My phone starts buzzing in my pocket. I check, and see that it’s Mom, so I let it ring out.
I know I’m being a little immature, and I should just talk to her. Or, at the least, I should call her back. I type out a text message instead, and try not to feel bad about the short, clipped replies I’ve been giving her ever since I came out to her.
Sorry. Going to an interview. Will call later.
Okay good luck. U will crush it. Love mom.
“Hey, Ruben, Zach?” calls Erin, from behind me. “A word?”
“Sure.”
We fall back, so we’re walking with her, out of earshot of the others. Just behind us, scarily close, are the guards.
“You guys are being really obvious right now,” she says, under her breath.
We were just walking.
We weren’t doing anything.
But whatever. This isn’t just about me. It’s also about Angel and Jon. And, honestly, I don’t want to fight right now. I don’t have enough fight in me to.
Ruben and I move apart.
Jon sees this happen, and he falls back, so he’s walking beside me. Ruben shoves his hands into his pockets, but doesn’t say anything, pretending to be taken in by the sights.
“You okay?” asks Jon.
I press my lips together. I don’t want to lie.
“Zach, wait,” says Erin.
What now, I think.
“You’re up,” she says, handing me a phone. “You and Jon look great together. We’d like a selfie of you throwing up a peace sign with Jon in the background. Think you can manage that?”
“Sure.”
I take the phone. Erin holds up a portable ring light, giving me perfect lighting, and I take a few shots, then give her the phone back.
A few minutes’ walk later, we reach the café. There are guards positioned out front. We go inside, and a reporter stands up. He’s a bigger guy, dressed in a button-down and a bow tie. He’s really cute.
A few of the other tables are occupied. I sense someone looking at us, and I turn to see a girl with long brown hair and faultless makeup, sitting with a guy with messy black hair in an oversized jacket that hangs off his muscular frame. They could both be models, honestly. I’ve gotten pretty used to what it looks like when fans look at us, and I get a completely different, colder vibe from the two of them.
We all shake the interviewer’s hand, and then sit down. A waitress comes by.
“One Bloody Mary, please,” says Angel.
The reporter writes a note down.
“Scratch that,” says Erin. “He’ll have a Pepsi Max.”
The waitress clearly has no idea who to listen to, and she turns from Angel to Erin.
“Unless you brought your passport, of course,” says Erin, to Angel. “The law here is you need to provide identification if you look underage, I believe.”
“Er, yeah…”
Erin nods, as if it’s settled. “Then a Pepsi Max it is. I’ll have a latte, please.”
Angel crosses his arms, only speaking to say he’s not hungry when asked if he’d like to order food.
The interviewer is clearly thrilled by this display. The poor, poor man. He obviously has no idea that he won’t be allowed to write about any of this. Chorus would never have agreed to the interview if they didn’t have that kind of power in writing. He thinks he’s going to do a big splashy piece right now about how we’re treated like children, but that’s not how this story is going to go.
“So, boys,” he says, barely able to hide his grin. “Are you enjoying Copenhagen?”
“So much,” says Ruben. “It’s such a wonderful city, and we’re so happy to have the opportunity to see it for ourselves.”
Outside, through the glass doors, I see a small crowd of fans has assembled. Holy shit, already? That was fast. I know they’re all connected on Twitter, but damn. A few of them press their faces to the glass, and I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this much like a zoo animal.
The interviewer hits all the familiar beats, asking about our clothes, how we’re handling our schedule, and how we’re hoping fans feel when they see us live. He doesn’t seem to be aware that the questions they come up with are always the same. Or maybe because our team has so many topics that are off-limits, he’s only asking what he can.
As Jon is reciting his response to “So what’s next for Saturday?” I see the guy with dark hair stand up. He crosses the café, and goes into the bathroom. I look across, and see the girl with him. She’s drumming her perfectly done fingernails against her white leather handbag. She catches me looking, and her stare is dark, like it won’t end well for me if I keep looking.
I return my focus to the interview.
“Zach, I’ve heard you have a songwriting credit on the new album? That’s so exciting! Can you tell me a little about that process?”
I spout out the line Geoff told me to say when asked this question.
“Um, well, I wrote a song, and I showed it to our team, and they were into it. The rest is history. It’s called “End of Everything” and I’m really proud of it.”
We started recording the song last week, without any of my tweaks put in. I’m trying not to think about it.
“That’s so exciting! I know fans are dying to hear it.”
“Well, I hope they aren’t dying, no song is worth that. But I’m excited for them to hear it. I think it’s good, and I think it’s something a little different for Saturday. Plus, it’s nice to have a song that’s a little more personal, you know? I want our listeners to get to know this side of me.”
“Excuse me,” says Angel, and he stands up, and goes toward the bathroom, leaving his untouched Pepsi. A guard follows him across the café, but he goes into the bathroom alone. A few seconds later, the model guy I noticed walks out.
It could just be a coincidence.
But my instincts are telling me Angel is up to something.
NINETEEN
RUBEN
The night our whole world falls apart, I spend most of our concert lost in thought.