Priya cuts me off. “Don’t tell me”—she points to where Tad is standing beside her—“talk to the camera,” she says, for probably the nineteenth time. “And be sure to include the question in your answer.”
Like a freaking Miss America contestant.I nod. “Me, Logan, and Anders were in a high school band together.”
Priya is waving her hand, encouraging me to keep talking, but I don’t know what else to say.
“What do you think about Logan bringing his girlfriend on tour? Is that uncomfortable?”
“Why would it be uncomfortable?”
She points to the camera.
“It’s not weird at all that Vee’s on tour—Vee’s always been part of the band. We all love Vee.”
Priya turns to Tad. “Time?”
Tad looks at his screen and quickly replies, “7:42:06.”
Priya makes a note on her tablet.
“What’s the time for?”
Priya shrugs, “We just like to note places we may want to come back to for editing.” She smiles and continues. “So let’s talk about Logan. He said he’s fine with being considered co-frontmen. How do you feel about it?”
When the interview finally ends, it feels like I’ve been in the little makeshift room for an hour, but it’s been more like twenty minutes. Vee is waiting outside, and Priya waves her in as I leave.
VIRGINIA
They talk to the guys one-on-one, in pairs—as a group. Jenn didn’t make it seem like I would be in front of the cameras much, so when I’m included in the one-on-one interviews, it’s strange and unexpected. It’s even stranger when I start getting questionsabout being Logan’s girlfriend.Ugh. Girlfriend.Whenever I think the word, I cringe.Logan’sgirlfriend—a title I once actively avoided. My interview is mostly about my involvement with the band. My experience as their high school manager, what I did during their time in LA, and when I met them. Specifically, when I met Logan, and how long we’ve beentogether. It feels like a slippery slope to lie, and the truth—we’ve beentogetherone day—isn’t an option. I stick to the details of our friendship and don’t veer too far from the truth. Still, every time I hear that word—“girlfriend”—I get this ache in my gut. I may not have the courage to be an actual musician, but I’m not a glorified assistant anymore. I’ve been feeding Logan songs for the last year. In the fall, I’ll be interning at a PR firm in Chicago. That’s a huge deal for a sophomore. But for now, I’m nothing but an accessory standing in the wings again. A glorified groupie along for the ride. Maybe hopping on a bus based on a too-good-to-be-true job offer from Logan wasn’t my best choice ever.Who knew, right?
CAM
The cameras are a serious adjustment. At first, I notice them everywhere. They’re outside our bunks when we wake up, sitting in the lounge while we talk through new songs. It feels like they see everything. Like they are literally everywhere, even though there are only two cameras to follow all twelve of the people on our bus. There’s this one cameraman in particular—a tatted-up guy named Tad—who seems to be with our band constantly. The other cameraman hops between Caustic Underground and The Phillips. I can’t help but wonder what makes us so damn interesting. Then I remind myself that the coverage is good—it’s what we need. It’s weird to even think of us as a “we” again. Ina lot of ways, we’re still all getting to know each other again. And now we need viewers to get to know us too.
Starting next week, the American public doesn’t just get to see our performances on TV, they’ll see footage of us behind the scenes, too. I hope they come up with something more interesting than watching me get dressed, microwave food, or write songs, because Your Future X needs to be the band that viewers want to watch. I’m trying not to let my distaste for the cameras show, even though there’s something about Tad—and his obvious obsession with Logan and Vee—that feels really off, somehow. His stupid camera catches everything. Every shared joke, each hand placed on the small of her back as she gets onto the bus or into a cab.I don’t know when Logan became such a fucking gentleman.Every playful kiss to her head and every lingering hug will be forever captured online. I could watch it all over and over, for the rest of my life, if I wanted to. If I wanted to torture myself.
It’s bad enough living it. At the same time, the thought that I’ll be able to see her in those videos whenever I want, when this is all over—it brings me a certain sense of calm.
VIRGINIA
The first two venues of the tour are small. They remind me of the local bars The Melon Ballers would play. The producers want the whole tour to mimic the reality of a rising band, so they’re all starting at mom-and-pop bars and clubs. Each week, the venues will get bigger and the productions more elaborate, with fewer bands playing each week. At the end of the sixteen-week stretch, one band will walk away with a record deal and the hearts of the nation. They actually say that in the show intro—“the hearts of the nation.”Cheesy, but true.The first two showswill be taped, so there’s no pressure of a live performance, and no bands will be cut. They’ll basically be elaborate practice runs to generate some buzz before the live tapings begin, and tickets are already sold out.
