39. Ari
THIRTY-NINE
ARI
In a matter of weeks, we have a solid plan for our Stay Loud mini resistance tour. Two weeks of shows and speeches around the country, in major protest hubs and cities currently affected by the worst of the immigration raids and police violence.
Our momentum for finding venues and partners is easy at first. Venues in Minneapolis and Chicago answer our calls with enthusiasm that borders on relief.
Community organizers reach out before we even finalize dates.
Legal aid groups, immigrant support networks, LGBTQ youth centers—everyone seems ready for something loud, unapologetic, and big.
The energy is contagious, and for the first time since the charity concert in New Orleans, I feel like we are moving toward something instead of reacting to it.
Blake has been a machine. He coordinates permits and security details while simultaneously fielding criticism from some of his own colleagues who think we should focus on the music.
As if every form of art isn’t political in some way.
As if there aren’t people hurting in this country that don’t get to share the privilege of being ignorant.
Naz starts drafting ideas for stage visuals that blend protest footage with live art, with the help of Luc’s sister Georgia, who it turns out is a really good artist. Will and I spend a lot of time passing ideas back and forth, and once we get into the studio with Jesse, the song comes together beautifully.
What’s It Gonna Be isn’t subtle. It isn’t meant to be. It’s unapologetically honest and in your face. It’s a call to action, an accusation, a plea.
I think it might be the most important thing I’ve ever had a hand in creating.
Once there’s enough buzz, we start getting pushback.
A venue in Houston suddenly claims scheduling conflicts.
A theater in Atlanta backs out after a private donor threatens to withdraw funding.
A city council in Florida reconsiders our permit application after a few well-placed calls from a senator who has never once attended one of our shows.
The pattern becomes obvious quickly, and even though it makes my blood boil, it does not surprise me.
Blake handles it all calmly and strategically, with our legal team on speed dial and three backup plans for every cancellation, thanks to Emmy.
Within days, new venues are secured. Outdoor spaces are permitted.
Community centers and small businesses open their doors and lend us space and resources to help our cause.
They can bully us out of one space, and we’ll simply show up in another. They cannot stop us.
We’ve just finished our final recording for What’s It Gonna Be when Blake shows up at the studio and pulls me and Will aside. Blake gestures us down a hallway to a small break room, his expression carefully neutral, which is more concerning than if he looked pissed.
He waits until the door to the lounge clicks shut behind us before speaking. “I got a call this morning,” he says, resting his tablet on the table. “From an entertainment news outlet.”
“That doesn’t sound new,” I say lightly, but I can already feel my stomach twisting ominously.
“It’s not. What is new is the exposé they’re about to publish. About the two of you,” he says, tapping the tablet.
Will goes very still beside me.
Blake’s gaze flicks between us before he continues, “The article isn’t great, and apparently there is going to be a television special where your foster father will be doing some sort of tell-all.
The good news is, thanks to an intern who is a big enough fan to risk their job, we aren’t going to be blindsided by this. ”
Despite knowing this might happen, the knowledge that it is lands like a weight dropped to the bottom of my stomach.
But it’s Will’s reaction that hurts more than the information itself.
The color drains from his face in a way that makes me concerned he’s about to get sick.
His jaw tightens, and for a moment he doesn’t breathe.
This was his worst fear all along. It’s what prompted him to take matters into his own hands and threaten Don with his own words.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say immediately, turning toward him and threading my fingers through his. “Thanks to you, we have a voice recording of Don admitting to being a nasty liar.”
“Unfortunately, he’s not the only one they interviewed,” Blake adds. “They’ve tracked down people that you supposedly slept with or tried to. As well as people Will allegedly threatened. Which, of course, leads into Don’s claims that there is an unnatural attachment between the two of you.”
Will closes his eyes briefly, but we expected that part. Tentatively, I pick up the tablet and skim over the article.
The worst of it is an entirely fictional deep dive into my supposed troubled childhood, as if I ended up in foster care because of something I did.
Of course, Don has a lot to say on that topic as well.
There are a bunch of far-fetched and downright unbelievable claims about what happened the night my mother was arrested.
Most of it reads like conspiracy theories, but I’d be lying if the images it brings up in my mind don’t make me want to hurl.
How could anyone look at the bruised, malnourished, and haunted child in that photo and believe he was capable of murder?
My wrists were thin enough to snap. I was small enough to disappear behind a couch cushion.
And the man who died that night, the one who had his hands around my neck, pressing me against the dirty wall, wasn’t stabbed—he was shot with his own gun.
I feel something hot and sharp rise in my throat and put the tablet down. Will picks it up, teeth grinding as he reads over the details.
He scoffs and shows me where Don gives a lengthy statement about his bravery coming forward after Will threatened him. He says he’s ashamed to call us his, but that he had to speak out for the love of his country and allegiance to his president.
For a moment, the room is silent except for the faint hum of the studio through the wall.
“Well,” I say finally, swallowing hard. “This is trash.”
