Dammit!
Sitting at the tiny table in the back of the bus, I stare blankly at my computer screen. Do I comment? Ignore it? I could try to explain, but what would I even say at this point? “Logan and I were never together, so who cares if it looks like I hooked up with another guy in the band?” The more I consider the truth of the situation, the more I think maybe I am the horrible person the anonymous trolls are describing. I only flirted with Tad to make Cam jealous. Same with the other guy. As I sit in the booth at the back of the bus, head down on my laptop, my phone chirps and buzzes over and over. An endless stream of new love notes from the band’s adoring fans, no doubt.
I’m still sitting head-down on the table when Cam’s voice enters the kitchen. “You okay?”
After last night, avoiding Cam was today’s mission. Dream on, Virginia. Sometimes I think he’s planted some sort of secret monitoring device on me. Something that registers when I’m in distress, so he can swoop in for the save. “Sure, I’m great,” I say. “Don’t I look great?”
Cam sits in the seat across from me in the booth. “You don’t, no.”
I flip open the laptop without looking at it, and push it toward him. I can hear the background noise of the Ferris wheel as the video clip starts.
“Fuck.”
“Yep.”
“So those girls earlier?” he asks.
“Yep.” I click the notification symbol that’s now showing “672” and shove the computer back toward him. “Seems I’m everyone’s favorite tour slut.”
“Vee—”
“Don’t, Cam.”
“I shouldn’t have—” Cam’s hand is an inch from mine on the table, and usually I’d make a big show of pulling it away, but I don’t even make the effort. He drums his fingers next to mine. “Where’d they even get all that stuff?” he says.
“Someone’s phone, obviously. It’s not like they were frisking everyone.” I focus on the table. “And you know where the video came from.”
“Ten seconds after this, you were pushing me away.” He runs a hand over his head. Cam looks behind me, toward the front of the bus, and suddenly he’s out of his seat, striding down the aisle. Tad is standing by the bunks, his camera trained on us.
Crap.
I get to Cam just as he pulls the camera out of Tad’s hand.
“What the hell?” Tad’s face is twisted in shock as the camera crashes down to the floor.
“You’ve got some nerve, getting friendly with her.” Cam pushes Tad in the chest, not nearly as hard as he could have, but hard enough to make me nervous. “Acting like you give a shit.” My hands are on Cam’s forearms as I try to calm him down. “You said you wouldn’t air it.”
Tad picks up the long lens lying by his feet. “I said I wouldn’t mark it, and bring it to anyone’s attention. And I didn’t. But you know I don’t choose what gets used.” Tad pushes his sleeves up, revealing his colorful forearms. “You should be happy they’re giving you so much coverage.”
“Happy?” I ask. Why would anyone want this? “Why would we be happy that we look like some kind of twisted love triangle?”
Tad sets the three pieces of his camera onto the couch. “Whose fault is it that people think you’re dating Logan?”
He has a point.
“Listen, when it comes to shows like this—reality contests—all coverage is good coverage. You guys interest people, and as long as there’s a good story, people are going to keep you around to see how it ends. And the producers like you, so they’re going to do what they can to sway things your way.”
“Sway things?” I ask.
“You honestly think these things are left completely to the public?” Tad rolls his eyes as he grabs his camera up off the couch. “You can’t be that naive.” Tad is still shaking his head in disbelief as he stomps down the steps of the bus.
* * *
Two hours later, the guys are at another rehearsal, and I haven’t stopped thinking about that video or those comments. I’m standing in front of my bunk, stuffing my clothes into my bags. The next plane to Chicago will have me on it. This is nothing like how I pictured my summer going; I’ll take my chances with boring Riverton.
I hear the breathy squeal of the bus door, and Tad steps on, with our second cameraman, Dave, behind him. When Tad sees me, he waves Dave away. Dave crosses the parking lot toward another bus while Tad makes his way down the aisle toward me. “What are you doing?”
