Russell: Yeah, and to spend more time with Keelin. (He hits Keelin on the head with an envelope.)
Paeder: I'm going to start work on my first solo album. (He dodges an onslaught of envelopes.)
JB: Any titles yet?
Paeder: Not yet. (Russell and Keelin laugh.)
JB: Marcie in West Hampton wants to know, Are you guys breaking up?
Keelin: Absolutely not. Hasn't even been discussed.
Paeder: You'll be the first to know if we do, Marcie.
JB: Kristin Moore in Manchester says, Paeder, you once said there was no shame in being a boy band. Now that you are older and wiser, do you still feel that way?
Paeder: Absolutely. Boy bands have their purpose. They make a lot of people, young people, usually, very happy and give them a viable alternative to music that might be a little rough with swearing or sexuality. I think Icon has evolved past the "boy band" label, though. We still try to put out good, wholesome tunes, but I don't think we qualify as a boy band anymore.
Russell: I don't like to generalize, but I think any group that uses "girl" more than fifteen times in a song is a boy band.
JB: You're referring to "Standing Alone," the single you released last month?
Russell: Among others, yeah. Also, there's the dancing.
Paeder: We've cut back on that, though. Praise God.
Russell: Yeah, Paeder can't keep up with us anymore.
Icon is on hiatus until the end of the year. Paeder's untitled solo album will be released sometime this summer.
Chapter Two
On the flight from Los Angeles to New York, an eleven year old girl sat next to me flipping through Junior Beat magazine and drawing tiny hearts and stars on the pin-ups. I had triple-folded my L.A. Times to keep the article about President Clinton's acquittal by the Senate that I was trying to read away from her glitter pens.
"Paeder Brogan is so cute," she said. "Don't you think?"
So far she had asked my opinion on at least ten young men. Seven of them I knew personally.
The relationships I had with these singers made it feel strange for me to say, "Oh, yes, that one's adorable," to the child, but I did anyway. I was not so ready to confirm Paeder's cuteness.
"Uh huh," I said, trying for disinterest. Hopefully she would accept it and move onto the next page. I kept reading my paper. A cross-country flight lasted just long enough for me to get through the Sunday edition if I wasn't interrupted. There was no chance that I would finish on this flight.
She pushed her magazine on top of my paper. "See?"
I glanced at the photo of Icon; Paeder, Russell, and Keelin made up to look five years younger than they were, and nodded dutifully. "Yes," I said. "He's very cute." I ruffled the newspaper to let her know she could remove the magazine. She didn't get the hint.
"He's hot," the girl said. She punctuated herself with a short giggle.
It figured she would like Paeder. He had a hypnotic effect on children. His perfectly mussed blond hair enthralled them.
"He's all right." I looked at the picture again. Keelin was in front as always. Photographers put him there because he was small.
"At least Keelin isn't holding a stuffed animal in this one," I said.
Instead, he was tugging his jacket like he expected a wind to gust through the studio and whip it off. Russell stood behind Keelin. He had wrapped his arm protectively across Keelin's shoulder and under his armpit as if he expected that same gust of wind to carry Keelin away.
"He hasn't done that since he came out," the girl said. "It's okay for regular guys to hold teddy bears because then girls think they're friendly, but if a gay guy is doing it, then it just makes him gay-er."
She looked at me matter-of-factly, as if she had told me something commonly understood—that rain falls from the sky.
I squeezed my eyes shut. My head was pounding. "Interesting theory."
"I've had some time to think about it," she said. "Anyway, me and my friends all knew he was gay before. Didn't bother us."
"That's good." My eyes were still closed.
"You sick or something?" she asked.
I forced myself to look at her. "No."
"He's twenty-three, anyway. We figure it's his business what he does. He can be gay if he wants."
"That's very big of you."
She shrugged. "My friend Tina is crazy about him. She sends him cards and stuff. I don't send cards. I think it's stupid. She sent him a collage for his birthday. It was last February, you know."
