The Places I've Cried in Public by Holly Bourne

“So, you and Hannah?” The vodka had made me able to initiate
conversations.
He smiled blearily. “Am I that obvious?” he asked.
“Maybe just to me. I’m more of a watcher than a participant.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“I think she likes you too, for what it’s worth.”
“Really?” His face lit up for a millisecond before dropping into a
confused grimace. “But she spent the whole of our school-leaving ball
kissing this dickwad from the football team.”
“Maybe she was just…”
But I was interrupted by a band coming up onstage. Everyone whooped
and cheered louder than ever. I glanced up to see what all the ado was
about, and it was hat boy from the music room and his band. Reese. He
clutched the microphone and flicked the brim of his trilby. “Hi, everyone,
we’re That Band,” he announced, self-confidence lacing his every word.
They launched into “Welcome To Nowhere” and it was pretty seamless.
The song was tight, the melody catchy. It rose and fell in the right bits.
Charisma hurtled out of Reese’s voice and crackled through the mike. It
was impossible not to look at him. He didn’t have the best singing voice,
but his air of arrogance carried the song so perfectly I was surprised he
didn’t spit up lightning.
Hannah found us among the dancing smush. “How did I do?” she
yelled.
I reluctantly looked away from the stage. “You were great! When can I
vote for you to be prime minister?”
We all hugged – her, Jack, Liv and me. As we broke apart, Hannah
looked up at the stage.
“Oh god,” she groaned. “All aboard the Dickhead Express.”
That.