Chapter Eleven. Pretty Boy Felix Song
Chapter Eleven
Pretty Boy Felix Song
[Pretty Boy ]
XX
Felix stayed in my room until 2:30 a.m., and I didn’t even reach REM sleep before Ginger alerts me to my phone.
The night passed in a blur, and by the time Felix left, he already made more progress than he would’ve in Lesson One. I wouldn’t have traded that progress for sleep, but right now I really wish we could’ve done it during daylight hours.
[Natalie]
I’m going to curse that horrible little man’s bloodline for the next 47 years
The first thing I see when I get to the lobby is Necktie making a passionate phone call while pacing.
The second thing is Felix. His hair is in a signature half-up ponytail, and he wears a light layer of makeup.
He’s in a lavender button-up with his PRADA fanny pack slung across his body, white skinny jeans, and boots that add unnecessary inches to his height.
“G’mornin’,” he chirps, extending a cup of hotel coffee toward me.
I snatch it with a concerning level of intensity and chug half of it before acting casual, like I didn’t just reveal my caffeine addiction.
He chuckles and hands me a piece of paper.
“Thought I’d give you the new schedule since Andrew probably won’t. ”
“The man who would dance on my grave if given the chance? Of course not.” I peek at the schedule while leading Ginger outside.
Somehow every spare millisecond of the next few days is full.
He even penciled in an hour to shoot the music video after their New Orleans concert.
If someone told me to do anything except sleep after I was jumping around and singing for two hours, I’d commit war crimes.
Back inside, the band seems photo shoot ready. Lachlan’s eyebrow piercing is removed, Calum’s in a light green polo shirt instead of shirtless, and Mateo’s and Will’s hair is neatly arranged.
“Why do you look so perfect this early?” I ask while plopping down next to Calum.
He digs around in the jumbo-size box of Scooby-Doo fruit snacks he’s cradling and hands me several bags. “‘DAYDREAM has an image to uphold,’” he says in a spot-on Necktie impression. Lachlan and Felix laugh.
I tear open a packet, and we peacefully eat the gummies—he trades his purple Shaggys for my orange Velmas—until Lachlan suddenly tosses aside the trashy celebrity-gossip magazine he was flipping through.
“Wha— —this time?” Calum asks, chewing. “Are you ‘purport- edly’ dating a Kardashian-Jenner? Are we being accused— — lip-syncing?”
“Are those things people have actually written about you?” I ask.
He nods, swallowing. “At one point Felix and I were ‘allegedly’ in a secret gay relationship, until he broke my innocent little heart because he decided it was best for the band.”
“I woke up to the breaking news that I was attacked by a shark yesterday,” Will joins in. “That was fun to explain to my mom.”
“C’mon, Lach, share with the class,” Calum pries.
Lachlan’s focus briefly snaps to Mateo and then back to Calum. “Forget it.”
“It’s about me?” Mateo tenses, his voice small. “Is it bad?” When Lachlan doesn’t answer, he grabs the magazine.
“Mateo, it’s nothing.” Lachlan tries to take it from him, but Mateo’s already found whatever he was looking for.
He deflates, a deep frown crossing his features. I mirror Lachlan’s disgust as I get a glimpse.
JAILBAIT NO MORE!
T-Minus Four Months Until Baby-Faced DAYDREAM Member, Mateo Vazquez García, Turns 18! Housewives Everywhere Mark Their Calendars!
“Jesus Christ,” Will mutters before throwing the magazine into a nearby trash can.
Felix slides onto the floor and puts his arm around Mateo’s shoulders. “You alright, mate?”
Mateo shrugs, picking at threads on his distressed jeans.
It’s so gross how the media preys on them. I have the sudden urge to track down the sorry excuse for a journalist who wrote the article and give them a piece of my mind.
I’m starting to think DAYDREAM’s reality is extremely dramatized by media. I mean, so far, they’ve been herded around like cattle with barely a second to breathe. When would they even have time for secret children or love affairs? I can’t imagine having this level of attention and public scrutiny.
“Let’s go,” Necktie barks as he storms over. “And smile. There are cameras.”
They stand at attention like well-trained soldiers. Calum and Lachlan are on either side of Mateo, their arms linked with his.
Felix walks beside Ginger and me as we head for the doors. Necktie blocks my path.
“I don’t need any more controversy about ‘the mystery girl.’ You’re riding with the staff,” he bites.
“My name is Natalie.” I cross my arms defiantly.
Felix puts himself between us. He towers over his manager, who only has a couple of inches on me. “What’s the problem?”
