I spent lunchtimes in the IT room printing out every picture of her online, until I had about 300, from penny-size to poster, plastered across my bedroom. (Typing that now, for the first time in probably 17 years, the muscle memory fizzes.) I got caught with a picture of her stuffed up my sleeve on a mum-supervised trip to the hairdresser after an argument about not being allowed short hair, I was allowed a half-measures pixie cut. I had a Saturday job, which allowed me to save up for her clothes – thick brown corduroy trousers, pre-weathered Mickey Mouse T-shirts – sourced on the messageboard where I posted intensively as alexparksrocks. Like Lavigne, she arrived right on time.Īt 14, I became more consumed than ever. A national paper splashed on her sexuality before the show started. She had short spiked hair and wore baggy clothes and skate shoes. I’m sure that kind of rare proximity would have made me root for anyone, but she had a distinct allure. I had to walk past her brother’s house when I got the bus. She grew up in the next village along from where my grandparents lived. The local papers reported that 18-year-old Alex Parks had got into Fame Academy, the BBC’s wholesome equivalent to Pop Idol. Then, suddenly, there was a pop star in our midst. The author in her teenage bedroom (and best friend’s clothes).
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