Chapter Eighteen. The Thirty-Second Rival
Chapter Eighteen
The Thirty-Second Rival
A warm New Jersey breeze swirls around us as we stroll down a walkway surrounded by cherry trees. The atmosphere is similar to one of Felix and my late-night tutoring sessions. No expectations, no heavy-handed managers, no facade. Just normal, everyday people.
Except it’s not like one of those nights—one of our nights—because Will is here. And Sunglasses, ready to fend off fans or paparazzi. But there’s free time before the show for once, so Felix suggested we explore.
We wander for a few minutes, and the boys take selfies together, then Will snaps some of Felix on his camera. Ever photogenic, Felix’s poses look effortlessly chic, elegant yet approachable. The pictures seem candid. It’s witchcraft.
After Will’s done, I ask, “How’d you get into photography?” At this point, Ginger probably knows more about him than I do.
“One of my moms is an— —and she takes a lot of photos, so she taught me.”
I blink at him, unable to decipher what he said. “She’s a what?”
“Ornithologist.” I hear the word this time, but I don’t understand the word.
He laughs when he sees how lost I am. “A glorified bird-watcher. But Mama does it for fun; my mom is the breadwinner. She’s a cardiovascular surgeon,” Will explains, using more big words that take way too many brain cells to lipread.
“Do you want me to take some pictures of you? Since you took Felix’s?” I ask.
“Oh, sure. Thanks. Let me show you how to use it real quick.”
Felix and Sunglasses follow us while Will shows me how to adjust the exposure, teaches me the rule of thirds, and poses.
My photos aren’t perfect, but I’m pretty proud of the results.
Some look like DAYDREAM promotional pictures.
A pretty, blue-haired, dark-skinned boy against a backdrop of early-morning sky.
After a while, Felix steps between the camera and Will.
Will turns to me and squints, wracking his brain, before clunkily signing: “Taking photos … done?” he asks verbally.
I flip both hands away from my body, fingers splayed.
If only he had shown his inclination for learning different languages before that (rigged) game with Calum.
He repeats the sign multiple times, committing it to memory.
I give him a thumbs-up before he rushes over to Sunglasses, who’s wearing his backpack for him, and pulls out a tennis ball. He motions toward Ginger.
I hold back a laugh at his love for my dog and bend down to take off her vest. She wiggles excitedly, knowing that means she’s off-duty. Will grabs her leash, and they take off, but as he passes Felix, I notice Will give him a subtle, encouraging nod. Oh god.
Dread washes over me as I realize this outing was all a ploy. Felix interrupting and Will walking away on cue? This shit was orchestrated!
“Don’t worry; I gave him Zyrtec earlier,” Felix says, as if that’s what I’m worried about right now. “Can we talk?”
I swallow my nerves. “OK.”
“About the other night—”
Right then, my phone starts ringing, and I scramble to grab it. Jo’s picture is on my screen, and I’ve never been more relieved to get a call from her.
“It’s Jo.” I show him the screen to prove I’m not merely trying to get out of this conversation (okay, well, I totally am, but he doesn’t need to know that). He jogs over to Will and Sunglasses as I answer.
“Hey!” Her face is illuminated by the light on my end, but otherwise she’s in complete darkness. “Any news? Gossip? Seattle’s too boring.”
“You called for gossip? Really?”
“My life needs excitement. I only teach and redesign the website. There’s nothing fun!”
“Sorry. Nothing new.”
She seems unconvinced. “How are you two? What happened with the love song?”
Instinctively, my eyes dart away from her and locate Felix. He and Will are halfway across the park. Will throws the slobber-coated ball, and Felix reluctantly holds Ginger’s leash while she chases after it.
“We … almost kissed.”
“WHEN!?” she signs so intensely I wouldn’t be surprised if she hurt her wrist.
“The Fourth of July.”
“WHAT?!”
“Stop yelling!”
Her movements calm down. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I glance at Felix, and the details of that night come flooding back. How his lips felt when they brushed mine, the comfort of being wrapped in his arms, his fake smile as I walked away.
Finally, I look at Jo and sign, “Even if I wanted to date him—and I don’t—I can’t. It’s not a smart decision. He doesn’t understand my life. He’s rich and famous. Maybe he only likes me because I’m convenient right now. He’d get bored of me after the tour.”
“Even if it’s not a smart choice, you’re eighteen. You’re allowed some bad choices!” I frown at her, unconvinced. “Have you tried telling him how you feel? Communication is important. Wow. I’m kind of the smartest sister now,” Jo insists.
Sure, maybe everyone deserves a few bad choices. But would Felix be the most beautiful decision I’ve made or my biggest mistake?
Maybe he’d end up being both.
I can’t take that risk.
On the bus the next morning, while the boys go back to sleep, I make myself a cup of watery instant coffee and curl up on the couch. Ginger jumps up and nuzzles me. I run my fingers through her thick fur and sip my coffee.
Relishing the peace, I flip through the pages of my sketchbook, which are mostly filled with drawings of Ginger and a few portraits of Jo, though a few DAYDREAM sketches have made their way in.
I turn to the page with the unfinished mural.
I get lost in my art until Felix steps out from the sleeping quarters in a skintight tank top and gray sweatpants.
“G’mornin’,” he says, voice thick with sleep. He sits beside me.