I did, actually, know that. Michael and I sent him a bottle of… something. I usually left the alcohol selection up to Michael, which meant that we gave out a lot of Australian goods. Despite not knowing Paeder well outside of the occasional and generally unpleasant meeting at an industry event, Michael and I had developed a good rapport with Keelin and Russell. They had even spent a few days with us when they'd come to Los Angeles two years before on vacation, shortly before my personal life blew up. "You know a lot about them, huh?" I asked. I had unconsciously slipped into the light, falsely cheerful voice common in adults talking to children. The girl popped her lips.
"Yes. But Paeder's the best one. There wouldn't be a group without him."
She was right. Paeder was an effortless leader. Icon wouldn't be half the group it was without him in front. I wanted to tell her that Paeder hated children. I didn't know if that was true, but it struck me as something he would do. My discomfort was my own fault, really. Children her age made me nervous. They had convictions and a natural talent for conveying disdain. I felt stupid around them. I had the feeling, though, that whatever his opinion on children, Paeder would like this one.
In the picture, Paeder stood half a foot from Russell, but leaning to the side so his head touched Russell's shoulder. Paeder's smile was cool, and even diffused by the camera's lens it was obvious who was in charge in the trio. Michael and I did a shot like this for some songwriter's monthly, with Michael bending his lanky frame down to rest his head on my shoulder. Michael had been giddy. He barely made it through the shoot without collapsing in laughter.
The girl exhaled obnoxiously, obviously unhappy with the level of attention I was giving her. "Hello? I said, 'Isn't he cute?'"
"What? Yes. I said he was already." I stopped myself from rolling my eyes.
She took the magazine away from me. Her small fingers bore pastel smudges from her pens. I had failed her with my reaction.
"Well, I think he's cute," she said. "Even if you don't."
"I said I did." Great. I was getting defensive over a picture of Paeder.
"Don't patronize me. I'll tell my mom. She'll be angry because I'm not to be treated like a child. I'm a young lady." She was obviously quoting her mother.
"Fine. I'm sorry. Let's just read, all right?"
"I forgive you." She smiled in that toothy way that beauty pageant children have. Then she pulled her magazine onto her seat-back tray and uncapped a pen.
I tried to focus on my newspaper, but after reading the same paragraph three times, I gave up. "Look," I said, "I don't think Paeder's cute, all right? I'm sorry. I think Paeder's a pompous twit, and you'd be better off liking Keelin or Russell. That's all."
"What do you know?" Petulance oozed from her. She was going to be a brilliant teenager judging from this preview.
"I know that if you tried to stop them on the street, Paeder would walk right past you, Russell would say hello, and Keelin would talk to you until someone came to get him." I was doing her a service, telling her this. She stared at me. Was she going to cry? Well, she asked, didn't she? I couldn't be blamed for being honest.
"What would you know about it?" She twisted and confronted me full on. No tears from her, but I recognized the new possibility that I might get hit for defaming her idol. After nearly two decades, the threat of being socked by an eleven year old still sent me right back to my grade school days when my extracurricular activities included forensics, math club, and getting stuffed in my ow
n locker. This girl was probably a hair-puller, too.
I wanted to shout at her. 'I know him! I know what he's like!' My aversion to causing a scene in public kept me quiet, not, emphatically not, my fear of being clobbered by a little girl. I dropped my head against the back of the seat. "Fine. Sorry I said anything."
"Loser," she muttered.
I pinched the bridge of my nose between my eyes. Child: One. Me: Zero. Michael would have a field day with this when he found out. Never mind that there was no one to tell him but me—I was enough. Where Michael was concerned, I was crap at keeping quiet about embarrassing myself. All he had to do was say, "So, do anything dumb today?" and my mouth was off like a rocket. Thankfully, I was more reserved around other people. Otherwise, we would never get work.
When the plane finally landed, I hustled down the gate towards the hospitality lounge—and away from the child. Paeder had scheduled Keelin's and Russell's flight to arrive at the same time. We were supposed to share a limo to the hotel. Paeder's compulsion to control knew no bounds. I knew that, and I shouldn't have been disgusted by it. But I was.
