Sleepyhead

The Summer Flu

Despite the fact that I had been in the same city, same arena, same dressing room, I still had yet to meet Olly Murs.

The coveted superstar, that beautiful singer, that delicious bum, I still hadn’t met it. Him. I still hadn’t heard him. I still hadn’t touched it. And it was a travesty, or a tragedy. I’m not sure which word it is, but either way, it’s probably both of them. Sutton Lark’s hands still hadn’t grazed the arse of the finest specimen known to man. I was getting hives. I was getting hiccups. I was having an allergic reaction to not meeting Olly Murs. It was ridiculous.

There were a lot of ridiculous things happening, most of which included me. Well, all of which. Except Niall’s hiccups, those were all him. I was menstruating and wickedly crazy, and all I wanted to do was cure my doubt and confusions with a little bum tapping. Well, that and a sudden offer to a university without having to resit my exams.

The others, of course, including the vomit covered tour bus and Juliet’s need to annoy me around every dang corner.

Suddenly I felt a painful jab in my side. I screamed. Someone laughed.

“You’re pathetic.”

“Oh, leave her alone, she’s all jumpy because she hasn’t slept in two hours.”

There was a chorus of giggles as Reed smirked proudly; crossing her arms over her chest and quirking an eyebrow expertly. I shot her a look, scuffing my trainers against the sidewalk and looking over her shoulder. We’d been kicked off our tour bus in an emergency. An emergency known as Astrid Puked Her Guts Out All Over The Floor and It Smelled Of Rubbish .Worse than rubbish, it smelled like someone died and then took a swim in a pool of horse shit mixed with rotting Thai food. Not to mention it was all chunky and she kept vomiting the entire way to the toilets in the back of the bus.

So we’d pulled over the next exit and hurried off the bus, even the driver, who was in a state of complete horror as Astrid groaned in the back of the bus. It seemed that Lou’s flu wasn’t quite done with us all yet.

“She was lying in her bunk watching YouTube videos of Olly Murs on X Factor. It’s her own damn fault.” Juliet leaned back against the building, a cigarette dangling between her fingers. I glared at her, frowning at the way she was dressed in a pair of black leggings and a too-big t-shirt that said, Bitch Don’t Kill My Vibe. She’d been sleeping for nearly four hours already. I knew this because I hadn’t, slept that is. My insomnia didn’t seem to be going away too soon. Not with thoughts of joblessness and boy drama and Olly Murs’ bum on my mind. It was all too much. I’d never had a mind that frequently raced with important thoughts, and now it was like I didn’t know how to handle it. At that rate, I wouldn’t be sleeping until daybreak. Which, luckily, would be allowed as we were to be on the road most of the day.

My problems could drown you. (Or you know, bother you a little until you rolled your eyes and moved on.)

Pulling my sweatshirt tighter around my shoulders, I said, “for your information, you weren’t the one who almost slipped and fell on her face in a pile of Astrid’s innards and saw her life flash before her eyes. So next time you nearly drown in puke, call me.”

“I don’t have your number,” Juliet shrugged, taking a drag from her cigarette and taking no mind to hide her smirk. Bitch town, population Juliet. After the gig the night before, she’d gotten all her chutzpah back after Louis scared the shit out of her and managed to insult my outfit twice, my hair three times, and make Reed laugh a total of nine times. Nine! I can’t even make her laugh five times a day!

I’d come to the conclusion that Reed, who enjoyed mean humor and seeing people bleed, fit in nicely with Juliet, the Devil’s Spawn. Astrid still wasn’t a massive fan of the Blonde Who Must Not Be Named, so there were victory points there; though she wasn’t much help when she was praying to the porcelain gods in the back of the tour bus.