"WHUT. ARE. YOU. WRITING? WHUT IS SO IMPORTANT? LET ME SEE. NO, GIVE IT, GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING—AGH!” Charli XCX is grinning, a drink in her hand, pushing my drink into my face, spilling vodka on us both as she tries to steal my iPhone. It’s sometime after midnight in a back room of Baby’s All Right, the South Williamsburg, Brooklyn club the 21-year-old has just shut down with a DJ set. Covered in sweat and alcohol, she has the phone in her hand, and types away furiously in my notes. “Put that in your article,” she laughs, shoving it back at me. She sashays out the door of the club, friends in tow, on her way to a victory cigarette.
I should’ve seen it coming. When we first met, 12 hours earlier, she approached me in the middle of her cover shoot and tapped my shoulder.
“Hi, I’m Charli,” she smiled, extending a palm out of her pink kimono, a plate of meat and potatoes—literally, just meat and potatoes—from a nearby catering tray in her other hand. “Want to chat a bit while this thing goes on?”
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