At the first class lounge, I showed the woman at the desk my ticket, and she waved me through with a bright "Welcome." I did not see Russell or Keelin in the green cushioned chairs lining the windowed wall. They were mostly occupied by passengers in business attire. Someone's laptop beeped.
I got lost in an airport when I was six. I still had the pilot's wings they had given me to stop crying. I put my hand in my pocket and rubbed the quarters and nickels between my fingers. It used to drive my wife crazy when I did that. It wasn't that I did it that bothered her; it was that I did it around her and not Michael. She lost her temper over it once. Michael stepped in; it was the only time he involved himself in our arguments, but he was in the room with us, and the only way out was to walk between us. He told her that he had never noticed my coin clicking and she had said:
"That's because he doesn't do it around you. You don't make him nervous."
Not long after that she told me that I loved him more. I guessed that was the conversation that clinched it for her.
Now I was in an airport alone. Had Keelin and Russell forgotten me? I swallowed. Stop acting like an idiot, I told myself. Stay calm. You are an adult. You know how to hail a cab.
"Andrew!" Keelin's voice.
I turned. Keelin bounded towards me. I spotted Russell behind him, sprawled in a chair watching a football game on the television.
"Hiya, mate." Russell waved without taking his eyes from the screen.
Keelin flung himself at me, and I caught him against my stomach. The level of my relief was close to embarrassing. I almost picked him up and spun him around. He beamed at me. Then he stepped back as if he had just remembered that we were not as close as his reaction implied.
"Sorry," he said. I wanted to grab him again and tell him not to apologize. From the corner of my eye, I was aware that people were noticing us. I changed the subject to save him from discomfort.
"It's good to see you, too, Keelin. No security today?" I asked.
In Europe, Icon traveled with a number of bodyguards. Looking around, I saw none of them. Keelin brushed his hair out of his eyes. His brown bangs fell forward immediately, nullifying the action. He tilted his head back to look me in the face. Aside from Keelin's general pleasantness, I liked Keelin because standing next to him made me look tall. If I stood straight, I could see right over the top of his head. Although I was five-ten, Michael was six-one, and since I spent most of my time with him, I rarely felt tall.
"No, we decided not to hire security this trip since it's just low profile. Anyway, we rarely need it in the States," Keelin said. Keelin switched his behavior from personal to business better than anyone I knew, a trait probably learned from his years shielding his sexuality from others: family, friends, fans. Still, the abruptness of the shift disconcerted me. Fun to flat in a single sentence.
"You can say that again," Russell said. He pried himself away from the football game and ambled towards us. With the six-two Russell at my side, I was back to looking my average-sized self. I nodded up at him, and Russell raised an eyebrow in greeting. His brown hair was divided into strands and partially dyed blue. The tips peeked out from beneath his Raiders cap in various degrees of disarray, unable to decide if they should curl or stick straight out. "We never get bothered here. No one really knows who we are." He laughed. "It drives Paeder insane."
"Russell, stop it." Keelin punched him in the arm. "We're out to give Paeder a bit of support—united front, you know." He sounded just like Paeder. He tugged his sleeves over his fists. I snickered behind a cough. This was the Keelin I saw most.
"What?" Keelin asked, fiddling with his zippered sweatshirt, which had twisted around his waist.
"Nothing. It just always looks like your clothes are trying to swallow you."
"Ah, well. They usually are."
"Poor ickle Keelin," Russell said. "His widdle cwothes won't fit." He ruffled Keelin's hair with his fist. Keelin smacked him, and they laughed.
Russell put his arm around my shoulders.
"We're late, mate," Russell said. "We were supposed to be at the car ten minutes ago."
"Do you have luggage to pick up?" I asked. I had carried my duffel bag and the garment bag with my tuxedo on with me. Russell indicated that they needed to stop at baggage claim, though. As we walked to the claim area, Keelin's sandals slapped against the carpeted floor. We reached the carousel, and Russell watched for his and Keelin's bags while Keelin went to find the driver.