“Packing,” I say, as I shove my laptop into my bag.
He sets his camera down, and—surprisingly—it isn’t pointing at me. It’s facing a nondescript wall. “I can see that.” He rolls his eyes. “Why are you packing?”
“Didn’t you get the memo?” I ask.
He stares at me blankly.
“I’ve been cast as the tour slut.” I pull my notebooks off the tiny shelf.
He grabs the strap of my bag and pulls it down the bed, toward him. “The memo I got didn’t say anything about you leaving,” he says.
I pull the bag back to me, and position myself between it and Tad. “Well, I’m not just waiting around for some crazy fan to jump me at the next show.”
Tad crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. “That’s a little dramatic.”
It is. I’m feeling very dramatic at the moment. I zip up my bag, and sling it over my shoulder.
Tad steps in front of me, blocking the aisle. “Listen to me. This will blow over. The fans will get over it.”
“They won’t even let us break up.” My voice catches in my throat as I try my best not to cry. “Jenn said they’re not ready for that yet. Jenn, the producers—everyone but me—is obsessed with keeping this thing with me and Logan going. It’s sadistic.” And I’m over it. If they won’t make the call to end it, I’ll do it for them. It may be the coward’s way out, but at least it’s my decision.”
“This hasn’t been about you and Logan for a long time, if you haven’t noticed—”
I’m confused, because this is all about me and Logan and this stupid lie.
Hands on his hips, he tips his head back, like he’s talking to the ceiling and not me. “And apparently you haven’t. God, Vee, I know you’re not this dumb.”
“Excuse me? What do—”
“Why do you think the clips of you and Cam were leaked?” He puts his hands on my shoulders and lowers his face to mine. “The only thing more intriguing than a love story is a forbidden love story. And trust me, anyone who has seen the two of you knows there’s something there.”
“Was,” I say.
“Was. Is. Whatever. It’s my job, not my business. All I’m saying is don’t leave. You’re going to want to be here when this happens for them. You’re a part of it,” he says. “Don’t leave. And don’t waste this opportunity that you have.”
Suddenly I’m mad at myself for even considering walking away from this internship. I filled out papers last week. I have actual responsibilities. Maybe I did know right from the start that there were ulterior motives behind keeping me around—and officially bringing me onboard—but now I’m in. I have an actual college-official internship on a huge network TV show, and I’m going to milk it for every resume-worthy line I can get. I can’t let this drama push me off course. “I’m not leaving.”
“That’s not what it looks like.”
“I just wanted to be ready,” I say. “For when I really do need to run from a crazed fan.” I scowl at him, and punch him softly in the shoulder.
Like usual, there’s a smile on his face, and he picks his camera back up. “Get it all out of your system. In two minutes this camera goes back on and I can’t have you giving me the Angry Girl death-stare for no reason.” He points at my bags. “Get that shit unpacked. Quickly.” He taps his camera. “No evidence, please.”
I nod, unpacking my bag and shoving it back under my bed.
“I spend my entire day watching you guys,” Tad says. He’s leaning against Cam’s bunk. “I think I’ve officially spent
more time with all of you than I have with my own girlfriends over the years, so trust me when I say this”—he pushes at his sleeves, looking nervous—“the way Cam looks at you? That’s not normal. Because you’re not even looking back at him, and he’s still trying.”
* * *
I may have promised myself to see this through to the end, but I still feel violated. There’s really no other way to describe it; it’s like someone published my song lyrics or stole a pair of my underwear, or something. The picture of me and Cam was staring at me from a truck stop magazine rack the other day, and I considered buying all of them. Or knocking the rack over, and letting one of the buses run it over. Then I thought of all of the truck stops, in all of the cities, in every state. The grocery stores. And bookstores. Department stores are probably selling magazines now, just to spite me. Every time I see that video or the pictures they’ve now made of it, I get a little angrier. A little more hurt and frustrated. At first my anger has no direction, no target. It just radiates around me, blaming everyone.
