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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"You want me to turn away?" Max asks, fiddling with the tuning on his guitar for what feels like the hundredth time. He does this so often I've begun to wonder if he's not a bit nervous too about having to play in front of me.
"I dunno. No. Actually...maybe?"
Let's just say that our first 'practice' isn't going so well. And the elation of solving the crisis of being signed up to the talent show against my will has fully worn off. Just like the earlier thought that maybe choosing a song together would be fun.
How bad could it be?
Max knows a lot about music. He's bound to be great at this sort of stuff.
Unfortunately, he's also horribly indecisive and prone to split off into endless tangents about the bands we've been listening to over and over for the last three hours. Piles of CD's and empty plastic cases sprawl out around us and beneath our feet as we sit up against the end of his bed.
Unwanted and unwarranted heat spreads from my cheeks to my arm each time Max accidentally nudges it in his eagerness to show off and air drum. And it intensifies when I have to finally open my mouth and bare my soul. To sing out the opening lyrics from a song we both soon agree is too obscure for a college talent show.
After that my confidence nose dives about as quick as the next CD change.
"You know you have nothing to worry about Josie, because you've got a great voice and tone, I'm serious," he assures, again for what feels like the hundredth time. "It's...like gravel, gritty... Smokey, almost."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"What I mean is that it's got a surprising edge to it," he explains. When my face still dips in confusion, he pretends to hold a cumbersome shovel to dig a hole. "Forgive me but I thought it would be, well, girlier."
"Oh thanks," I sigh back, though in a way I am a little chuffed. Just not enough to scare away the self conscious doubts and shyness. Or the crippling nerves at having to properly sing in front of him and set notes free that I'd normally be able to rattle off in my sleep or in the shower with ease. Most have so far fallen as flat as the dregs of coke in the can beside me.
And all these words, I'm not even properly singing them, just kind of saying or looping them together in a nervous mash. I try to give it a bit of attitude but it feels fake and forced.
Then again, the way he looks up at me, with his arms hunched over the wooden guitar is distracting. And it unfairly fuels the jittery feeling in my toes and fingertips. Though that might be more to do with the earlier two cans of coca -cola I chugged in exhaustion from hiking up to Max's house from college in the searing heat again.
