by Nikki Godwin
Emery seems oddly content with their explanations and focuses her attention back to the TV. I’m extremely impressed with how simply Tate and Noah handled what could’ve been a Moo-llennium Crunch moment. They made it so easily vanilla.
The host bounces over to a redhead in a bright pink SAS tank top.
“I think they’re probably on a private island, maybe in Hawaii,” the ginger says.
“They probably went back to Canada and are really at home,” another girl says.
She looks as if she’s been crying. I bet her summer revolved around this premiere and seeing the boys live.
The TV host takes one more theory from an audience member. The girl stands up, wearing a white T-shirt with the boys’ pictures on it, and she looks directly into the camera.
“I heard that Milo is dead.”
Chapter Six
Milo shoots up from the couch.
It doesn’t help that other girls in the audience start to agree, and the rumors quickly circulate. He was hit during the shooting. He took the bullet pushing Tate out of the way. He died at the hospital later on. He died backstage. The rumors go on and on and on.
Noah pulls Milo back down between us.
“Dude, you’re not dead. Management will clear it up as soon as they see this. Just chill, okay?” Noah says.
“Easy for you to say,” Milo snaps. “Our fans aren’t saying that you’re dead.”
“Milo!” Tate shouts from across the sectional. “You died a hero. You saved my life. Why can’t you just be happy about it?”
I don’t fully understand bromance, but the smile on Milo’s face is obviously a good sign. I’ll accept that Tito exists if it makes Milo smile like that. He stretches one arm around Noah and wraps the other around me. He falls back against the cushions and gets comfortable before their video debuts.
I wonder if the ‘arm around Noah’ move was just a ploy to wrap his other arm around me. Maybe he’s trying to play it cool. He probably didn’t want anyone to think anything of it.
“Those poor girls,” Milo says quietly. “Did you see how many of them were crying? This was supposed to be one of the highlights of their summers, and we’re not even there.”
Oh screw it. He’s not even concerned with me. He’s worried about his stupid fans! He only put his arm around me because he didn’t want me to feel left out since he was showing Noah some love. Tate was right about the summer of hell.
“Here it is! Be quiet!” Emery yells.
I bite down on my lip so I don’t laugh. Only my baby sister would yell at a boyband to be quiet during the premiere of their own video. Emery keeps it real. Emery keeps me on Earth.
The video for “Music Up, Windows Down” is everything I expect from a Spaceships Around Saturn music video. Benji is shirtless, so he can show off his many tattoos. Jules tries to look like a badass. Tate and Milo play up to the camera a lot. But Noah…
“Who was your stylist for this video?” I ask as soon as the video ends. “Those shorts were the most awful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Maybe I have a bit of Emery’s bluntness in me too. Probably not. Noah’s shorts were just that ugly.
“You didn’t like them?” Noah asks.
Aralie chokes on her own laughter.
“Noah, they were cornflower blue,” she says. “And they came down to your shins. Those were old man shorts. You know, like the ones old dudes wear when they go golfing or something. You’re supposed to be the rock star of the group, not wearing Godfrey’s clothes.”
I can always count on Aralie to back me up. She and Tate laugh at something else she mutters that only the two of them can hear.
Noah looks at Milo. “Dude, I’m getting blasted here, and you’re not even going to help me out?” he asks.
Milo shrugs. “I don’t figure a dead guy can really do much to help.”
I await another meltdown from Milo over the rumors of his demise, but Godfrey walks into the room, and everyone goes silent. Eerily silent.
“Mr. Kingsley,” Godfrey says, looking toward Tate. “Your request.”
Tate smiles the biggest smile of all smiles and grabs the box from Godfrey’s hands. It’s a Twister game. He jumps up and rushes over to the pretty boy next to me.
Tate grabs Milo’s arm, hauls him off of the sectional, and drags him out of the room. Aralie is close behind them, and Jules surprisingly follows her. He probably wants a cigarette right about now. Emery runs behind them, as not to miss any action, so I figure it’s best if I go along.
“Chloe,” Benji says. “Wait up.”