What Tad said keeps replaying in my mind. If it hadn’t been obvious that there was a story between Cam and me, no one would have given us a second thought. My face wouldn’t be plastered on every celebrity gossip site out there. My parents wouldn’t have called me, worried that I must be on drugs or something, because “That’s so unlike you Virginia.” I know I shouldn’t, and I don’t even want to, deep down, but all of the anger I’ve been pushing away is finally focused on the bunk across from me.
* * *
I open my laptop to work on the schedule for the next round of preshow meet-and-greets. Kaley and Priya are sitting across from me in the lounge of the production bus, piles of papers stacked on their laps. It must be rough, trying to do office work out of a bus. Jenn stays at a hotel in whatever city we’re in, but Kaley and Priya are relegated to the bus, like the camera guys and band members. Priya pushes her dark hair out of her face and tosses a stack of papers into my lap. “He didn’t fill out half of it,” she says.
Who? I flip over the pile of stapled papers and see Cam’s name scribbled across the top. I flip through the pages. He actually filled in less than half. There’s a page with his personal details: his height and weight, favorite color, food, band, and song. Three whole paragraphs are dedicated to a cute story about his first dog, Parker. Parker Sunset. But under most of the sections, all it says is “None of your business,” scrawled in black ink.
“Someone should tell him we give them these as a courtesy,” Kaley mutters. “We’ve got Google.”
Shit. I know exactly what they found on Google.
“He’s the next big story for Your Future X.” Priya looks at me. “Once the drama dies down, we’ll start producing a special segment on him. You should prepare him for that.”
“Can you do that?” Kaley says. She’s about my age, and it’s been clear from the start that she hasn’t appreciated my spontaneous addition to the marketing team. Every word she says to me is laced with disdain.
I nod. “I can do that.” But can I? Am I willing to throw Cam under the bus to prove that I can do this job? To prove, once and for all, that I don’t care about him anymore. “You’ll let me know when production is actually scheduled, so I can warn him?”
The two girls nod, and as I cross the parking lot to our bus, I pass a small group of fans who have made their way behind the club. It’s still three days until the next show, and no one expects us to arrive this early, so the crowds are light. In two days, there will be fans milling everywhere, trying to get a glimpse of the bands. Sometimes they just want to get caught on camera. Two of the girls glare at me as I pass them, and I make a decision. Yes, I can definitely do this. No one’s secrets are safe anymore. We will all suffer together.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THEN
CAM
“That!” Vee is yelling, pointing her spoon at the TV. Green flecks of ice cream splatter onto the beige carpet of my living room. Wearing a pair of faded jeans, and one of my Rolling Stones T-shirts (that’s four sizes too big for her) she’s in her usual after-school spot on my couch. “That is what I’m talking about!”
I have no idea what the yelling is about. I zoned out a while ago. Sitting at the dining room table, on the other side of the room, I’m scribbling lyrics and chords into my notebook. Vee is sitting cross-legged on my couch, watching a movie. A giant bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream is settled in her lap. There are at least two cartons of it in my freezer at all times now. One day, scientists will prove that Virginia Miller’s veins actually pump the stuff.
I look up to see that there’s a marching band prancing across a stadium, while playing a booming rendition of “Can’t Take My Eyes off of You.” Trombones and trumpets gleam. Stunned students look on in bewilderment, and the band’s leader, a shaggy-haired late-’90s Heath Ledger, thrusts his baton while simultaneously singing and weaving through the stadium, evading security guards. Why are there security guards on the football field?
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s just the grandest of all grand gestures,” she says, sounding annoyed. Her eyes never leave the screen. I’m pretty sure she sighed. “You wouldn’t understand. None of you do.” She says it angrily, as if I’ve personally affronted her somehow.
“Excuse me? None of ‘us’?” I’m trying my best to sound offended, but she looks so damn adorable, pouting over her melting ice cream and waving her arms at the TV. It’s hard not to laugh at her. I keep the smile that’s threatening in check.
