Seventeen-year old first year college student Josie Clarke would prefer not to blush the colour crimson at every little thing, but Idiopathic Craniofacial Erythema, a chronic facial condition doesn't play fair.
In fact, it's as uncontrollable...
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My stomach hurts and my throat howls as Max prances about, mimicking the multicoloured haired singers from all the music videos he's recorded from Kerrang, and the slew of other music channels my mum refuses to pay and subscribe to.
Unfortunately, terrestrial telly's not so hot for pop punk or punk rock.
What I see before me is brand new and bold, and crushingly loud. Louder than I'd ever be allowed to listen to, even on a blisteringly humid Friday afternoon with all the windows open and no parents home.
The aching in my tummy, from laughing so hard at the impressions and film-like music videos of dudes diving into swimming pools lingers as Max starts up again. To copy every bonkers movement from a high school prom dance routine, his arms failing about like he's in a mosh pit. Soon, I accept the fact that any further presentation prep is now well and truly over. Dead in the water.
Not that I blame him. There's only so much mumbling and awkward foot shuffling anyone can be expected to put up with. He's lasted longer than most, and at least he's kept his promise from yesterday, after walking with me most of the long way home once the seagulls got too brazen in their chip-stealing efforts.
And now that the weekend has officially begun, at least according to a two cans of coke caffeinated and excitable Max, he's free to stomp across his bedroom like an alternative rock god, lip syncing into microphones that don't exist. His cheeks all rosy and forehead sweaty. Hair shaken and stirred, standing to attention as he finally slumps down and swivels round on his computer chair to face me with ta-da jazz hands.
"Bravo!" I chuckle, breathless just from watching. "Encore?" A new video flashes up on the small VHS combo Television on top of his wooden drawer and I point eagerly at it.
"Break first," he pants, tongue hanging out. "Refreshments are desperately needed for more energy."
I nod and gather my feet together, whilst every other part of me begins to suspect that Max's feverish need to let loose is actually a clever ploy to take my mind off the impending presentation. To distract the nerves of mine that rattle on like an aftershock when thoughts of next weeks media class crop up.
Especially since there's only a weekend standing between success or further failure and embarrassment. Along with the events from yesterday lunchtime, with Jamie and then Maddie still ringing in my ears, though Max has done a pretty good job of cheering me up.
As he holds his bedroom door open in a chivalrous manner, I walk ahead and catch his voice, quiet and low, humming along to the newest song playing from the TV. The words tickles the back of my neck, slightly out of tune and sung in a mock american accent .