I stop halfway across the room. Benji and Noah both stare at me.
“We need to talk to you about something,” Noah says.
The dormant butterflies in my stomach wake up and shoot around as soon as the words leave Noah’s mouth. Oh my God. Please don’t let them know.
Benji slips his arm around my shoulder and proceeds toward the kitchen. The patio door shuts. Everyone else is outside. Noah slinks up next to me, and I hate their mischievous smiles. Something’s up.
“So, um, a little bird told me something,” Benji says.
“Yeah,” Noah agrees. “We hear you’re pretty good with Sharpies.”
“And artwork,” Benji adds.
Okay, this is so not about Milo or stomach butterflies. Oxygen rushes back to my lungs, and my chest reforms to its normal shape. Sweet summer air. I can breathe.
“This little bird doesn’t happen to be named Emery, does it?” I ask.
I don’t imagine the guys calling anyone else a ‘little bird.’ Emery is the only one who would even think to tell them that I can draw. I don’t actually draw. I can’t sketch people or still art or anything magnificently awesome. I just doodle – shooting stars, non-nervous butterflies, flowers, spirals, whatever.
“She showed us some of the magnets you made,” Benji says. “She acts like you’re Van Gogh, so we played along.”
Wow, thanks for the compliment. It’s nice to know you guys pretended like I was a great artist when you know I’m not. Benji clearly needs some lessons in Flattery 101 from Milo. That boy knows how to sweet talk.
Noah jumps back in. “We were hoping maybe you could give us some practice ink.”
I forget how tatted up these boys are. I bet they’re trying to lose that goody-goody boyband image and add some edge, but with faces like those, they’re far from grungy rock stars. They’re way too pretty.
Noah pulls his shirt over his head and turns to show me the artwork along his shoulders and back. The internet swore Noah had more ink than Benji, but he hides it very well. The internet was right.
There’s an entire galaxy of drawings and doodles and ink splotches on his skin. His upper back is painted with stars and moons and spaceships. A mermaid fin pokes out of his shorts. I don’t even want to know what else is under there.
“I really need ideas,” Noah says. “So maybe you could help?”
“But I call first dibs on you,” Benji says.
They ease ahead of me and block the exit to the patio until I agree. I don’t care if I’m a terrible artist. I’m a decent doodler. And any girl who says no to Benji Baccarini and Noah Winters is an idiot.
Thirty minutes later, Noah towers over us and complains because he’s had to play two rounds of Twister with Emery while I scribbled designs onto Benji’s arms.
“Okay, fine.” Benji groans and stands up. “I’ll keep the little bird entertained for a while.”
“Finally,” Noah mutters.
He replaces Benji on the poolside lounge chair, but unlike the pretty blonde, Noah actually gives me enough room to sit comfortably with him. I think Benji was more focused on his tanning than fake-tatting anyway. I should’ve drawn butterflies and kittens down his arm. He’d have never known.
But I feel badly for being so hard on Benji. He does a good job of playing BFFs with Emery. I think the Twitter withdrawal is starting to kick in. At least that’s what I blame his sometimes-snarky attitude on.
; Noah gets straight to business.
“I really want a full back piece,” he says. “I just don’t know how to work it so the sea meets outer space in a way that flows, you know? What do you think?”
I completely crack up.
“I’m not a tattoo consultant or graphic artist,” I remind him. “I can’t even draw that well. I just scribble around and make up goofy stuff for Emery.”
He picks up a lime green Sharpie and tests the color on his wrist.
“I’m not expecting a masterpiece. Just something fun,” he says. “Besides, I’ve gotta catch you while I can. Apparently you belong to Milo after hours.”
There go my Sharpies. Hot pink, bright orange, and sky blue leap from the lounge chair from my sudden movement and roll across the concrete. I dive toward them, like those markers are the most important thing in the universe, and Noah laughs.
“I guess I said the magic word, eh? Details. Now,” he says.
Fortunately he keeps his voice low, and everyone else is out of earshot. I don’t know how much he knows or what Milo has said, but I’m not about to divulge any more information than I should about last night. I doubt I could speak about it in actual words anyway. Just the thought of saying that I find Milo attractive makes me flustered.
