Free Bit Players, Has-Been Actors and Other Posers: A Must-Read for Fans of Glee, High School Musical and Twilight by S. Stevens Page A

upper-crust British accent, “—by the way, spelled properly it’s p-o-s-e-u-r -- is like it sounds: someone who pretends to be something they’re not. The term was in vogue in the seventies punk scene, describing the young lads who thought sticking safety pins in their ears and noses qualified them to be punk rockers.”
    “But it didn’t?” My knowledge of 1970s British culture was shaky.
    “Not at all. Being a punk was a state of mind and political belief as much as clothing and mannerisms. So those who dressed or talked like punk rockers but didn’t have the bollocks to back it up – well, those are posers.”
    “Thanks for the history lesson,” I smiled, staring into his eyes and feeling like part of a special club. Initial reports to the contrary, his eyes were definitely brown – a nice, light brown like crispy leaves, not dirt brown like mine. (Alex called my eyes “chocolate pudding brown” once, but what did he know?)
    While I analyzed Nigel’s eyes, he pulled me closer to him on the couch and kissed me. (Picture that as the first big loop-de-loop of the rollercoaster ride, giving me chills and thrills as I spun and twisted madly through the air, laughing all the way and definitely wanting more.) Ten minutes into a make-out session, my father came home, stomping loudly in the hallway as Nigel and I pulled apart. Of course Dad insisted on shaking hands with Nigel and introducing himself formally, and sitting with us to ask loads of stupid questions like how was Nigel enjoying the U.S., Massachusetts and Crudup High.
    Nigel endured it all with great patience, but by the time Dad was forced to stop his inquisition to take a phone call from Mom, Nigel had to leave. So it was an anti-climactic end to a thrilling visit, like the inevitable letdown after the big loop, as the car chugs along the flat track preparing for the next climb.
    After dinner, Adrienne called. “Where were you today? I thought we were studying for the Spanish test at my house.” The rollercoaster careened over the edge of a sheer vertical drop, my stomach plunging with it. How did I forget I was supposed to go to Adrienne’s house? In the excitement of Nigel, that’s how. I was a terrible friend. Luckily, Adrienne was a great friend and she forgave me easily enough.
    Tuesday, the soccer team played our arch rivals, Cunningham High. Alex posted a shut-out and the team won 1-0, cementing his status as one of the most popular kids in school. I was indifferent – more chugging around the track waiting for the next scary part.
    Which came Wednesday, when I was thrown into another loop-de-loop. Nigel came over again, which started as a repeat of Monday. We sang along to some music and practiced the Troy/Gabriella duets from HSM2, perfecting the harmonies after a few tries. But he soon lost interest and swooped me into his arms to the slow music of “Gotta Go My Own Way”, kissing me far more passionately than anything seen in a Disney film. I stopped trying to figure out whether the weak knees I got from Nigel’s kissing meant I was falling in love with him, and gave myself over to the kissing. The thought that I might love him seemed ludicrous at this stage, but I definitely loved kissing him.
    He grew kind of frantic as we made out, so when he pulled away from me, I thought it was time for a break. He had other ideas. “Let’s go upstairs,” he whispered, kissing me again.
    “Uh no, that’s a bad idea, Nigel. My dad could be home any minute.” I started to kiss him back but he stopped me.
    “Sadie, don’t torture me.” His words stunned me. I thought this was the opposite of torture. “Come on, we’re Troy and Gabriella, remember? Let’s go prepare for the auditions another way, if you know what I mean. Let’s get inspired.” He kissed my neck, sending a shiver through me. I mustered all my willpower.
    “Nigel, stop,” I said firmly. His arms stiffened around me and let go. His face was blank but his mouth was