"Ready?" Keelin asked when he returned to us. "The driver is over there." He pointed at a portly man who waved.
"Ready," we said.
Our driver, who Keelin introduced as Mel, ushered us into a waiting standard-sized limousine and stowed the luggage. I settled into the leather seat facing the back of the car. Keelin and Russell sat opposite me.
Keelin kicked his sandals off. He wriggled his newly freed toes and sprawled across the seat—and Russell—with a contended sigh. Russell pushed him off by the shoulders. Keelin stuck out his lower lip and settled beside him.
"So what else brings you to New York, Andrew?" Russell asked. "Surely you didn't come just for Paeder?"
"Yes, you don't seem to be on a leash," Keelin said cheerfully. "Not like us two."
I couldn't tell if he was joking. "Are you guys on vacation this week, or…?"
"Yeah. Might do some radio promotion, but for the most part, we are."
"Oh." I didn't know what kind of vacation hanging around Paeder would be, but what did I know? They didn't offer anything more, so I answered Russell's question. "Not just for Paeder, no. I have to be in a wedding on Tuesday. My cousin."
"Will Kate be coming?" Keelin asked.
I turned from the window. Keelin's face was a mask of innocence. I had forgotten that he and Kate sometimes chatted at award shows. She had liked him. "We separated two years ago," I said. I hoped he wouldn't ask what I had done wrong. Kate charmed in small doses; Keelin would not think our separation was her fault.
"Oh." Keelin looked at his knees. "Well, that explains why your songs have been so depressing," he said.
"Go ahead and say what you feel, Keelin," Russell said. He smacked him on the leg and grinned. Outside, the limo crossed over the East River.
Keelin smiled with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. "Sorry, Andrew. They're good songs. That one "Scooter & Boots" did was great—top notch. And Jamie's, that's stellar, there."
He was so earnest that I laughed. "It's all right, really. That was a bad year for me. At least I got a few gold records out of it. I can say that because it was two years ago, and I'm fine now." One day it would be true. I just had to say it enough and then I'd stop rubbing my ring finger in my sleep and everything would be back to normal.
"Ah, now you're thinking like Paeder!" Russell said. Thank God he knew when to change a subject. Russell poked Keelin until he giggled. "Isn't he, Keelin?"
/>
"Shut up." I turned my smile towards the window. We had entered the city. This was only my third trip to New York in my life. From getting lost to getting left, none had gone well. I had no confidence that this time would be different, especially given my task of working with Paeder. I felt no excitement as I watched the broken street lamps and graffiti-covered metal storefront gates whiz past.
"That one's really beautiful," Keelin said.
It took a minute before I realized we were looking at the same old brownstone. I had seen dilapidation in its crumbling façade; he had seen history. I should have told Michael that I wouldn't take this job, or asked him to have Paeder come to us. We were writers in demand. The request was not too outlandish—in my head, anyway.
On the sidewalks, huge posters promoting Jamie Webster hung between the glass walls of the bus depots. "JAMIE WEBSTER-HAMMERSTEIN BALLROOM-THURSDAY ONLY" was emblazoned beneath Jamie's giant head. And another, Jamie, back turned, head down, "Guess who?" written on his bare skin. No name, just the place and time. Jamie's rare Stateside appearances caused such a phenomenon among his fans that one could be excused for thinking that Jamie had literally walked across the Atlantic to arrive on the East Coast. I wished that Jamie had told me that he would be in town. What I really needed was to fabricate an existence in which Jamie and I were friends. We could be the sort who rang up and said, "Hey, I'm going to be in New York. Why don't we hang out?"
We could talk about the time we met. That would go over well. Surely he had nothing but fond memories of that night—if he had any memories at all. Jamie was in the hospital until an hour before the Grammy telecast started. His publicist told the papers he was undergoing treatment for flu-related dehydration. We all knew the truth. He was off the wagon again. He was still wearing the hospital's blue ID bracelet at the ceremony. From our seats, Michael and I had watched him stealing drinks from other people whenever his bodyguard looked away.
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