I silently pray he doesn’t try to bring up whatever Jo interrupted yesterday, but thankfully, he turns his attention to Necktie’s latest schedule.
The rising sun bathes him in rays of orange and pink; his tan skin glows golden, his dark eyes brighten. I force myself to look away before I get sucked into his orbit. Never have I met someone with such an intense gravitational pull.
Already having read the schedule, I know it’s another non-concert day Necktie’s jam-packed with events. Starting with a TIME interview right after we get to New York.
He mouths every word and traces each line with his finger. After two minutes of re-reading the same line, I gingerly tap his shoulder. “Can I help?” I ask. He blinks at me a few times, hesitancy washing over his features, before handing it over.
“At 8:30 there’s an interview with T-I-M-E magazine. At noon, you’re filming a video for G-L-A-M-O-U-R.” He intently watches my hands. Whenever I fingerspell, I go slowly and allow him to form each letter with his own hand as well, which seems to aid in his understanding.
After we finish going over the itinerary, he looks at me fondly. A strand of hair falls in his eyes, and I instinctively reach out and tuck it behind his ear. My cheeks burn as I jerk my hand away. What is wrong with me?
His smile wanes, and he pulls his hair into a low bun at the nape of his neck. “Er … I reckon we could do some ASL practice before we get to New York,” he says while he scoots to the next cushion over, away from me. “D’you wanna hear how Lachlan broke my wrist? It’s how we met, actually.”
“Uh, sure. Tell me.”
I settle into the couch and marvel at how smooth his SimCom is getting. “It was the very first day of freshman year and we were playing volleyball in P.E. Well, Lach crashed right into me trying to spike the ball. I heard my wrist snap before I felt it … it was brutal.” He winces at the thought.
“Damn. That’s a memorable introduction to high school.”
He chuckles. “He was super apologetic, though. Basically declared himself my personal nurse—he’d open doors and take notes for me in class since I couldn’t write with my cast.”
“Aw, that’s sweet.” The mental image of their freshman hijinks makes me smile.
Felix nods. “That’s how he is—once he cares about someone, he’s always got their back. We’ve been best mates ever since.”
When we finally arrive in New York, we’re taken straight to their TIME interview.
Even at 8:00 a.m., a sea of fans scream for the boys.
It’s astonishing how their fame keeps skyrocketing.
The crowds only grow bigger everywhere they go, a living, breathing testament to the boys’ stardom.
I spot someone wearing a FUTURE MRS. EVANS T-shirt crying when they see Calum.
(I mean, hey, if Peeta Mellark walked up to me right now, I’d probably shit my pants. So I guess I can understand.)
Inside, Felix is whisked into the Green Room. With everyone rushing to get the boys ready, there’s no time for small talk, so I plant myself in an empty corner and send emails to disability activists and outreach programs to see how they recommend I start a program of my own.
Finally, after they film a “friendship test” video for GLAMOUR, the boys are given what Necktie considers a lunch break: scarfing food down in the car on the way to the second fan meet and greet of the tour, which is being held in a rented hotel ballroom.
On our way, Felix rests his head on Lachlan’s shoulder and catnaps, and I stare out the window and take in New York City.
It’s nothing like the glorious city found in movies and romanticized descriptions in YA novels. Litter lines the streets, the sidewalk is packed with people pushing past one another, and traffic is at a dead standstill, but everyone is honking like the sound will turn a red light green.
A massive, circular building across from where our car is stuck grabs my attention. Displayed on a huge screen above the entrance is the picture the boys used to announce their tour, but instead of names of cities with dates, it says: DAYDREAM LIVE AT MADISON SQUARE GARDEN: JULY 11–12!
My jaw drops as I read the last part: SOLD OUT!
Not even a year after their debut, they’re performing two sold-out shows at Madison Square Garden. It’s not surprising, but still an incredible feat.
When we arrive at the hotel, Ginger and I follow the band inside through the staff entrance, and Felix peers at me over his shoulder like we’re sharing a secret. The last time we used a back door like this was in Nashville. Are we thinking about the same thing? My heart flutters against my will.
Roughly two hundred fans erupt into cheers as the boys enter the ballroom.
The number seems insignificant now that I know they sold out a twenty-thousand-seat arena two times over.
As they make their way to the front of the room, Mateo is glued to Felix’s side; his green eyes nervously scan the room.
Felix places a comforting hand on his shoulder and only removes it when the members sit on stools in front of a white backdrop.
Bhavani and I sit in the far back.
At the front, people start taking pictures with them. Fans stand on a duct tape X on the floor and smile as a staffer takes a photo, then they’re given a short, thirty-second window to interact with the boys. Some get starstruck and go speechless, others pass around an album to collect signatures.
Felix graciously accepts but struggles to get his signature down. It must be an incredible amount of pressure because of his dysgraphia. But it seems like the boys are enjoying themselves.
Halfway through, a fan around our age chooses to spend thirty seconds talking to Felix.
Whatever they say earns his full, undivided attention.
He takes their hands and flashes a smile so genuine it’s like the sun has risen just for them.
He’s looking at them like they’re the only person in the room.
It’s how he used to look at me.
Time’s up, I think, glaring at the wall clock. But no matter how quickly the moment passes, the pang in my chest lingers, sharp and sour.