If This Gets Out(14)

Someone nudges my shoulder. It’s Ruben, across the aisle from me. His headphones are now hanging around his neck.

“Writer’s block?” he asks. The plane rattles as we go over a spot of turbulence. Even when he isn’t singing, Ruben has a nice voice. It’s deep and has this kind of wry spark to it, like he’s always messing with you.

“Yeah. Got any advice?”

He holds out his hand. “Give it.”

I feel my cheeks start to warm, but I ignore that, and show him my notebook, which only has one line on it, the one about the hangover.

He laughs. “I wonder what inspired this.”

“My mind works in mysterious ways.”

“Clearly.”

I put my notebook down, and write down mysterious ways.

“Tell me you did not just write down ‘mysterious ways.’”

“No, something else came to me.”

His lifted eyebrow tells me there’s no fooling him. Not that I ever thought I could. He’s turned in his plush seat now, to face me more.

“Okay, fine,” I say. “It’s got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Listen, you’re a great writer, but no. You just think it does because you’re hungover as fuck on an international flight. You can take a second to just chill, you know.”

If Ruben is telling me to relax, I really should listen. He never stops, and is constantly trying to improve, even though he’s already one of the most technically perfect singers in the game. He even transitioned from his theater upbringing to pop much more easily than I did, seemingly through sheer force of will. Because that’s the thing about Ruben; he’s maybe the one person I don’t ever doubt being able to accomplish everything he wants. I still remember back when we were kids at camp, and we sat by the shore of the lake one night, and he told me he wanted to be a superstar one day. Right then, I knew it would happen with everything I have.

“Fine.” I snap my notebook closed. “What are you listening to?”

He pointedly looks away.

“Seriously?”

“Is there a limit to how many times someone can listen to an album, now? Have you even listened to it once, yet, Zachary?”

I have the cast recording of In This House downloaded to my phone, but I haven’t listened to it yet, despite Ruben’s constant gentle badgering. It’s become a bit of a joke between us that I keep putting it off, but I don’t have much else to do right now. I should bite the bullet, because it’ll make his day. Or, night. I’m not sure what time it technically is right now.

“I will now,” I say. “But only so you stop asking me.”

“Do what you want, Zach.”

I put my headphones on and find the album. It runs for two hours and five minutes. What the hell have I gotten myself into? There’s no going back now, though, because Ruben has asked me to listen multiple times, and I don’t want to disappoint him. That’d be like ignoring a puppy that wants to be petted. I’m not strong enough. And it’s not like Ruben asks much of me.

I hit play, then lean my head back and close my eyes.



* * *



I’m exhausted, but the flight is over.

Up ahead are the frosted glass doors of the exit. I know what’s coming, and I try to brace myself, even though I know from experience there’s no way to prepare for this.

The doors open, and a deafening scream greets us.

Outside is a sea of mostly teenage girls, along with news crews and paparazzi. This happens more often than not now. Police have shown up, too, and have formed a line alongside airport security to try to shield us. I want to look around, to see if anything is different here, like different taxis or something, but the crowd is pulling all my attention.

They all rush forward, and our guards close ranks, pressing us into a tight huddle. One of them offers their hand. I grip their wrist and they pull me forward, into the crowd. A few of the girls are wearing shirts with my smiling face on them, which will never be anything other than super bizarre, especially because I look awkward in the photo they used. Clearly, Chorus Management wasn’t expecting this crowd, otherwise we would’ve gone out a different way.

Actually, no. They must know. They want this, they want it to be all over the news here, and for fans to post this to their social media. They want buzz.

“Sign this for me, Zach!”

“Jon, I love you!”

“Oh my god, I’m touching Ruben!”

I glance up for a second to see a phone in selfie-mode inches from my face. I smile, and try my best to make it seem genuine, even though I hate this with every fiber of my being. I try to get it. Chorus may be using them, but they’re innocent, and probably camped out for hours to see us. The least I can do is smile for a picture. They take a few photos, and two other phones are waved in front of me, both of them in hard plastic Saturday phone cases. I smile for those as well.

I hate thinking it, but I wish they’d just come and see us at our show.

With Keegan, a six-and-a-half-foot-tall hulk of a man, leading the way, we go toward the exit as fast as we can, shoving through the mass of people. Someone reaches out and touches me on the shoulder, then runs their hand across my bare neck. A chill goes down my spine as they shriek with joy and a bodyguard steps across, protecting my back. Paparazzi swarm around us, and I hear the familiar rapid clicking of their cameras, accompanied by blinding flashes, and their shouts to get us to look at them.