Barnard Sara - Floored: When Seven Lives Collide

We dedicate this book to each other.

So glad we got in the lift together.

CONTENTS

YEAR ONE

DAWSON

I realize Im staring at the arse of the guy in front of me roughly seven seconds before he does, but thats all the time I need for several thoughts to run through my mind.

First, I think nice arse.

Second, I mentally shout at myself for objectifying this guy based solely on his bum. After everything Ive been through, I should know better than to reduce someone to their appearance. I should be more concerned about how intelligent he is, or whether he does stuff for charity, or how he treats animals... and all Im thinking about is how good his jeans look. And they really do

STOP IT, YOU PERV.

Third, I wonder if I can blame hormones, or would that be a cop out? Is this what happens once you start kissing people? One (slightly OK, very drunken) kiss and a bit of a fumble (over trousers) with Olly Pritchard, and the Pandoras Box of Perving is open for business, so now all I can think about is sex. Although Celestia Carey did say boys think about sex once every seven seconds. Wait, that cant be true. Every seven seconds? Thats like, five hundred times an hour. No way. No one could think about sex that much. Ill google it later...

Fourth is this really the time to be eyeing someone up? Im not here to look at bums; Im here to see my mum.

There. That killed it. The lid is back on the box.

Fifth what if someone in the cafeteria hears my thoughts and knows Im the kind of guy who stares at strangers arses and has to think about his mum to stop himself? What if someone is listening right now?

I look around as surreptitiously as I can to see if anyone is looking at me in disgust. No more than usual, ha ha.

Once again I find myself looking at the arse. I wonder if hes...

The seven seconds are up, and all sex thoughts die a million deaths as the owner of the arse turns around and clocks me. Hes older than me. Much older maybe twenty-five. I didnt think he was that old from behind. His arse didnt look like an old arse.

He looks at me, eyebrows raised, and my skin heats. I see the moment he dismisses me, and then I see it the recognition as if a light has switched on inside his mind, and he does a double take.

Shit.

Have we met? he asks. There is a string of spit between his teeth and it makes me feel sick. Wait. Are you... ?

Im gone before I can hear how that question ends, bolting out of the queue and cutting between the tables. I trip over someones bag, and my shin smashes into a chair, but I dont stop, ignoring the angry voices behind me and slamming through the doors into the corridor.

Outside is buzzing, and I weave through crowds of people adults in suits, techs in Converse and shorts. Where is the bloody exit? I need to be outside. Weirdly, theres a load of people my age around, all wide-eyed and staring, and I duck my head and try to move past them. Dont look at me. Dont see me.

I turn down the corridor towards the lifts, stopping abruptly when I see how many people are waiting. Someone slams into the back of me, and I grunt.

Sorry, a girl says when I turn around.

No worries, I say. She has a blue stripe in her hair, like a weird punk skunk. Why just one stripe? It looks ridiculous.

Are you going to the induction?

What? I cant stop staring at the stripe. Its really blue. I wonder if it was a dare. Or an accident.

The induction. Health and safety. Its on the ninth floor. Skunk Girl sounds annoyed, so I stop staring at her hair and meet her eyes.

Erm. No. Sorry.

Oh. Its just... I thought I recognized you from the briefing earlier.

Nope. Not me. Im not being inducted. Theyre interns, I realize. Work-experience kids. One of them will be assigned to Mum, and shell spend two weeks shouting at them because theyll be on their phones all day and not get her coffee right. It happens every year. Someone gets put on Mums show, and shell get angry about it and phone me to rant about how its because shes a woman, and a mother, and if she was Stewart McConnell she wouldnt have to have an intern, shed get a proper assistant. And then Ill do my famous Angry Alicia Sharman impression in the Dedman green room and everyone will laugh.

Except I wont. Because there isnt a Dedman green room this year. Or ever again.

Dawson Sharman! the girl says, and I tune back in. Thats why I recognize you!

What?

Youre Dawson Sharman. From Dedman High.

Shit.

No, I say, too fast. I get that all the time. I mean, I dont see it, personally. But, you know... I smile as though Im embarrassed. I mean, I am embarrassed. But not in the way I want her to think.

Right. Sorry. I just... Yeah. I suppose it would be a bit weird if you were him, just wandering around the UKB randomly.

Yeah. Ha, I say. No, Im here for... I work here. As a runner.

Oh. Right. She looks me up and down again. Right, she says again. So, do you know where the health and safety induction is?

No. Sorry. I shrug.

The lift pings, and we both turn to it, joining the informal queue to get in as people pour out.

I spot Stewart at the same time he spots me.

Shi-i-i-t.

Dawson! he booms down the corridor, causing everyone within a five-mile radius to turn to me.

The girl behind me gasps, and I freeze.

What are you doing here? Your mum said you were going to a taster day at your new school.

Erm...

Must be weird, eh, at a school for norms after all this time. Still, itll be good to build some character. Think of it as method acting, thats what Id do. Just get through the year and maybe you can apply again. Have you thought about one of the Manchester acting schools? Not too far from here, and they might be less picky than a London school.

OK, so...

Anyway, I wont keep you. Your mum was in her office, last I saw. She didnt seem in a great mood though, so have a care.

Sure.

Stewart frowns, as if noticing for the first time that Im not in a great mood either. Your drink is leaking. He nods at my hand.

I look down and realize Im still holding the carton of coconut water I was queuing for in the cafeteria. Ive stolen it, and while hes been talking, Ive been squeezing it, and its leaking all over the floor. Its not a huge loss, I tell myself. I dont even like coconut water. Celestia says it tastes like spunk, but I wouldnt know. Neither would she, to be honest.

Stewart strides away, and I watch him go, wishing I had the power to kill people with my eyes. I take a small step away from the coconut-water puddle. I should find a bin

You lied.

I spin around, startled; Id forgotten Skunk Girl was there. It feels like every single person whod been waiting for the lift has stayed, listening to Stewart, and staring at me. Some of them have their phones out. Probably snapchatting, instagramming. There will be photos all over the Internet of me, people tweeting each other the conversation, looking me up on IMDb and Wikipedia to find out what Im doing next, a hint of why Im here. Maybe an audition...

Yeah, no.

I, Dawson Sharman former actor and BAFTA Rising Star-nominated child prodigy am, at the grand old age of sixteen, a has-been. I am over. All my future holds now is the possibility of an appearance on some telly show where Im stuck in a jungle, or a house, or on an island with a bunch of other Z-listers, and my only chance of a comeback is if I get off with one of them. My destiny lies in Where Are They Now? listicles. Ones with Before and After pictures. Dawson, aged fourteen, with his amazing bone structure, those piercing green eyes versus Dawson today, blob fish after a fist fight. What happened to the face that launched a thousand