Necktie’s eyes are ice blue, but right now they’re much darker than Felix’s. “Natalie,” he enunciates my name, spite dripping from his tone, “is the problem. Everyone thinks she’s your little plaything. That’s no—”
“Excuse you?! Did you call her a fucking ‘playthi—’” Before Felix can finish, Lachlan interjects.
“Andrew, there’s a simple solution. Get the word out that she’s his ASL tutor,” he says. “I’m sure the label can milk that for all sorts of PR.”
Necktie’s face is bright red, seconds away from combusting (which, honestly, would solve some problems). He turns toward me. “If you cause any drama or jeopardize their careers—or, more importantly, mine—you’re gone. Understood?”
“Fine.” I grind my teeth, then walk outside.
The swampy Miami humidity glues clothing to my body as we’re rushed by shouting paparazzi and fans snapping pictures. It’s a chaotic roar of voices and movement. I squish Ginger between Felix and me for protection. Sunglasses guides us onto the tour bus, and the noise fades.
Ginger stays calm, but I pat her head reassuringly. A hand brushes my arm, and I look up, expecting Felix. Instead, I’m met with blue eyes and a placid smile. Lachlan. “You OK?”
“Fine,” I lie, touching my thumb to my sternum, other fingers extended. “You?”
“I’m used to it, but this is brand new for you. Do you want to swap numbers? In case you need a friend.” He extends his phone to me, a blank contact on-screen. I enter my info, then he adds his number to my phone.
“Reach out anytime,” he says, his tone sincere.
DAYDREAM’s New Orleans Green Room is nicer than a lot of apartments. There’s a TV and gaming system, a towel warmer, and a wall of mirrors with tables and salon chairs in front. The real centerpiece is a snack table loaded with local cuisine, like muffulettas, pralines, and beignets.
While staffers bustle around, Will sneaks in some last-minute “leg day” squats, Mateo plays his green, white, and red drumsticks on the coffee table, Calum eats a third beignet, and Lachlan bravely scrolls through DAYDREAM AO3 fanfics.
I’m about to sit down when fingers gently graze my elbow. I turn to find a grinning Felix.
“Question for ya.” His voice has a playful lilt. “D’you wanna watch tonight’s show? I can get you a great seat, and you won’t even have to pay eight hundred bucks.”
“Pfft.” I laugh. “No, thanks. Attending concerts for me is like … well, imagine trying to listen to music through a 2009 iPod Shuffle while surrounded by screaming people.” I paint the picture. “I’m going to go out on a limb and assume there’s also no ASL interpreter?”
“Er, no. But maybe for future…” He trails off as he locks onto something behind me.
Even before Necktie stops in front of us, I know it’s him.
I swear the hairs on my neck stand up and the room gets colder when he’s around, like he’s a ghost in THE SIXTH SENSE.
“Felix, Mateo, Will, come get changed,” he commands, then scowls at me.
Because it’s totally normal for a grown man to beef with a teenage girl.
While Bhavani straightens Lachlan’s middle part, I wander over. “Why did you want to learn ASL in high school?” I ask.
“It’s a beautiful language. Very expressive.” Lachlan smiles. “I’m glad Ava and Lix will be able to communicate. She’s a good kid.”
My face lights up, but before I reply, he points to the pins on the pocket of my flannel. “Do you mind me asking what flag that is?”
The pocket has a bunch—like an ASL slang pin, “Pah”; a Mockingjay symbol; the Space Needle—but the only flag is white, green, and gray with a sideways black triangle on the left.
“Demiromantic,” I say, prepared to explain further, but understanding dawns on his face.
“Cool. I was in my school’s Gay-Straight Alliance, so I vaguely recognized it but couldn’t quite remember.
” We continue chatting in sign as Bhavani applies makeup.
He’s not anywhere close to fluent, but he has a solid base.
He’s in the middle of a story when Felix, Will, and Mateo re-enter and my focus immediately snaps to them.
I briefly glance at Mateo’s pink cropped sweater and jeans with a butterfly design, and Will’s pastel color-block jacket and white shorts—but Felix’s outfit commands attention.
He wears a silky white deep V-neck that exposes his collarbone and part of his sternum, and tight (like, very tight, too tight), light-wash jeans. The ensemble is completed by dainty gold chains around his neck and dangly earrings hanging from his multiple piercings.
Felix heads for the salon chair in front of me. It takes a second to readjust to my surroundings after being put under his spell, and I realize Lachlan isn’t here anymore. I spot him slinking out of the Green Room.
