You Don't Know Me by Sophia Bennett

breathe. Sure, she doesn’t have a typical pop-star figure, but I thought that stuff didn’t matter to people because we were friends, and we could sing. I was so naïve and stupid and wrong.
    And Rose knew instantly. That’s what her strange behaviour was all about. She knew she didn’t fit because she was ‘large’ . . . and I agreed. That’s how it must have seemed. Her best friend agreed – the one person she thought she could trust. She didn’t get then that I was jealous of her, she thought I was just like the others. Now, I think, she’s starting to understand that it was more complicated than that. She knows me well enough to realise that I am STUPID, but not mean. Not really. But it’s too late.
    I don’t let Nell take my arm. I can’t bear to be touched right now. She pulls her hand away, looking offended. This is how Rose was with me, I realise, after the judges’ comments. Too angry and upset to be touched. She just needed me to be there for her. And I totally wasn’t.
    â€˜I never thought about it . . .’
    â€˜Wow,’ Jodie says, realising how I misjudged the whole situation. ‘Awkward.’ She bites her lip.
    â€˜Awkward? Awkward? If I’d realised I’d never have . . . Oh my God. And I said that we’d take her back after the TV shows were over. I meant to spare her shyness. She must have thought we didn’t want her to appear on TV . . .’
    â€˜Don’t let it get to you,’ Jodie says. ‘I talked to Mum about it and she said Rose was better off out of it. People can be mean, you know?’
    â€˜Yes,’ I whisper. Because, like it or not, I am one of them.
    Jodie holds out a hand to help me up, but I refuse it. She shrugs and walks off. I walk slowly after her, making sure to keep a good distance between us. Nell trails behind, keeping more distance still.
    Four hours later, we’re back in costume and ready, waiting backstage while the first act launches Killer Act Live. It’s the ukulele players. They sound amazing. Through a tiny crack in the wooden wall at the side of the stage we can just make out the studio audience and the judges, spotlit at their table. Two cameras are trained on them, and two more on the stage. I try not to think of them broadcasting their images to millions of people. They’re scary enough as it is.
    After the adverts, it’s time for the next act: the street dancers. They’re aged between eleven and thirteen, and they could frankly be in the Olympics, the way they tumble, balance and leap. They must have been practising every minute since they passed the audition. How did thethree of us ever make it this far?
    Janet, the floor manager from the auditions, is in charge of us while we wait. ‘You know what you’ve got to do?’ she checks.
    We nod. We’ve rehearsed this a dozen times. After the next advert break, we will go onstage and chat to Andy for a minute or two, then watch the background video they’ve done about us. They haven’t shown it to us yet, because they always like to film the surprise on the band members’ faces when they see it for the first time. After that, we go to our marks on the stage floor, and then we sing. And, in my case, wiggle about in my kilt for three minutes in front of several million people I can’t see.
    Seminal leotards. Totally.
    The street dancers finish their act flawlessly. The judges tell them how great they are. Advert break. Nerves. Three. Two. One. Janet sends us out. We walk to our marks next to Andy. We’re on.
    Bright lights shine in our faces. Andy takes a breath and does his best professional smile.
    â€˜And finally tonight we have three girls from near my home town in Somerset,’ Andy says, in his reassuring, familiar West Country burr. ‘These girls entered the competition with their own song, back in October, and became our fastest-rising entry ever! And look