If This Gets Out(8)
I’m standing beside Jon in the parking lot, looking out at the whole spectacle. His shirt is tight and I’m wearing all-black, so we’re on-brand, even here. He pulls out his phone and scrolls. I get it, he’s been around stuff like this his whole life, whereas when I was a kid the most exciting party I ever had was at McDonald’s, and as a younger teenager I usually skipped having a party in exchange for more presents. The others would never get that, especially Ruben and Jon—they were always rich and got richer—but I never would’ve gone to anything even close to this if it weren’t for Saturday.
It’s probably my emotions talking, but I kind of wish Mom could see this.
Earlier today, I had to say goodbye to her. I chew my lip, trying to keep the building ache in my chest down. I want to enjoy myself tonight, so I should stop going down this mental rabbit hole. There’s no getting out of it if I really let it sink in. It’s just, I only just got back—
“Are those fire dancers?” asks Jon, and he points toward two buff, oiled-up shirtless dudes holding fire sticks.
The younger of the two has a tattoo going down his side, but I can’t get a proper look without staring, and then I’ll be staring at a half-naked guy. Like the rest of Saturday, I’ve had countless gay rumors spread about me, and people are always looking for evidence to confirm the theory that I’m secretly gay. I hate how invasive and presumptive the rumors are, and how they’ve turned me looking at a guy’s tattoo into something I need to be cautious of.
I raise an eyebrow and cock my head. “That, or terrible strippers.”
Jon’s gaze is fixed on the dancers so we go and watch, joining a crowd of partygoers who have circled around the pair. I recognize a few soon-to-be A-list actors and millionaire Instagrammers, and oh my god, there’s Randy Kehoe, lead singer of Falling for Alice. He’s stroking his chin with leather-gloved hands, and his skull T-shirt has a red stain splashed down the front of it, turning the once-white skull an eerie bloodred. His hair is bubblegum pink now, to match their latest album, the one I practically have a crush on. I’m dying to say hey and become a gushy mess for a few minutes, but we’re all off duty at the moment. Nobody wants to be fawned over.
I also want to pick Randy’s brain about his writing process, but just the thought makes me blush. He’s an amazing lyricist, and I’m over here singing candy-corn factory-produced lyrics about girls that don’t exist. Why should he give me the time of day?
The fire dancers start a new dance, spinning their flaming batons around impossibly fast. I feel the heat on my face as they move, both totally in sync. Tattooed guy is really handsome, with dark hair and solid cheekbones. Then they both raise their batons to their mouths and spit, making it look like they’re breathing fire.
A cheer breaks out for them.
Oh, screw it. I chance a look down. His tattoo is of a dragon, its tail ending on his hip.
Huh. It actually looks awesome. I file the idea away for a future version of me that can finally get the tattoos I’ve been longing to get for years now. A version of me who doesn’t have to run anything I do to my own skin past my management team for approval first.
By the entrance to the main building, I see Geoff Braxton, holding a glass of champagne. He’s alone, too, which doesn’t happen often. People are demanding of us, but it’s nothing compared to him. I get it, if he decides you’re worth it he can make you a global superstar, richer and more famous than you can ever imagine. If you want to be famous, he’s a god.
“Go say hi,” says Jon. “Ask him if he’s heard back from Galactic about your tracks.”
“Really? I…”
“Just go!”
Jon pushes me on the back, and I swallow hard, then go up to Geoff. Unlike Jon, he’s white, and I’m pretty sure he’s started dyeing his thinning hair to cover up his grays. I don’t even want to know how much his sleek suit cost, but I’d guess it’s an obscene amount.
I offer my hand, and he grips it tight, giving me his perfect, professional smile. I think it means I have maybe a minute of his time. If a long talk is coming, he will generally act like I’m his long-lost best friend.
“Having fun?” I ask.
“I am.” He looks down. “But I can see on your face you didn’t come over here to make small talk. Want to talk shop?”
“I do.”
“Good, I like your priorities.” We move over to a quieter spot, down the side of the building.
My heart swells. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but if he liked even one of my songs, that would be enormous.
“So, what did you think?” I ask.
“I liked them. But you should know, Galactic Records decided to pass. Not because they’re bad, it’s just not the direction they’re hoping to go in with Saturday.”
I bow my head, and can’t bring myself to look into his eyes. “Oh. All right.”
“I want you to stick with it, because you’ve obviously got the chops, and I’d love to swing you a songwriter credit on the LP.”
“Right. So what should I do?”
“Just keep in mind what kind of band Saturday is. Play to what Galactic wants, not what you would want. We’re a pop act. If you’re stuck, try thinking of a song that would play on the radio, or in a mall.”