“Thoughts on filming in the French Quarter after the show?” Will asks as he sits beside Felix.
“Er … I was thinking of skipping the shoot tonight.”
Will hikes a brow. “Pretty sure Andrew won’t approve.”
“That’s why you should cover for me! He won’t even know until it’s too late.
” He flashes Will puppy dog eyes and pouts his lip.
Will heaves a sigh. “I really gotta practice my ASL, mate,” he explains, his tone more serious.
A mixture of appreciation for prioritizing ASL and worry that this will make Necktie hate me even more takes root.
Calum approaches, chewing his fourth beignet. He uses his sleeve to wipe powdered sugar off his mouth, and Bhavani glares disapprovingly. “C’mon— —can’t miss Bourbon Street— —iconic!”
“Next time.” Felix shakes his head. “Take pictures!”
“Whatever. Be boring. But if Andrew gets mad, we’re throwing your ass under— —bus,” Calum says. “And— —not bringing you any souvenirs.”
“No loyalty in this band, I swear.”
Bhavani starts applying subtle highlighter to Felix’s high cheekbones—just enough to make them shimmer in the light—and we hold eye contact through the mirror.
His typical glittery superstar grin or cocky “everyone thinks I’m a goddamn National Treasure” smirk are nowhere to be seen; his current expression is similar to the gentle sincerity he displayed when telling me he was dyslexic.
There’s something softer, more comfortable about this version of him.
Shit. Did I think about him in a positive way?
I snap out of it, but evidently not quickly enough. His smile is replaced with the aforementioned exasperating smirk. He caught me staring at him for the second time.
“Whatcha thinking ’bout?” There’s a teasing lilt in his voice.
“Nothing!” I rush. “Just, uh, w-well, don’t you look pretty.” I scoff.
He squints. “That’s … not the insult you think it is.”
When it’s finally showtime, I allow myself one look at him. We lock eyes, and I offer a small wave. He winks at me before leaving.
The room is peaceful after the band and most of the staff clear out. Only Bhavani, Ginger, and I are here. Bhavani pats a salon chair, and I accept the invitation. They start weaving pink strands into two short, delicate fishtail braids.
“Why’s Andrew DAYDREAM’s tour manager? Why haven’t the boys fired him?” I ask after a few minutes, watching their lips in the mirror as they reply.
“They don’t call the shots. They’re the puppets, not the puppeteers. Everything about their lives, careers, and images are micromanaged.”
I cock a brow. “You know that because…?”
They smirk. “You’d be surprised how much tea is spilled in the makeup chair.”
The next morning, we load onto the bus bright and early, the engine’s rumbling, and everyone’s here—except Calum.
Felix and Mateo are on the couch while Mateo shows him something on his phone, Ginger wrestles with Will on the ground, and Lachlan is in his bunk. I’m tempted to steal his idea and go back to sleep.
“Where’s Uncle Calum, pretty girl?” Will asks my dog.
“His concept of time is more abstract than Picasso’s blue period,” Mateo deadpans. I snort.
As if summoned by pure spite, the door swings open, and Calum steps in with a triumphant grin, carrying a large to-go bag and a tray of Café Du Monde–branded cups.
“Beignets and chicory coffee,” he announces proudly.
“Ah, your ‘no souvenir’ threat was worthless.” Felix chuckles.
“What can I say? Chivalry isn’t dead.” I might’ve believed the chivalrous act if he didn’t unceremoniously strip down to his Ninja Turtle underwear right after setting the food down.
“Can we at least get moving before you strip?” Will groans.
“My legs need to breathe.”
“They really don’t,” Mateo argues.
As they bicker, I grab a coffee. The scent alone makes me sigh in relief. The first sip is bold and peppery, the flavor unlike anything I’ve ever had. It pains me to skip the beignets.
“The French Quarter was epic. Next time you guys are coming with us. No excuses!” Calum says.
“I was showing Lix pictures,” Mateo chimes in.
He and Calum tilt their phone screens so I can see as they swipe through photos and tell us about last night’s escapades.
There are selfies of the boys wearing colorful Mardi Gras beads in front of stucco buildings with arched windows and wrought iron balconies, inside a bakery and restaurant, and along the Mississippi river walk.
Videos of huge crowds holding massive drinks; jazz bands playing in open-air bars; neon lights from businesses glowing brilliantly; and picturesque riverboats. I feel overwhelmed simply from the pictures. I’m glad Felix and I practiced ASL instead.
“But the best part,” Calum says, “was hands down the turtle soup and frog legs. The world needs to eat more amphibians.”