Grade 6-10–Dominic, 15, is obsessed with The Plastics, and he's trapped in an elevator with the band's hot lead singer. In alternating chapters, he narrates a minute-by-minute account of the experience, as well as the backstory leading up to the moment: the path to his obsession, his family problems, and his clueless dealings with a potential love interest. Cheshire offers a strong, witty narrative voice reminiscent of a younger Steve York in Rob Thomas's
Rats Saw God (S & S, 1996). The story is set in a suburb of Birmingham, England. The topic–teen pop-star obsessions–is sexy and relevant. However, despite some moments of humor and an effort to capture real emotions behind infatuation, the novel never really gets beneath the surface of its sizable issues. Cheshire's agendas–to reveal how pop stars are actually manipulated and unhappy, and how today's youth are just ignorant of music history–may not sit well with readers. And if they are not exactly offended, they may wonder what any of this has to do with Dom's neglectful parents, and how, really, the singer could decide to change her career after a couple of hours trapped with this increasingly unsympathetic hero. Readers may enjoy watching Dom learn his lesson. More likely, they'll find this exploration of pop music about as punchy and insightful as The Plastics' latest single.–
Riva Pollard, The Winsor School Library, Boston Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
TRACK ONE
"There's 32 reasons why I love you
All but four of them are true"
--"32 Reasons," from the Plastic album From Hell It Came
(Voyd/Parkins (c) Cellophane Music Ltd)
12:27 p.m. This is the greatest moment of my life.
I am stuck in a lift with Lisa Voyd.
Me! I, Dominic "Sherlock" Smith, aged fifteen and eight months, of 21 Victoria Crescent, have felt the lift shudder to a halt, have seen the lights on the panel of buttons flicker and go out, and now I am stuck inside with . . .
Lisa! Voyd! THE Lisa Voyd: lyricist, style goddess, lead singer of Plastic. She's standing barely half a meter from me. I think my heart is about to burst with joy! I think my head is about to explode with sheer delight! I think I'm about to hyperventilate!
Calm down, Dominic. Breathe sensibly. Come on, come on, be objective, be rational.
This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. This is what you've always wanted, Dom, me old mate. This is THE moment. It will never come again. It will be over in two minutes, as soon as the lift starts moving again, as soon as they get the power back on. Make the most of it, be cool, and above all make a good impression on her.
"Hallphreeelllblee," I burble. Oh crap, my mouth's stopped working.
She turns and looks at me. Looks at me, properly, for the first time.
"You OK?" she says.
I don't want to burble again. So I nod instead.
"Are you . . . freaked out by lifts or something?"
I shake my head, noooo, no no no, no problem.
Her eyes narrow slightly. Her face now has the exact same expression as in the photograph of her in the May issue of MusicMaker, page seventy-four, top left-hand corner. That exact mix of the quizzical and the exotic. She is the page come to life.
It makes her look even lovelier than usual. She is slightly taller than me, almost six feet, and the chunky-heeled boots she's wearing make her even taller. She seems slimmer in real life, her figure hugged in dark-shaded clothes which couldn't look more expensive if they had This cost a fortune stamped all over them. Black jeans, flappy at the ankle; a thin, military-styled jacket over a regular shirt; a tie, around her neck instead of her collar.
She reaches out once again to stab all the way up the column of lift buttons in turn. Her fingers are long, with neatly clipped nails. They're slightly ragged at the lower edges, though. I think maybe she picks at them.
Her neck is slender, her jawline sharp, her nose a bit more flared than it registers on camera. Her face is broad, kind of angular, and her eyes are the darkest I have ever seen. Science fiction eyes. The hair that's the envy of so many girls is indeed a shining tone of reddish auburn, cut in a straight, short chop-chop style that highlights the exquisite beauty it surrounds. She is six months past her twentieth birthday.
I'm close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo. Even her smell is beauty incarnate.
This person is gorgeous, talented, self-assured, powerful, respected. Everything you could aspire to. Everything I could look for in a woman. Utterly wonderful.
And I am here with her, in this lift that is stuck. For a moment, my eyes shift focus to the glass wall beside her and I see my reflection. There stands Dominic Smith, whose tinted specs make him look dead cool, thank you very much, although the scraggy black hair manages to spoil the effect. My hair stages more uprisings than a nineteenth-century revolutionary. I inherited it from my dad. Thanks, Dad.
But that IS me, reflected in that glass. Tallish, thinnish, borderline gangling. Standing next to her. I can see both of us at once. Both of us, her and me, me and her.
Me and Lisa.
There's movement outside the glass. It suddenly reminds me of what's going on outside. There are feet jostling about just above the level of our heads, and below us a ten-meter drop to the shop floor of Big Deal Records.
You see, the lift has glass walls, and glass doors so you can see the mechanism inside that opens and closes them. Very interesting, actually, I've never seen that before. Only the floor and ceiling aren't see-through. They were lit up from behind when the power was still on, a bright, clean light that danced around Lisa's boots in neatly irregular shapes.
The lift is stuck halfway between floors, halfway between the cavernous space below that is the main atrium of "Birmingham's Latest, Greatest Entertainment Retailer" and its second floor ("More Fabulous Bargains Upstairs! Chart Albums--Two For £20"). A thick band of concrete blocks our view in a strip around three sides of the top half of the lift. Above the band, we can see shoes dashing about in the small gap which is all that's visible of the second floor. Now and again, half a face appears, squashed to the floor, on its side, one eye staring in at us. OhmyGod! Lisa Voyd's in there with some kid! Who's the kid? Does anyone know who this kid is?
And from lift floor to waist level, we get a panoramic view of the crowd below. Hundreds, packed into the shop for its grand opening. "Lisa Voyd Here in Person! Saturday at Noon! Signing Copies of the New Plastic Album." Shouts and wild looks and the occasional scream get thrown up at us now that they all realize something's wrong. OhmyGod, she's stuck! The lift is stuck! But wait, who's that devilishly handsome young man with her? Can he save her? Will he hug her tightly to allay her fears as terror and claustrophobia take hold of her?
"Holy CRAP!" Lisa is stabbing at the buttons once more. Nothing responds.
"Don't panic," I say, with fantastic calmness and authority.