When we load into the first venue, a graffiti-covered two-story bar on the outskirts of Houston, I can’t help but be sucked into the memories of past gigs.I have missed this.In the afternoon light, everything looks dark and dirty and old. It feels wrong to be here in the daytime, when all of the imperfections are on display. The light fixtures are dulled—probably by years’ worth of smoke—and the cement walls are covered in thousands of names scribbled in a rainbow of Sharpie. Thin blue tubes run along the ceiling. I imagine what the walls will look like glowing under the black lights—a tangled web of graffiti popping off of the walls like neon signs.
The crew brings in case after case, loading in the speaker boxes and instruments, and the backstage area begins to look and feel like a storage locker. Trying to escape the claustrophobic towers of equipment, I hop onto a stool in the bar area and begin to scribble notes. The first pseudo-publicist task I’ve given myself is to update the band’s website. Their bio and FAQ sections are first up, because they’re embarrassing. Nothing has been updated in ages. Reese’s picture looks like a bad selfie taken in a bar bathroom, and Cam isn’t even listed as a band member. I jot down a list of questions I think viewers—hopefully their future fans—will want to know. I have a sheet’s worth of questions penned when the familiar hum of tuning guitars distracts me. Up on the stage, in all their glory, is my band—My Future X. I can’t help but feel a swell of love for these guys for bringing me along on this journey. Even Reese—who has made it his mission to embarrass me with his dirty jokes and shameless flirting—has assured me he wants me here (even if it’s just as entertainment value).
Up on the small wooden stage, Anders clicks off the beginning of the first song. Logan and Cam are seamless as they trade off vocals, switching from lead to backup, coming together in perfect harmonies. They’re so in sync—a well-oiled machine—like two voices that started as one and are finally being joined together again. It seems like yesterday—and also a lifetime ago—since I last saw them do this. Each of them is lit up from the inside out, happiness and joy radiating off of them in waves, as they belt out each song.
Maybe it’s muscle memory, but my eyes can’t help but lock on Cam and his guitar. He always was—and still is—like a magnetic force onstage. I watch his hands, sliding up and down the long fret of his honey gold Fender, strumming and plucking and teasing each string. His muscles tensing and relaxing as he moves around the stage, looking so comfortable. My breathing slows as my eyes trace up from his hands to his arms—the black curls of his tattoo still taunting me from the edge of his T-shirt. I want to read the tiny words penned along those twisting notes, curving up and around his hard bicep. Having his voice fill my ears again is like the moments right before you fall asleep, when it’s hard to distinguish dream from reality.
My neck heats as I drag my eyes over his broad chest, let them wander across his face, and up to his eyes. Still so green, still so sad, still so—lookingat me.God, Virginia, get a grip.My chest burns hot as I turn back to my website work, contemplating something embarrassing to secretly include in his bio.
The songs drifting off of the stage are some of my favorites. One that I wrote years ago, another that Logan and I worked on first semester, before he left for LA, and a few from high school. Listening to them is like watching old family movies, like being wrapped up in a memory. When they finish the last song of their practice set, I hop to my feet, clapping and whooping, and I know I must look like a crazy person, but I can’t helpit.This is it.I’m watching their dreams come true right in front of me. At this moment, wrapped in the memories, soaked in the songs, it doesn’t feel like it was that long ago that this wasmydream.Mysomeday.
The guys jump off the stage one by one, and Logan grabs me around the waist, pulling me off the ground as he spins around with me. This is Flying High off a Performance Logan; my favorite Logan. He uses his palms to wipe my cheeks. I hadn’t even realized the tears had started.
“You’re a giant, sappy nerd. You know that, right?”
“I do.” I drag my sleeve over my wet eyes. “But you guys were incredible.” The tears are coming even heavier now, even though I’m smiling. “This is going to be amazing,” I say, and suddenly I’m throwing my arms around Cam, engulfing him in a hug. He just stands there at first, frozen in place. Then his arms wrap around me, his hands barely brushing my back. I can smell the mint of his breath, feel his soft T-shirt under my fingertips, hard muscles just underneath.What am I doing?Giving him a tight smile, I extricate myself, before hugging Anders. I give Reese an awkward high-five, which turns into him pulling me into a hug. Then he hoists me over his shoulder, spinning us in circles.
