That is definitely not something that fifteen-year-old Zach ever would’ve thought, not in a million years, but now I’m so damn grateful for them. I’m with Valeria, in a dance studio an hour earlier than everyone else, to go over my moves for the show before the others arrive to learn the “Overdrive” music video routine. So right now it’s just us in this massive, mirrored space.
I need this, though. Because earlier, I got an email.
Today, 1:17 p.m. (1 hour ago)
Geoff <[email protected]> To: me
Hey, Zach,
Galactic had a read of your “End of Everything” suggestions and decided that they’re maybe not as strong as the original draft. As a thank-you for your help, you will still be receiving songwriter credit on the song. Don’t be down about this, they liked your suggestions, and hope to get you more involved on the lyric side of things in the near future!
Best,
Geoff
“Okay, Zach, go.”
The chorus of “Yours, Mine, Ours” starts, and I dance, as hard as I can go.
Don’t think about it. But as hard as I push myself, the thoughts come back. I’m getting credit, but the song is in no way mine. It’s Galactic’s song, but it will have my name on it, and now everyone out there is going to think that I wrote “End of Everything”—a sappy, slow ballad, nothing even remotely like the kind of music I enjoy listening to or writing.
Songwriting was my thing. And it feels like it’s been wrenched away from me, just like my appearance and singing style has. The whole thing is moving too fast to stop. We’re recording it tomorrow.
Stop. Thinking. About it.
I hit each of my movements on time, harder and faster than I usually dance. Turns out, frustration is one hell of a motivator. I finish off with a body roll, the last move of the routine. I’m done now, and panting to catch my breath.
“Perfect!” says Val, giving me a high-five. “Dude, that was absolutely perfect.”
I rest my hands on my hips and try to get in some much-needed air. “Really?”
“If you do that onstage you could cause a riot.”
I grin.
I retrieve my water bottle. Maybe I’m overreacting about the song. It’s just one track, and who knows, it might be the start of something. Geoff did say they want to get me more involved on the lyric side of things. It’s a foot in the door.
Val calls “Be right back!” and walks out, leaving me totally alone.
The room goes quiet. I use my tank to mop some of the sweat off my face, and then I check my phone. Oh shit, we went over by ten minutes. I must’ve kept the others waiting.
I’ve got a new message from Ruben.
Hey hey, how’s it going?
Great! We just finished and Val said I was perfect!!
I haven’t told him about the email yet. I haven’t found the right time. I hear the door open, stopping me mid-response.
Ruben and Angel walk in. Ruben is dressed in a football jersey that shows off his arms, black workout pants, and squeaky-clean Nikes. The world stops.
He should only wear this.
“Hey,” he says, doing a cute little wave and tilting his head up.
I want to jog up to him, pick him up, and kiss him. I don’t know if there are cameras in this room, so I don’t. It’s tough, though, because Ruben in workout clothes … damn. Just, damn. I don’t know how he keeps getting sexier to me, but he keeps finding a way. Seriously, when did his arms start looking like that? When did he start being able to make me feel like this?
We make eye contact, and his eyes sparkle. I want to press him up against that mirror and feel him run his hands down my back. I want him to whisper my name. I don’t care that anyone could see us, because I know with everything I have that it’d be worth it. Screw the world. Screw everyone but Ruben.
Or, maybe screw Ruben. If he wanted that.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks. He chews his bottom lip, like he knows I’m thinking about screwing.
I scrub the back of my head. Keep it together, man.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing, huh?”
My chest tightens, making it hard to breathe. Does he even know how much him looking at me makes me feel? Does he even know how bad I have it for him?
I catch Angel rolling his eyes. “You two really need to learn the meaning of ‘secret relationship.’”
“Whatever, Angel,” says Ruben. “You wouldn’t know subtle if it hit you in the face.”
“Last I checked I’m not the one keeping a huge-ass secret from … fromage, ah yes, that was the word I was thinking of.”
He changed tack as the door opened. It’s just Val, though. Now her bubblegum-pink hair is loose. She scans the room.
“What’d I miss?”
“Nothing,” says Angel.
She scoffs. “Like I’d believe that for a second. Where’s Jon?”
Good question.
“He was talking to Geoff,” says Angel, who is mid–calf stretch. “He asked for some privacy. I was more than happy to give it to him, of course, because I’m a stand-up guy.”
“Pfft. He better hurry up. The backup dancers get here in half an hour and we’ve got a lot of ground to cover before then.”
The door swings open again, and Jon rushes inside.
“Sorry!” he says, rushing to dump his bag and unzip his hoodie. He’s actually showing the least skin of all of us, in a plain black tee. I wonder if that’s intentional.
I stand next to Ruben, in our usual formation.
“Actually,” says Val. “I was thinking we could switch things up for this video? To keep things fresh. Ruben, can you stand next to Jon?”
“Sure.”
He walks around, so he’s at the other end of the lineup. It feels weird. We never perform like this.
Something is up.
“Great,” she says. “Let’s get started.”
* * *
It’s official.
They’re keeping Ruben and me apart.
I first noticed it on the first night of our shoot. The theme for the video is that we’re futuristic race car drivers, who dance for some reason, and they’ve built us a few massive sets at the studio.
During that first dance rehearsal, Ruben and I were positioned at opposite ends of the lineup. I thought it might be Val just trying something different.