That sucks, but it does make sense.
Ruben crosses his arms, but doesn’t say anything. Erin spins, then leads us out onto a stage. In the seating area, a line has formed, made up of about fifty contest winners, mostly teenage girls and their parents. They’re fenced in by dozens of security guards, like they’re dangerous.
The screaming starts.
It’s almost deafening. Some of them start crying. A bunch of them have brought homemade signs, along with bags filled with things to give us that I know we won’t be able to keep. They must know it, too, but they still bring it. Maybe it’s because the thing that matters to them is the act of giving it to us. Or maybe they think their present will break through the slush, even though, honestly, it never does, which is another thing I feel guilty about.
The cameraman is already in position, so the four of us line up, in our new, freshly approved order, with Ruben and me standing as far apart as possible.
The first girl comes up onto the stage. She’s in all black, and her hair is clearly dyed raven-dark. Her mascara is thick, and she has leather bracelets on.
I would die for her.
“Hey,” she says, nodding at the others before coming right up to me. “Zach, I made you something.”
“Oh, that’s so nice! Thanks.”
She hands me a paper bag. I open the bag, pulling out a hand-stitched piece of art, with the lyrics from the chorus of “Fight Back,” my favorite song. I relate to every single line Randy Kehoe wrote for it. I answered an interview question years ago asking what my favorite lyrics are, and she’s clearly remembered.
“Oh my god,” I say. “I love this!”
“Really? I’m not the best at stitching, and it’s a bit wonky in the corner, I’m sorry.”
I clutch it to my chest. “Don’t be sorry, I love it, thank you.”
“Falling for Alice is my favorite band,” she says, before her eyes widen. “Besides you guys!”
I laugh. “They’re my favorite, too.”
Erin clears her throat.
“Sorry,” says the girl, and we line up for the photo. The camera flashes, and she leaves the stage. “It’s so nice to meet you!”
“It’s nice to meet you, too!”
I know I’m going to get scolded by Erin for what just happened. By giving this much time to her, I’ve set up a precedent that every other person in the meet and greet is going to expect that much attention. And we can’t have that, because we have a show tonight, and that means we need to be at the stadium in an hour. So people are going to be upset, and upset fans upset Chorus.
I get all of that. And making Erin mad at me is terrifying.
I’m just not sure I did anything wrong.
SEVENTEEN
RUBEN
“The next question we have for you boys is about romance within the band!”
As the word leaves our interviewer Elisa’s lips, time screeches to a halt. Beside her, her very-blond colleague, Moritz, tents his hands, apparently eager to see where this is going.
We’re at Array Magazine in Vienna, the four of us sitting in a row of single metal chairs, with Zach and I placed on opposite ends of the row, as per Erin’s instruction. While cameras are fixed on us for recording purposes, none of the footage is making it to the public eye, so until this moment our postures were relaxed. But now, I shoot up straight, feet planted on the floor and my hands on my knees. I see the others stiffen similarly in my peripherals.
“I’m sure you know all bands receive their fair share of shipping and rumors—”
This can’t be happening.
“—and our readers want to know the truth!”
We’ll deny it, of course. But how did they hear about this to begin with? Who leaked something? Or did we slip up? I sneak a glance at Erin, who’s typing frantically on her iPad, her expression livid.
“Are you familiar with the term ‘Anjon’?” Elisa finishes.
I am extremely happy this footage isn’t going public, because I’m pretty sure the expression on my face went from “stricken terror” to “utter bewilderment” a little too obviously just now.
Jon, who’s sitting to my right, laughs. “Uh, I’ve seen a few people mention it in comments.”
Angel, who’s been slumped over throughout the interview with bags under his eyes, perks up for the first time in an hour. “We have a ship name? Why wasn’t I informed of this?”
Jon holds a finger up to the interviewers. “Hold on, this is off the record for a second.” Then he tilts his head and turns to Angel. “We have access to the same posts. They’re under every group photo. Why don’t you pay attention to anything?”
“I thought there was some guy called Anjon a few people were obsessed with! I figured they wanted him to join the band or something, I don’t know.”
“Oh, so, essentially, you thought it wasn’t about you so you didn’t process it?”
“Yes, exactly that, thank you.”
Jon gives him a long, tight smile, blinking rapidly, then returns to a front-facing position. “Okay, we’re ready to answer. We—”
“No, you’re not going to answer,” Erin cuts in, brandishing her iPad as she storms over to Elisa and Moritz. “Here. Your magazine agreed, in writing, to this list of blocked topics. This question is off-limits.”
Elisa is unperturbed. “We were told that any question about Zach and Ruben and romance was blocked. We were not given any directions about Jon and Angel.”
I glance at the others. Zach’s shrunk in his seat, fiddling with the zipper on his leather jacket. All I want to do is reach across Jon and Angel and take his hand—or at least squeeze his arm—but the three feet between us might as well be an ocean for all we’re allowed to interact outside of hotel rooms.
“Obviously any questions about romance within the band are going to encourage online speculation, though—”