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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Libby lifts her drumsticks above her head and counts us in for the one hundredth time, or so it feels.
As agreed, this afternoon we're in Peterson territory, which leaves me feeling weird still, but we have to practice. We're not gaining time or getting any better and if the past hour is anything to go by, it's going to be a long slog between now and the talent show, thanks to Max and Libby's bickering.
And Libby must really hate her sister because though she'd promised not to, she continues to drops her name in and out when arguing about guitar tuning and time signatures, and Max isn't impressed.
"Wait, stop," he calls out, swinging his guitar round to his back, stopping half way through the second verse. "Something's still off."
Kicking the bass drum pedal, Libby loudly groans, "Yeah, you."
"I knew you'd say that."
"I knew you'd say that." Libby mimics. She flashes me a grin and I'm caught in the middle once again. "Because it's true."
Max tugs at his hair, obviously stressed. "Then you come play for me. Show me what I keep doing wrong. Go on."
She scoffs and adjusts her ponytail, pulling it so tight it fans out like a pineapple. "Not my problem you insist on down tuning your guitar."
"It's not my problem you've such a bad attitude," he swiftly counters.
"Guys, it was me," I say, cutting the tension with my arms. The microphone slips down and bounces off the concrete garage floor, assaulting our ears with a noisy reverb. "I'm what's so off about this whole thing - my singing." I don't mean for my voice to sound so weak and feeble, as if I might burst out into tears, but it stops the bickering.
Libby hunches her shoulders forwards over her kit. Her eyes dart back and forth on Max, who looks down at his feet.
I try again. "The drums are fine. The guitar is fine. Everything is fine, but me." Ain't that the truth.
"Josie, don't say that," Max assures, voice low and soft. "You're doing great."
"You could project a bit more," Libby cuts in, "I mean, you're kind of singing at the floor right now."
I suck in a deep breath as Max shoots her daggers and walks to pick up the microphone. When he hands it over, his fingertips linger on my wrist for a beat until I reach out for the stand.
"I don't want to upset you," she says, glancing at my pink cheeks rapidly turning cherry red. "I don't want to, like, make you go-"
Red. How naive of me to believe like she might not notice.
