Chapter Fifteen. Please Step on Me, Felix
Chapter Fifteen
Please Step on Me, Felix
The ROLLING STONE interview is published the day after Felix and my midnight rendezvous on the hotel rooftop, and to everyone’s delight, it’s a smash hit.
But right as he started opening up and the boy behind the superstar appeared in a small glimmer, like a ghost walking through walls, the band’s already hectic schedule increases tenfold, with dozens of publications and shows requesting interviews now that DAYDREAM has been solidified as the hot new boy band.
During this wild new wave of popularity, our ASL practice suffers. But even with his packed schedule, Felix shows up at my door at 10:30 every night. Whether it’s for a SimCom conversation or a card game thinly veiled as an ASL lesson, he’s there—no matter how exhausted he is.
Luckily, it only takes a few days to get back on track. And today we’ll be filming clips for the music video montage all over DC and squeezing in practice where we can.
When Mateo, Felix, Ginger, and I get out of the car at our second location, I stare up in slack-jawed awe.
The Washington Monument stretches into the vast blue sky; in front of it is a sprawling pool nearly longer than the eye can see.
Tourists surround the obelisk, taking pictures and admiring its glory.
“What’s the significance of this again?” Felix asks.
Mateo and I whip our heads around at the speed of light, in disbelief.
“Come on, Lix,” Mateo groans.
He throws his hands up in faux defense. “I’m Kiwi! I don’t remember what all your tax-dollar-paid patriotic structures signify!”
Mateo face-palms, but before he can conduct an impromptu history lesson, the other members join us. Bhavani, four bodyguards, and another staffer trail behind them. Will brandishes a GoPro. “Let’s film solo shots and then some group ones.”
The next hour flies by as I help film Lachlan pretending to hold up the obelisk, Will and Mateo chasing each other around, and Calum and Felix skipping along the Reflecting Pool while holding hands.
Right as I finish filming Will doing squats while holding Lachlan bridal-style, Felix taps my shoulder. I turn around, but before I can say anything, he smacks a sticky note onto my forehead and takes off, running full speed toward the other end of the Reflecting Pool.
“Hey!” I shout as Sunglasses chases after him. I peel the note off and force myself not to laugh as I read it.
WHAT’D WASHINGTON SAY TO HIS MEN BEFORE THEY STEPPED INTO THE BOAT?
“MEN, STEP IN THE BOAT”
It’s a really bad joke … But somehow, it’s amusing knowing Felix deemed it important enough to write it down. I tuck it into my pocket.
When everyone finally catches up to Felix and Sunglasses on the other end, he flashes a goofy grin and I make a show of rolling my eyes.
But I’m quickly distracted because right in front of us is the Lincoln Memorial.
The white marble pillars are almost impossibly large, the statue of the president sitting dignified and imposing at the top of a massive staircase.
Pictures don’t do the National Mall justice—the architecture, the history living in the stone are striking.
“Whoa,” Mateo says, his mesmerized look mirroring mine. We pull out our phones, snapping pictures of the monument. I’ll send some to Jo later and use them as references for a sketch. Mateo turns to Felix. “Please tell me you at least know what this one is.”
Felix theatrically gasps. “I’m not stupid; I’m just Kiwi!”
The other members seem ambivalent. The bodyguards form a loose circle around the boys as people start to notice them. Mateo turns toward his bandmates. “Are we seeing the same thing? Hello?” He motions to the memorial.
Calum shrugs. “We saw Abe in middle school. School field trip.” Will and Lachlan nod.
Mateo and I glance at each other, seemingly thinking the same thing: Of course whichever bougie private middle school they attended did cross-country field trips.
We’re torn away from our moment of solidarity when Bhavani says, “I hate to rain on your parade, but we’ve got half an hour to film the rest before heading to the concert venue.”
While Bhavani touches up Felix’s ponytail, Will snaps pictures of the other boys in front of the memorial using his red Nikon. I grab my phone and take my own shots of him in photographer mode.
They’re interrupted when a kid, roughly Ava’s age, approaches. They’re holding the latest issue of ROLLING STONE, DAYDREAM’s picture on the cover. Sunglasses starts to block their path, but Calum nudges her away and greets the kid with obvious excitement.
