If This Gets Out(15)

Just smile. Look here, Zach!

I squeeze the wrist I’m holding tighter.

I should’ve expected this.

It’ll be over soon. It always is.

We make it outside, where a minibus is waiting for us, surrounded by security guards. The crowd is so thick now that taking even a single step is difficult. In this two-minute walk I must’ve posed for at least thirty photos, and my ears are ringing from the sheer volume of the screaming.

“Zach, this way!”

“I’m going to cry.”

“I love him.”

I glance up, and see Ruben through the swarm of people. He’s seemingly unruffled, his handsome face basically expressionless. He notices me watching, and mouths You good?, concern etched across his features.

I give him a thumbs-up, finally smiling. Ruben normally only asks me something like that when my mask slips. I’m grateful; who knows what sort of stories will pop up if someone catches a photo of me looking anything other than freaking giddy at how I’m being treated.

Zach Knight isn’t allowed normal human emotions when people are watching. No one in Saturday is.

I climb into the minibus, following after Jon. Luckily none of the fans try to get into the vehicle. That’s as terrifying as it sounds, and I’d know: a girl jumped onto my lap once trying to get to Jon and she had to be pulled off by Pauline. She’s our other head guard alongside Keegan—the long blond hair she always wears in braids makes her easy to pick out in a crowd, which is useful, given she’s way shorter than any of us. She’s probably the buffest of all of us, with a stocky build that served her well in her previous life as a competitive shot-putter.

I raise a hand and wave at the crowd, thanking the fans for giving me this space at least, and then the door slides across and slams shut, quieting them to a dull roar. Erin gets into the passenger seat casually, like nothing is happening outside.

I stare out the opposite window, before starting the deep-breathing exercises my child psychologist taught me.

“You okay, boys?” Angel asks from the back seat.

I shudder at the memory of a clammy palm touching my neck. Who were they? And who does that?

I take out my phone and type a message to Mom.

Hey, I just landed.:)



I hit send, then slide down my seat and rest my head against the rain-speckled glass. I can’t get the crowd out of my head, and there’s still a piercing, high-pitched hum in my ears. I wish I could shake this off quicker, because I’m in freaking London. The shine of airports may have worn off, but visiting a new country is still incredible. I want to see the bridge and the tower and hear someone say “cheerio!” or something else to reinforce the fact that I’m thousands of miles from home.

If I told myself when I was an angsty fourteen-year-old that in a few years I’d be in London for a show, I would’ve lost my shit. Before Saturday, I’d barely even left Portland. Mom tried her best, and she gave me a great childhood, but we didn’t exactly have international-vacation money. I think it was harder on her than it was on me, because I didn’t know any different. But she and Dad used to travel overseas a lot before he was laid off and had to take a much lower-paying job, which he always says was the start of the end of things between them. Mom let slip once that she thinks it has more to do with what he was really doing every time he said he was hanging out with his work friends.

The sounds of Erin going over the trip details fade to background noise as I look out the windows at the passing city. It’s weird how ancient the buildings can appear, only to be housing a Starbucks or a Pret A Manger—whatever that is. Apparently it’s popular, because I count around a dozen of them. As we near the hotel I catch a glimpse of Big Ben and the London Eye, both standing out against the cloudy gray sky. For just a moment I really wish I could visit as a tourist. I want to explore the city, going wherever catches my eye, without having to think about anyone else or if I’m safe.

I don’t even need to ask to know that’s not in the cards. We’ve all been messaged our schedule, and it’s packed full of photo shoots, press junkets, and rehearsals.

There’s no time to see anything.



* * *



Before I know it I’m onstage, in the middle of an almost empty, weirdly silent O2 arena.

For the first time in a while, it’s hitting me just how massive this is. I’m exhausted, but this is undeniably cool, and I muster up enough energy to feel real excitement. We’ve played at bigger stadiums back home, but the fact that this many people want to see us even overseas is totally surreal. Soon, all those empty seats, even the ones so far away they’re barely visible, will be filled by people who paid to see us.

And we’re going to give them the best show of their lives. Or, we’re going to try.

Workers have built a long, glossy walkway that goes out into the audience. Every single time, it shocks me how quickly an entire custom stage can be assembled. It only takes them a day or two to create a huge spectacle. Behind us, our band name is already set up in towering letters. There’s also a bedazzled white piano on a crane that we’ll climb onto to lift us out over the crowd for a slower, remixed version of “Last Summer” and our cover of “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Ruben will play while the rest of us stand or sit on it, our legs dangling in the air. The first time, it was terrifying, but I got used to it. Fans love it, too, which is the main thing.