“Oh c’mon,” Noah whines. He elbows me and takes the Sharpies from my hand so I can’t use them as a distraction. “The boy sat in my room for fifteen minutes last night working up the nerve to go downstairs and talk to you. Then he came back and said, ‘We ate cookies. See you in the morning,’ and went to his room. Give me something, Chloe.”
Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod. This lockdown is so much better than high school! Thank God I just graduated or else senior year would’ve been miserable. I can’t imagine how much life is going to suck for Aralie this fall when she goes back to mundane existence after a summer like this. Then again, the gorgeous and ever-so-perfect Milo Grayson didn’t come downstairs to talk to her.
I inhale the scent of Sharpies and sunscreen.
“We’re not having this conversation,” I say.
Noah flips the top off of the sky blue Sharpie and draws a lightning bolt on his forearm.
“This sucks. I’m finally in the loop about something, and no one will give me details,” he says.
He can pout his lips and bat those pretty green eyes at me all day long. I’m not talking. If Noah wants to know something, he can ask Milo. My brain morphs into a mushy blob of caramel, Oreos, and warm, fuzzy drops of Saturn. I can’t even process this.
I dare to glance up at the others in the yard. Jules leans back in a patio chair while Aralie and Tate face off in a round of Twister. From here, it looks like Aralie is winning. Benji and Emery man the board, and Milo shoots Tate repeatedly with a water gun.
When Tate can’t get his left hand on blue and tumbles, he blames Milo for shooting water in his eye and demands that Milo play the next round as punishment.
“Chloe!”
My name echoes across the yard and bounces off of the house when Tate yells it. He jumps up and down next to Aralie, waving his arms like he needs a lifeboat to pull him from danger.
“We need you!” he shouts out. “Come play against Milo!”
Noah hides his face so the others won’t see his laughter at my predicament.
“Go on,” he says. “Go get twisted with Milo. I’m gonna get a front row seat for it.”
He grabs my arm and hauls me with him against my will. He doesn’t let go of me until we’ve joined the others. That plastic Twister game stares up at me from the grass, completely daunting.
I still attempt to object. “Why can’t Noah play against him? Or Jules? They haven’t played a round yet either.”
Milo steps forward and folds his arms across his chest. His shirt hugs his skin, and he melts me faster than the summer sun melts a popsicle.
“You’re just scared I’ll beat you,” Milo taunts me.
Oh screw it. I can’t chicken out after a comment like that.
“Fine then,” I say. “Let’s play.”
I map out a game plan in my head while Benji and Emery position themselves with the board. Emery demands the first spin. I kick off my flip flops and step up to the plastic.
Four colors. Six circles per color. Twenty-four circles. I’ll take the twelve closest to me. I think I’m flexible enough to beat Milo.
“Okay, here’s the rules,” Benji says. “We have to play Emery’s way. So she’s gonna spin for Chloe, and I’ll spin for Milo.”
Emery flicks the spinning arrow.
“Left foot on yellow!” she yells out.
I keep to my half of the plastic. But it’s the closest yellow circle to Milo’s half.
“Right foot on blue!” Benji shouts out.
Milo smirks and mirrors my position, standing directly in front of me. I’m eye-level with his chest, and the sunshine bakes us.
Emery calls right foot on blue, and Benji reverses it with left foot on yellow.
For a second, I almost think they’re doing this on purpose, but no one else – aside from Noah – has any clue about my Oreo night with Milo. We’re now face-to-chest. I stare at his shirt, wondering if his heart thumps like a bass drum when he’s this close to me. Oh what I’d give to be the girl who makes his heart pound like vibrations through a stage floor.
I wait for Emery to shout out my next order, but I’m met with silence. I glance around Milo. Emery runs away from Benji and chases after a butterfly.
“Since she’s out of pocket, this one is for both of you,” Benji calls out. “Right hand on red!”