“I’m really sorry— —bother you but … could you sign this?” they ask shyly, extending the magazine.
“Totally, dude!”
Felix roots through his fanny pack and finds a metallic gold Sharpie, then chucks it at Calum. It hits him smack in the forehead, and he starts to curse, but catches himself and instead flips Felix off behind his back.
After Calum signs, he hands the marker and magazine to Mateo.
“I liked your answer. I hope— —your own music— —someday,” the fan tells Lachlan when it’s his turn to autograph.
“Thanks. Me too.” Lachlan gives them a tight-lipped smile. They run off and excitedly show the magazine with all five signatures to their family.
Lachlan’s expression sours, and he slumps onto one of the steps, staring at the ground while grinding his teeth. Felix sits next to Lachlan. “I liked your answer, too.”
Lachlan scoffs bitterly. “One of two answers of mine they bothered to put in the article?”
“It was good, though!”
“Oh, please. It made me look like an ungrateful asshole and made the label mad,” he bites. “You, on the other hand, sounded eloquent … like America’s motherfucking Sweetheart. And even if you didn’t, the fans love you no matter what.”
The atmosphere intensifies when Felix pats Lachlan’s arm supportively, and Lachlan jerks away. Before anything else is said, Calum and Will exchange glances.
“Yo, anyone else getting hungry?” Calum says airily, trying to defuse the tension.
“Yeah, sure. Let’s grab a bite on our way to the venue,” Will suggests.
“I’ve had enough family-bonding time. Bye,” Lachlan gripes before trudging off.
“At least they quoted you,” Mateo says to Lachlan’s back. “I’m not in there at all.”
“So … what was that about?” I hazard. Sure, it’s frustrating to only have two answers published in an article with twenty-five, but it feels like something bigger is at play here.
“Lach’s a hot-and-cold type of guy,” Will explains.
“With a short fuse,” Calum adds.
“It’s not personal. We give him space, and he calms down eventually.”
Hah. Sounds like Mom. Although, if this is as bad as it gets, I’d rather deal with his fluctuating emotions. If there’s one positive from being raised by the poster child for hot-and-cold, it’s that I know how to handle unpredictability.
The interaction takes a back seat when Necktie calls to yell at everyone to get to the stadium. As we head back to the parking lot, Felix has a mischievous glow in his eyes. He adheres a second Post-it note to my forehead.
WHY WAS AbrAHAM LINCON NEVER PUT IN JAIL?
BECUSE HE WAS IN A CENT
Unfortunately, Lachlan’s still brooding when we get to Capital One Arena’s Green Room. He avoids the other members and busies himself with vocal warm-ups.
After Felix’s makeup is redone—with significantly more glitter—he joins Calum and me for a cutthroat game of gin rummy. The whole time, though, he’s distracted by taking glimpses at Lachlan.
“Hah! Take that!” Calum cheers after besting both of us.
I reluctantly cough up the five Chupa Chups we wagered. “For the record, I went easy on you,” I mumble. Felix wordlessly hands over his lollipops.
Satisfied, Calum pops one into his mouth before walking over to where Will is doing push-ups. Then Calum sits on his back, claiming “I’m helping!” when Will protests.
My focus flickers back to Felix. He’s watching Lachlan, who’s by the door, waiting to go do sound check. “Are you okay?” I ask. His eyes meet mine.
“It’s … nothing. Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I want you to watch the show tonight. I got you a great seat.”
I sigh. “I already told you—”
He reaches out, delicately touching my wrist. “Nat, please trust me.”
The patch of skin his fingers ghosted over hums with electricity, and I absentmindedly rub it while considering his offer. “OK-OK. Fine,” I agree.
“You won’t regret it, promise.”
Suddenly, Necktie bursts through the door like the Kool-Aid Man. “Let’s go! Time for sound check!” he barks.
While Necktie creates a single file line, Felix hangs back and puts every single member between him and Lachlan.
It’s nothing, my ass. Using three people as human shields to protect yourself from your best friend-slash-bandmate is not nothing.
After the band clears out, I rush to Bhavani’s makeup station.
“Are you here for gossip? Or a hairstyle?” they ask with a teasing smirk.
“Both?” I smile sweetly. I sit down, and they start detangling my waves. “What’s going on with Lachlan and Felix?”
