If This Gets Out(3)
Essentially, our clothes—our costumes—tell the story of our personalities. Just not our real ones.
Zach’s something of a bad boy: leather and boots and ripped jeans and as much black as they can cover him in. Angel’s the fun, innocent goof, which means lots of color and prints, and nothing too tight-fitting or remotely sexy—much to his chagrin. Jon’s the charismatic womanizer, so the golden rule of dressing him is show off those muscles on pain of death.
As for me, I’m the inoffensive one with the pretty face, approachable, safe, and unremarkable. Most of my wardrobe is filled with crew-neck sweaters and cashmere in warm neutrals designed to make me seem soft and huggable. And, of course, there’s no point looking safe and unremarkable if you don’t act it, so my guidelines are clear. No mention of my sexuality in interviews, no showing off onstage, no strong opinions, and definitely no public boyfriends. I’m the blank canvas that fans can paint their dream personality onto. The wild card option for those whose tastes weren’t satisfied by the other three.
The opposite of everything I was raised to be.
As curated as we are, though, the interesting thing is our most devoted fans often see straight through it. The ones who watch and consume everything involving the four of us. I’ve seen them describe our personalities online in a way that’s much closer to the truth—referring to a sensitive, sweet Zach, or a type-A, cautious Jon. A wild, hilarious Angel, or a perfectionist, darkly sarcastic me. I’ve seen them get into arguments with other fans online, as both sides insist they know the real us. None of them know the real us, of course, because they don’t know us at all, no matter how much they wish they did. But some see us more clearly. They see us, and they stay. They see us, and yet they seem to like us more than anyone does.
Go figure.
Erin’s scrolling through her iPad as we’re undressed, a steady anchor in the middle of organized chaos. “Once everyone’s ready, I want to meet with you all about next week,” she says. We groan in unison, and Zach initiates a competition with me over who can groan the loudest. The winner is unclear, because Erin shushes us before either of us reaches our max volume. “I know, I know,” she says. “You’re all tired—”
“We’re zombies,” Angel corrects, before taking the lid off a water bottle with his teeth.
“Yeah, Ruben almost fainted,” Zach pipes up, and I kick his shin as Erin looks at me sharply.
“I didn’t faint, I just … got clumsy.”
“It’ll only be a few minutes,” Erin says. “Ten, tops.”
Jon hands his button-down gray shirt to our stylist, Viktor, revealing a broad, hairless chest that, like the other two’s, is almost as familiar to me as my own by now. While Jon’s standing topless, Angel shakes his water bottle to spray icy cold water on him. Jon gasps and yelps, jumping on the spot while Zach cackles. “Angel! You suck, why?”
“Bored.”
“Are you kidding me?”
Zach, still laughing, tosses Jon a hand towel, which he rubs over his brown skin to mop up some of the water, muttering to himself. Even though Jon’s undeniably handsome, and is standing only feet away from me, half-naked and dripping, I’m not especially distracted by it. Stripping around each other is a daily routine for the four of us, so it takes more than a good-looking guy with a six-pack and no shirt on to catch me off guard these days.
Of course, when Zach moves to take off his T-shirt, I make sure I’m looking anywhere but at him, just like I’ve done every concert for the last few months now. Because whatever indefinable “more” it takes to spark my attention, Zach’s got it in spades, and as hard as I try to kill this feeling, I can’t quite shut it off. In other words, until I manage to squash whatever practical joke my brain’s playing on me lately, I have to treat a shirtless Zach like Medusa. No looking, on pain of death.
Angel has his back to me, so I snatch up the nearest water bottle and splash it over his head, soaking his black hair and sagging it into limp tendrils. He gasps and whips around. “Betrayal,” he declares. I run to crouch behind Zach, who’s got his shirt on now, and is therefore safe to acknowledge again.
“Guys, guys,” Penny says, darting in front of the table housing her vast makeup kit like a desperate mother throwing her body in front of her only child. “No water fights around the makeup. Enough. Ruben, you need a makeup wipe, come on.”
Angel lowers his water bottle and holds up his hands in submission, then uses one to push his dripping hair out of his face. I emerge from behind Zach, and, with a flick of his wrist, Angel splashes water my way. It doesn’t quite make it.
I dodge past him to take a handful of wipes and start on my eyes first. Over the last couple years, our eye makeup has gotten less and less subtle, to the point where neutral-but-obvious eye makeup has become part of our brand. These days, Penny goes through about one brown eyeliner per week. She has a way of smoking out the liner with soft shadows and a light touch to make our eyes pop. I tried to replicate it once and I ended up looking like I was auditioning for a Pirates of the Caribbean movie. Since then, I’ve left the liner to her.
Finally, fresh-faced and clean-clothed, we traipse into the green room after Erin. I throw myself onto the couch, lay my head on the armrest, and close my eyes, while Zach, who sits in the armchair next to me, amuses himself by rhythmically poking my head. I hide my smile behind the armrest and wave a hand in his general direction to halfheartedly buzz him off as Angel and Jon cram in beside me.