I take two seconds too long to strategize my next move. Milo leans forward, reaches over me, and places his right hand on red – on my half of the plastic – and forces me to bend backward. His position is awkward, but mine is worse.
“Oh, sorry,” he says. “Did you want that spot?”
No one else can see the sneaky smile wrapped across his face, and I’m so, so thankful. It’s a dead giveaway that there’s at least a flirtationship going on here. He probably hears my heart. Maybe he’ll write a song to its beat, and it’ll be Spaceships Around Saturn’s next big single.
I reach back diagonally and place my hand on the red circle above Milo’s. He has the advantage, and he knows it. I hope Mom and Godfrey remain indoors until this round of Twister is over. This position isn’t quite so PG13. Oh God, I’d completely collapse on the plastic and die if Mom walked outside and saw me practically pinned underneath Milo. It’s not my fault, Mom. It was right hand on red!
Emery shouts out that the next spin is hers, but Benji’s announcement makes this porno-position even worse.
“Emery broke the spinner! Hold what you’ve got!” he yells.
My ‘right hand on red’ does its best to hold up my bodyweight, which would be much easier if I weren’t distracted by the beautiful boy with caramel eyes. He’s too close for comfort – so close that I can hear the swishes of his T-shirt each time he moves.
Somewhere off in the universe, outside of Milo Grayson, Aralie yells at Emery for flicking the arrow into the grass. Benji tells us to ‘hold on’ again, and Tate says finding the spinner is going to be impossible.
Noah laughs. He’s the only one laughing. I guess the joke’s on me.
Milo clears his throat.
“Would you like some entertainment? I can sing for you,” he offers. He glances over at Noah. “Hey Winters, pick a song!”
Noah’s eyes shrink as he goes through his mental playlist. His face lights up with one of Emery’s hyena smiles.
“‘Boyfriend’ by Bieber,” Noah suggests. “You know, our Canadian brother and all.”
I wish I had a tattoo gun rather than Sharpies. I’d take those needles and ram them into Noah’s skin until he was an inky pulp from Saturn.
And there’s absolutely nothing I can do because Milo is about to say hello to falsetto in three…two…
Milo’s fingers find their way into my ribcage.
�
��No!” I collapse onto the multi-colored dots in a fit of fangirl giggles.
“Sweet spot?” he asks. He smiles over me, completely victorious.
I push him back. “You cheated!”
“Milo wins!” Noah shouts out. “I really thought you had it, too, Chloe. I can’t believe you just crumbled like that.”
“He cheated,” I repeat.
Milo shakes his head in protest. Noah has the audacity to agree with him. And thanks to Emery’s lost spinner in the grass, the plastic is my only other witness.
Noah saunters over to us like a rapper trying to pull off a classic swagger.
“Good job, Milo,” he says. “You know how clumsy girls can be. I knew you’d take her down.”
I peel myself off of the plastic, grab my flip flops, and head back toward the house. I’ve had enough exhilaration and angst for one afternoon. The video premiere was enough. Porno-Posed-Twister with Milo was too much. But I can’t escape Spaceships Around Saturn even if I try.
Milo and Noah come up behind me like a black hole engulfing a shooting star.
“Whoa, where are you going?” Noah asks. “I need you to work some Sharpie magic for me.”
I spin around by the pool. The blue water glistens behind him.
“Why don’t you ask your Canadian brother to help you out? I’ll even lend you the Sharpies, traitor,” I say.
Noah attempts a jaw-dropped shocked expression, but his dimples pierce through and make it impossible for him to look appalled. He moves closer to me.
“If you wouldn’t keep secrets from me then I would’ve backed you up,” he says through his teeth. “I need to be in the loop.”
An evil thought crosses my mind, and I instantly do what I can to erase it. But it’s sort of like typing an English essay. You type a line. You think it sucks. You slowly backspace. Then you realize it helps meet that three-and-a-half-pages criteria, so you keep it. This evil thought is too good for the backspace button.
“You want in the loop?” I ask.
He nods rapidly and his smile bounces up and down.
“Okay,” I say. “Spell ‘loop’ backward, and you’ll totally be in it.”
