“Was,” I say.
“Was. Is.Whatever.It’s my job, not my business. All I’msaying 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 thatyouhave.”
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 anactualcollege-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 reallydoneed 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’slike 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, blamingeveryone.
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 actuallyfilled inlessthan 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. “Thatis 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 whilesimultaneously 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.”