“Guys. Boys.” Her face twists into a scowl and I almost lose it. “Men,” she hisses, jabbing her spoon at me. “None of you.”
“Movies like this give you all unreasonable expectations.” I idly strum a chord. “As if we can actually commandeer a marching band, or set up a moonlit picnic on the Empire State Building.”
“Oh, ‘us all’?”
“Yes. Girls.” I try to look at her as seriously as she’s looking at me. “We can’t actually make that shit happen. It’s unrealistic.”
Another spoonful of ice cream slides into her mouth. “No one expects a guy to re-create this movie stuff, Cam. Grand gestures aren’t actually about scale.” The silver spoon twists in her fingers like a drumstick. “They’re about putting yourself out there and creating a moment.”
“A moment?”
“Yes, a moment. It’s about doing something outside of your comfort zone to show someone what they mean to you.” She’s looking at me as if this is the most obvious thing ever, and not girl-speak that basically requires a translator.
I give her an “I still don’t get it” shoulder shrug. Just to irritate her.
She rewards me with a dramatic eye roll. “Conducting a marching band in front of a football field of students,” she says, gesturing at the TV. “Or standing outside her bedroom window with a giant boom box, playing a love song?” She watched that one last week. Her eyes are fixed on me. She’s waiting for an aha! moment, but I’m not going to give it to her.
I shrug again.
“Ugh. It’s about creating a freaking moment.” Her spoon drops into her bowl with a loud clang.
I’m trying to play along and keep a straight face, but I can feel my lips betraying me now. “It’s unrealistic.”
“You’re unrealistic,” she says with mock anger, sticking her tongue out at me as I shake my head.
I finally give up a laugh.
The spoon is sticking out of her mouth and she’s facing the TV again, but I can tell she’s smiling. “Shut up and write your song.”
* * *
I’ve had plenty of girlfriends. A lot of the middle school, movie-date-with-your-parents kind, and just one of the sort of serious, I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours kind. I know all about remembering birthdays and favorite foods, and buying flowers on Valentine’s Day and presents at Christmas. Still, I’ve never considered myself a particularly romantic guy. Not like Anders. That guy’s always sending Cort flowers, or driving
three hours after school to meet her at her college. He takes her out to the kind of restaurants that require reservations and clothes nicer than most of what he owns. That all seems forced and fake to me. I don’t want to do anything for Vee just because I feel like I’m supposed to.
This is definitely something I have to do, though. Before she finds out, I have to tell her. And when I found the light on in my spare room the morning after she slept over, I knew it was a matter of time. Weeks have already passed, and it’s felt like a bomb in my back pocket, just waiting to blow my legs off. I’ve put this off long enough, and I’m hoping if I make the moment semi-romantic, I can distract her from what a big deal it is. Vee is always swooning over romantic, grand gestures, but this is more of a romantic diversion.
The whole apartment smells like pepperoni pizza. I turn off the movie Vee’s playing—another one of her chick flicks—and flip to one of the music stations. I yell into the kitchen. “How long?”
“Ten minutes.” She’s standing in the archway between the living room and dining area.
“Come in here.”
She’s smiling as she walks toward me. “I’m not making out with you again.” She pretends to think about it. She’s adorable. “Well, I will, but I can’t stay late tonight.” Vee falls asleep here some nights, waking up before the sun’s up, to get home before her mom does. I sleep strangely well with her next to me. I haven’t had a nightmare with her beside me, since that first night. For the most part, we’ve swapped our nights lying on the beach talking, for nights lying on my bed talking.
“I don’t want to make out.”
Her expression falls as I say it, and I can’t help but laugh at her pouty face. I grab her hand and pull her over to me. “Not now, I mean.” I keep her hand in mine, placing the other on my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her obscenely close to me.
Love Songs & Other Lies Page 15