Blake nods. “It’s ugly. Unfortunately, it’ll probably get enough attention to cause some backlash. PR has suggested, again, that we pause the tour until the news cycle moves on.”
I look at Will and see a flicker of doubt there. Not about us. Never about us. It’s about whether he has dragged me into something bigger than we can control.
“Hell no,” I say, louder than I intended. “Fuck that.”
The words feel solid in my mouth. Strong.
“They want us quiet,” I continue. “They want us ashamed. They want us defensive. That’s the whole point.”
Naz appears in the doorway, peeking in because he hears my raised voice.
Jesse follows behind him when we gesture them in.
I nod at Blake so he can fill them in. Jesse knows now, for sure, that Will and I are together.
Sure enough, he had his suspicions. He actually thought we’d been fucking since high school.
Neither of them is happy about the exposé. There is anger there, and something protective, and something else that looks a hell of a lot like resolve. Resolve I feel in my gut.
“I think we should get ahead of it.”
Blake studies me carefully. “You’re sure?”
I nod. “I think we should make our official announcement for the tour as soon as possible, today if we can make it happen. And as part of that, we shoot down the fallacies and bullshit that are being spread about us to distract us from our cause.”
“So you’re still planning on keeping your relationship private?” Blake almost sounds hopeful, but to his credit, he doesn’t balk when I tell him no.
“The whole thing is silly. The world might see us as brothers, but we aren’t related, and we’re adults. If we keep hiding, it just makes it look like we’re ashamed when we aren’t.”
I look to Will for acceptance or confirmation or something to tell me he’s not on board, but all I see there is pride. And love.
Within hours, all four of us are in front of a ton of cameras. Only this time, it’s me that talks instead of Jesse.
“Good afternoon. Thank you for joining us today. You might have heard some rumors…” I let that drag out, earning me a few chuckles.
“We are headed out on a mini tour across the US that has a special purpose. We want to raise awareness of the very real and very frightening things happening in our country, and come together to stand against it. The details of the tour, including dates, venues, and how you can help, are all included in the press packets you were given.”
I pause to take a breath, steeling myself.
“Also in the press packet, you will also find a copy of an article that was leaked to us anonymously, where a popular and commonly biased entertainment news source plans to publish an expose about myself and Will Kessler. More specifically, the article seeks to exploit our childhood trauma and use it against us. Also attached to the article is a recorded confession from the main contributor of that article, where he specifically threatens to sell lies to the media circus that has surrounded me and my band members lately.”
“There are people—many of them powerful—who want to use our past and our present to discredit us. They want to twist love into perversion and spread lies to distract you. They do not want you looking behind the curtain. They do not want you listening to facts or reason. They want us all ignorant and docile. We are anything but.”
I smile at my bandmates when someone in the crowd gives a little whoop! of approval. I’m pretty sure it was Emmy.
“This article talks about my troubled childhood and some of the trauma I endured in a way that is not only deeply invasive but also harmful to every child who lived through abuse or trauma. No child deserves to be abused. No child ends up in foster care because of something they did. Yes, I had a troubled childhood,” I say, my voice steady even though my palms are damp.
“I went to bed scared most nights. I flinched from mere shadows. I learned how to be small and quiet and invisible because it was safer that way.”
The silence in the cavernous room of the building lobby feels heavy. It’s harder to talk about this than I expected, and I’m starting to wish I’d chosen to write out my statement.
“I was too small and too scared and too weak when I was moved into Don Malloy’s house,” I continue. “My foster father was cruel and mocking. He enjoyed my fear. Even now, as an adult, he attempts to use it against me because he believes that I am the same weak little boy he once bullied.”
Will’s hand brushes against mine behind the podium. I link our fingers together.
“I didn’t feel much safer in my foster family’s home than I did in the house where I nearly died. The best thing that ever happened to me came from the worst,” I say. “In the form of a boy not much older than me. I loved him. I loved him then, and I love him now.”
I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. But I tighten my grip on his hand.
“Maybe you think it’s wrong because we grew up in that same house.
Maybe you want to make it something dirty or twisted because that fits your narrative better.
But I’m telling you, you’re wrong. We were all each other had.
We protected each other. We trusted each other.
We built something out of survival that grew into something stronger as we became adults. ”
I let that settle.
“The rest of it is none of anyone’s damn business.”
There is a murmur somewhere in the room. A snicker, perhaps.
“There are always going to be people who judge you for who you are, what you look like, the choices you make, the choices you don’t make.” I say evenly. “It’s inescapable. So, judge me if you want. But don’t let it distract you.”
I take a breath before continuing.
“Because that’s what they want. They want to distract you from millions of pages of files where certain names show up again and again.
From gunshots in the streets. From human beings locked in cages that are not fit for the rats they are forced to share them with.
They want to distract you by pinning the worst crimes on the people statistically least likely to commit them.
And they want to distract you by painting love as evil. ”
My voice does not waver.
“Love is love. Love is joy. Love is resistance.”
I glance at the band behind me.
“Stand proud and stay loud,” I finish. “Because we will not let them get us down.”