Bhavani hurriedly gives me the condensed, SparkNotes version of events.
“Lachlan started the band in freshman year, and Felix was— —backup singer and keyboardist. But then the label made Felix the lead singer instead of Lachlan. They thought he was more appealing since he’s a natural in interviews— —kind of ethereal in general. Nobody dislikes Felix!”
My mind fills in the blanks and puzzle pieces click into place: how the boys were arranged at open-mic night in Atlanta, with Felix in the far back, and what he confessed on the Nashville rooftop a week ago … Felix was never supposed to be the star of the show. Lachlan was.
Sure, I can see how Felix stands out a bit more than Lachlan. But it feels wildly unfair that he was forcibly dethroned, and Felix was required to take his place. Especially since neither of them are happy with the arrangement.
Thirty minutes before showtime, Felix leads a stagehand over to me.
“Nat, this is Tori. She’ll show you to your seat.” I start to follow Tori, but Felix holds up a finger. “One sec.”
I wait by the door and suspiciously eye him while he rummages through Will’s backpack. Eventually, he pulls out a small pair of pink doggy headsets and walks over to me. “It’ll probably be too loud for her,” he explains. “They match her vest!”
That awful warm, sparkly feeling blooms in my chest, and I have to clench my teeth to suppress a smile. He bought Ginger headsets that match her vest? Jesus Christ.
“Thank you.”
After Ginger has her doggy headsets on, Tori, Ginger, and I head out. Felix practically vibrates with excitement as I catch a final glimpse of him as we enter the hall. He signs, “Enjoy!”
We walk for a while before emerging in one of Capital One Arena’s lower bowls. The sound of eighteen thousand fans buzzing with anticipation and singing an acapella version of what I vaguely recognize as DAYDREAM’s latest single, “Cloud 9,” renders my ears one-hundred-percent useless.
Tori guides us to a seat at the front. From here, I have what I suspect is the best view in the whole stadium. I tuck Ginger underneath the seat using hand signals.
I choke on a laugh at the person next to me. Their face is covered in DAYDREAM temporary tattoos, and they’re showing their PLEASE STEP ON ME FELIX sign to another fan. At least they’re asking politely.
Soon, the group effort of singing DAYDREAM songs turns into screaming as the arena goes pitch black, until a single spotlight turns on and Mateo is lifted from under the stage, spinning a mic in his hand like a thick drumstick. The crowd goes wild.
Four members are revealed the same way, until there’s only one dark spot left in the center. When the final spotlight turns on, Felix appears and the three monitors surrounding the stage display a live image of him with an innocent, boy-next-door pout that contradicts the flirtation in his eyes.
The corner of each monitor displays someone wearing an earpiece, their hands primed in midair. It doesn’t click who they are until Felix raises his mic and shouts, “HELLO, DC!” and they repeat the greeting in ASL.
Holy shit.
There isn’t enough time to process the surprise interpreter when the stage lights turn on, bathing the stadium in a baby-pink hue.
“Lovely Girl” blares, and the boys launch into the performance.
They command the stage effortlessly; each move they make is charismatic and timed to the beat.
They radiate energy and draw the crowd in like a magnet.
But my eyes keep flicking back to the interpreter, who moves in sync with the music as if their hands are painting the lyrics in the air. The fluidity and precision of their signs are a perfect extension of the song itself.
When the song ends, I find myself cheering as loudly as the other fans. (What a plot twist.) Felix overtakes the main screen again and holds his index finger to his mouth. Instantly, the fans go silent. The power he holds is terrifying.
“Thank you, DC!” He blows a kiss to the crowd and beckons Will over.
He gives Will his microphone, and he holds it to Felix’s mouth, freeing Felix’s hands.
“Real quick,” he says while using charmingly clunky SimCom, “I wanna dedicate this show to my biggest supporter and best friend, my little sister”—the fans cheer—“and my incredible ASL teacher, who’s an angel for putting up with me. This one’s for you guys.”
It’s probably impossible because of the stage lights shining in his eyes, but I swear Felix looks straight at me. Thousands and thousands of fans in this building, and he’s staring at me, lips tipped into a toothy grin.
My heart unexpectedly tumbles around my rib cage. And even though he’s not going to see it, I sign, “Thank you.”