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been part of Noah’s plan to convince my parents it would be all right to let me go away with him. Dean had spent a whole afternoon at our house, reassuring Mum and Dad that a rock tour with Noah and The Sketch was not going to be the crazy alcohol-and-drug-fuelled environment that gets depicted in Hollywood movies and TV shows.
    “What with smartphones, social media, and paparazzi nowadays, we can’t take any risks with our talent,” Dean had said. It felt strange to hear Noah being described as “talent.” “The moment they step out of line, someone will capture it on film and it will go viral, so it’s my job to make sure it never comes to that.”
    That afternoon feels so long ago, and now everything is actually happening. I can hardly believe it.
    Dean snaps me back to reality. “Noah, you’re onstage in an hour—we have no time to mess around!”
    “I spent all afternoon here rehearsing. I think I’m allowed to take a break.”
    “Well, it probably would have been good for you to tell me where you were going rather than leaving me running around like a headless chicken!”
    Noah winks at me. It’s typical for him to run off without telling his management team where he’s going. I stifle a giggle.
    It’s far less glamorous backstage than I thought it would be. In my head, I had imagined a lot of leather furniture and big mirrors with naked bulbs surrounding them, or maybe somewhere really industrial, with exposed metal pipes and lots of speakers everywhere. Instead, we are ushered through a series of narrow hallways towards a door with a piece of paper tacked on the front that reads: NOAH FLYNN . Inside is a small, beige-painted room with a couple of grey sofas round a coffee table. Just that on its own would look really boring, but it’s made much livelier by the sheer mess that’s dotted all around. There are lots of instruments stacked in the corner, suitcases open and spilling their contents onto the floor, and several leather jackets laid across the back of the sofa. On the walls are photographs of famous people who have performed at the Brighton Centre, from Bing Crosby (who I now know all about, thanks to Elliot) to more modern bands like The Vamps, The Wanted, and even One Direction. I wonder if Noah’s picture will end up there one day too.
    “Are The Sketch in a room like this too?” I ask.
    Noah shakes his head. “No, they get the fancier dressing rooms.”
    “Well, that makes sense. Will I get to meet them?”
    Now he laughs. “Heck, I haven’t even met them yet! I’mjust the support act, remember? Their management keeps them on an even tighter leash than Dean does me. I’d be surprised if we see them at all this tour, unless you’re really lucky. Wait, you’re not hoping to upgrade your rock-star boyfriend, are you?”
    I punch him lightly on the shoulder and stick out my tongue. I quickly get over any disappointment at not meeting The Sketch as soon as I spot the array of treats laid out on the coffee table. There’s a HUGE bowl full of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Jolly Ranchers, several bottles of neon-yellow Lucozade . . . and Cadbury Mini Eggs.
    “Wait, Noah, how did you get these?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “It’s the summer—these mini eggs are only around at Easter! I guess that’s your big diva request,” I say with a grin.
    “I’ll have to trust your chocolate expertise on that fact,” says Noah. He reaches down, grabs a mini egg, and pops it in his mouth. He pulls a box out from underneath the table, and when he opens it the room fills with the aroma of chocolate-chip cookies. “But, seeing as Sadie Lee made me promise to give these to her favourite Brit and not eat them all by myself, mini eggs are the next best thing!”
    “Nothing beats Sadie Lee’s cookies!” I say, grabbing one. They’re still soft on the inside. Even though I could eat the whole batch, I offer one to Noah and then to Dean, who has followed us in.
    “Hey, who wants some