Callie was in a dreadfully bad mood. She stood crushed up against the back wall, holding her lukewarm overpriced cup of orange juice. Even she had to admit that the music wasn't too bad; but still, why did they have to try so hard? I bet they spend hours reading their How to be Punk manuals, thoughts Callie snidely as she looked at the bassist's purple hair. And the one with a guitar and microphone, with the most tattoos and piercings; he was the worst poser of them all, in her opinion.

   Becky was having the time of her life, giggling and talking to the band backstage. Callie stood to one side, feeling a bit like a lemon. One of them, Billy or something, gestured to her to sit on a beanbag so, rather gingerly, she sat down.
   The lead guitarist guy walked into the room, and looked at Callie. She turned and met his big brown eyes, and felt a strange melting shiver down her spine. He walked over to her and smiled. "Did you enjoy the show?"
   Callie was about to say yes and smile back, but just in time she remembered that this guy was a poser. "It was alright," she said rather icily. He seemed a bit taken aback by this; he said, "Oh, um, alright then," and walked away.