of complaints about his interviewing techniques, but he simply dreaded hate mail. He was the darling of breakfast TV, and he was adored by millions. He simply could not be hated. Would not.

“So we just run a straight interview? Let them talk about winning the show, describe their path to victory, blah, blah, blah?” He was grimacing again.

“James, these are the winners in the most watched reality TV show of all time.” Sandra was always at her best when she was smiling. “They did it with the biggest viewing figures ever for a live show. They fooled the entire nation for the best part of the series, and they managed to make a monkey out of Trevor Kinkade. Nobody, but nobody, has ever done that. So, tell me, darling. How do you want to play it?”

“Somebody making a fool out of Trevor is definitely something I should have stayed up to watch. Ok, we will let them tell their story.”

The director stood up, brushed an unseen speck of dust from James’ shoulder and spoke in a thick Scottish accent:

The live warning light suddenly flashed bright red, everybody in the studio immediately tensed, squeezing their buttocks together a tiny bit. The director made a perfect zero with his right thumb and forefinger, indicating that they were now broadcasting live. Camera one closed in on James and Sandra, as James prepared to introduce the guests:

“Good Morning, dear viewers, and welcome once again to Global Breakfast.” His smile flashed brighter than ever. “It’s time to introduce our first guests this morning. They won the biggest prize in reality TV history, watched by a staggering thirty five million people. And they did so by captivating the hearts of every one of those viewers. During the live final, they also managed to make Trevor Kinkade look foolish, a feat, that until last night at least, nobody ever thought possible. Before we talk to them, they have agreed to perform the winning dance for us, so, maestro, can we have the music, please?” James quickly glanced at the bio cards to ensure he had the names of the couple right. “Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, here are Gareth Davies and Melisa Jones.”

Sandra and James both stood up and applauded silently as a young couple strode confidently to the dance floor set up in the middle of the studio. The melodic sound of Whitney Houston’s voice crooned “I will always love you” and the couple performed a mesmerising dance routine that had James and Sandra cooing every time the camera closed in on them to capture their reaction. Gareth pulled Melisa toward him spinning her round and round in a twirling movement. He reached both hands around her waist and reverse spun under her arms finishing the move by doing the splits. He held her above his head, her legs wide apart and turned her around twice, giving the effect of two ice skaters gliding effortlessly on the ice. The entire studio stopped, hypnotised by the spectacle playing itself out right in front of them. The dance pair stood still, about six feet apart, arms outstretched towards each other, finger tips still a foot or so from the other. There was a distinct pause on Melisa’s part. Gareth bent both knees as a diver does just before plunging into the depths of the pool, then she clicked her fingers and he somersaulted into the air, passing scant inches above Melisa’s head and landing on his hands a few feet beyond her. Standing on his hands, facing her, he paused briefly and then she clicked her fingers once more and he seemed to spring into the air, flipped and landed spread-eagled with his back to her, reached under his own legs, grabbed her hands and pulled her sliding underneath his legs to stand facing him. As the sound of Whitney’s long miasma echoed away to the final ’darling, I love you’ line, the boy dancer lifted his partner up by her waist, threw her into the air, for what seemed like an eternity and caught her deftly. As she bent her head backward, he laid his head softly on her chest and the music died away.

“Wow! Come and sit by us,” James enthused as the young couple was guided to the sofa. “Wow! And double Wow! With a dance routine like that it’s no wonder you two were such popular winners. Welcome, Gareth and Melisa.”

The two youngsters smiled, their faces glistening from the exertion of the dance routine. Gareth was the first to speak.

“Thank you James. It’s a pleasure to be here.” He had a soft west-country accent. His smile was warm and friendly. He showed no sign of being intimidated by the grand surroundings.

James couldn’t resist the temptation of ignoring the auto queue and letting this remarkable boy tell his story.

“Well now, Gareth, you won ’Dancing UK’. You did it with one of the most difficult dance routines ever seen anywhere on television. You did it by overcoming perhaps the biggest obstacle any dancer could face. And you won the hearts of the nation putting Trevor Kinkade in his place. Why don’t you tell the viewers in your own words just how you managed to pull off such fantastic achievements?”

“Sure, James, I would love to …” Gareth felt the heat of the studio’s lights on his face, he turned to face his partner and smiled tenderly. “But first, let me just say that I wouldn’t have done any of that if it wasn’t for Melisa. She has been my inspiration, my mentor and my protector. Everything I have done, I owe to her.” His eyes showed no sign of emotion, but a single tear rolled slowly down his cheek.

Gareth and Melisa have just finished their dance routine. The theatre audience are on their feet. Raucous applause echoes for a full five minutes. The couple wait patiently for the applause to die down before the judges start giving their opinions.

Trevor Kinkade slowly surveys the scene. He is wearing a white V-neck sweater that shows off his well-toned physique. He smiles. As creator and owner of the show, everything here is his domain. The director has just shown him the audience share figures. Trevor is confident that untold millions are coming his way from advertising revenues, and the international franchises that will soon follow. Plus, these two kids are going to go viral and he wants a piece of that too. He did create the opportunity for them, after all. His wedge-shaped head turns this way and that, milking the applause, before finally turning to the contestants.

“Well, well, well. That was … just great …” Trevor pauses as the applause and cheers start up again. He waits, a lion surveying the savannah from his leather swivel chair. “Before I tell you what I think, let us vote, shall we? Alicia?” He turns to the model/actress sitting on the opposite end of the judges panel. She is wiping away invisible tears.

“You two are awesome! You took that dance routine and made it yours.” Her pretty face shows no signs of smudging mascara. “You really enjoyed yourselves out there. You looked as though you were made for each other. It’s a Yes from me.”

The rock star is fiddling with his microphone. He looks up, his bearded face almost hidden behind huge star-shaped sun glasses.

“You kids ROCK!” Loud cheers briefly interrupt him. He rubs his right earlobe between thumb and forefinger, then pauses to inspect the unseen fluff he has removed. “You totally owned that piece. It’s a yes from me.”

The young couple stand stock still, arms round each other’s backs, smiling, patiently awaiting their fate. They know they are half way there.

“Zat vas terriffik! Absolutely amazink my darlinks. I’m so happy I chose to vork wiz ze two of you.” Her right hand is shaking uncontrollably. “You are goink to be superstars! It’s definitely a Yes from me.”

The cheering is reaching a crescendo, the entire theatre is on their feet, sensing something really special is about to happen. Trevor doesn’t disappoint them. With slow, confident movements, he gets up, steps around the panel’s desk, and goes to hug the dancing couple.

“Just listen to that, will you?” He grins broadly, standing between the two dancers. “They just love you.” He pats them each on the back before walking back to his throne.

Gareth holds Melisa a little tighter. Tension is mounting. He feels the temperature rising in the theatre. The cheering rings in his ears. His mouth suddenly feels dry. He swallows twice to get some moisture back to his vocal chords. He can smell Melisa’s perfume mixed with the scent of her sweat. Trevor is waiting for the applause to die down.

“Before we put it to the national vote,” Trevor is sitting back on his chair, playing with a pencil he hasn’t used, “I would just like to say, that, Melisa you are great … but Gareth … you are incredible! You stole the show! The best dancer I have seen in years!” He waits again for the cheering to stop. “Gareth, my heart says you two dance brilliantly together, but my mind is telling me that you should drop her.”


GEORGE	ANDY


GEORGE	ANDY