Love Songs & Other Lies(11)
*
It’s after midnight and, like most nights, I’m lying wide awake in my bunk. Tomorrow it all starts. The cameras roll and we begin rehearsing at the first venue, in Houston. Pulling back my curtain, ready to head back to the bathroom, I stop when I see the soft glow coming from Vee’s bunk. She’s lying on her bed, her face illuminated by her Kindle. And for the first time in days she isn’t wearing earbuds or surrounded by other people. The bus is moving and she’s in her pajamas. She can’t run. I lie back down, crossing my hands behind my neck and focusing on the bunk above me. I have to keep this casual.
VIRGINIA
“I got a tattoo.” His voice startles me out of the silence, and before I can stop myself, I’m looking at him. He’s lying on his bed in a pair of blue pajama pants and a thin gray T-shirt that clings to him everywhere. Everything about him is bigger than I remember. Why am I even thinking about this? Thankfully, he’s fully dressed. Most of the guys sleep on the warm bus in nearly nothing, and I’ve seen more than my fair share of guy parts. Having to mill about in close quarters with ten guys who have just woken up—it’s a constant game of divert-your-eyes. I pity the editing crew who will have to ensure the American public doesn’t catch a glimpse of any of the private parts of the tour bus—or the band members.
Cam pulls up his sleeve to reveal an intricate black tattoo that wraps around his defined bicep. It looks like twisted lines of musical notes. It’s a blur in the darkness. “A couple, actually,” he says.
“Um, congratulations?”
“I bought a new guitar.” He nods toward the case lying in the lounge of the bus, leaning against the black leather couch.
I turn and finally look right at him, maybe for the first time since I boarded this bus. “Cameron, just stop.” No one else is awake, and this is the last chance I’ll have to stop pretending. I don’t want to do this thing where we pretend like we’re two old friends catching up on the last year of our lives. But when it comes down to it, isn’t friends all that we were, really? I just need to get that through my head, and this will all get easier.
“I tried fish.”
“Excuse me, what?”
“I tried fish.” He shrugs his shoulders. “And for the record, I hated it. Just like I knew I would.”
“Great.” I let my eyes wander around the bus, looking into the sleeping cubbies that line the walls, out the windows, at the floor; anywhere but his face, or the tiny black curls of ink that I can see peeking out of the back of his shirt, creeping up his neck. Another tattoo. God, I’m curious.
“Your turn.”
My eyes are still fixed on the tiny curls of ink. Stop looking! “For what?”
“Three things since I saw you last.”
Three Things. Hell, no. He thinks we’re actually going to go back to playing this flirty little game? I don’t think so.
“I’m tired, and we have a big day tomorrow.” I grab hold of the curtain next to me and give him a tight smile, reminding myself that soon the cameras will start rolling. And once my internship starts, I’ll need to put on this show 24/7. “Goodnight, Cam.” I try to keep my voice even as I say the words, even though the familiarity of it hurts my heart. “Congrats on the tattoo … and the fish.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THEN
CAMERON
The first day of school goes exactly like I knew it would. Lots of staring, plenty of curious questions to dodge. Thankfully most of my teachers are talkative, leaving little time for anyone to get past the basics of “Where are you from?” Wisconsin. And “Why did you move?” To be closer to family.
The family part isn’t a total lie. I do live less than a mile from Gram. And nobody gives a shit about Wisconsin, so no one even asks me what city. Which is good, because I panicked when I said it. I’ve been to Wisconsin once and it was for my cousin’s wedding. I was ten. Lying about where I’m from wasn’t the plan, but I had this horrible vision of every kid in my class Googling my name. Right after they looked me up on social media and came up empty. “Cameron Fuller California” would be a gold mine of info. But “Cameron Fuller Wisconsin”? Sorry about your luck.
A few people made it as far as asking me if I was pissed that my parents up and moved me my senior year. Nah, I said, casually. It’s cool being close to the beach. Most of them just nod and smile. I know they’re all looking for something interesting—a juicy piece of gossip or a flicker of scandal. They want to hear that I was expelled, or got a girl pregnant. Maybe I’m fresh out of rehab. Anything to spice up their small town. I don’t give them anything to work with, but by the end of the week I’m sure I’ll be pegged as a former gang member or recovering meth addict. People love a good story—I know I do—but unfortunately for them, my life and story are no longer public domain.
As soon as school lets out Friday I show up at Gram’s. By 4:30 I’ve filled her in on the entire week, and by 5:30 she’s dozed off. When 6:00 rolls around I know I should just leave, but I just can’t get myself to do it. Fifteen more minutes, Cameron. The suspense is wearing on my nerves as every tiny sound has me holding my breath, waiting for her to come back. Like she promised. It’s been a really long week, and I’ve been looking forward to this visit way more than I should have. While Gram sleeps I work on my homework, the tiny black detective’s notebook already flipped open beside my textbook, ready to be filled. I’m using the metal food cart as a desk, scribbling out my World History notes, when I hear the door swing open and click closed.