Now and Forever

by Susane Colasanti

“So good.” I lean back against him. We watch the celebration below. I watch us reflected in the glass, watching everyone else. Images of us flash behind my eyes as the countdown begins on TV.

  “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

  Ethan asking me out for the first time “I like your streak” taking me to that show at The Space performing at The Space when it was already so obvious he was going to be a major rock star—

  “. . . seven . . . six . . . five . . .”

  —in Ethan’s room last summer sitting on his lap with my hair still wet from the pool kissing him hearing his first single on the radio and freaking out together Ethan getting signed for a huge second album Forever going straight to number one—

  “four . . . three . . .”

  —those fangirls obsessing over Ethan at this first big solo show sitting on Ethan’s porch while he bounces a basketball in the orange sunlight paparazzi stalking us at the Notch Ethan bowling in the fog our supercharged electricity in the stretch limo hooking up in his dressing room at rehearsal when he only had five minutes—

  “. . . two . . . one . . . Happy New Year!”

  “Remember this night when we’re apart,” Ethan says. “Remember how much I love you.”

  25

  [10,472,113 FOLLOWERS]

  How weird is it that so many of the things defining my life now first started happening just a few months ago? Pictures of Ethan and me are in all the entertainment magazines, online, and on TV. Paparazzi stalk us constantly. Ethan’s songs are always playing. They’re playing on the radio, in stores, in restaurants, in cars, and on the devices of millions of fans.

  Ethan Cross is everywhere.

  There’s definitely love for him here in Miami. I flew down to watch his tour kick off. Then I’ll be riding the tour bus with him to Orlando. Mom thought missing a few extra days of school right after the break would be the least disruptive. I’ll get to join Ethan again in California and New York. Maybe a few other cities if Mom lets me go.

  South Beach is really interesting. There’s a lot of history here, but not in a boring way. This is the art deco district. Everywhere you look there are buildings with deco fonts from the thirties, balconies with squiggly edges, portholes along walls, and bright pastel colors. Everything is lit with neon lights. I had no idea Miami was this cool.

  We’re staying at a hotel so swanky it’s called The Hotel. The whole crew is staying here. Everyone is being supersweet to me. I feel bad that I can’t remember all of their names. Ethan had to rehearse after we checked in. The first thing I did was change into a bikini and run down to the infinity pool. Ethan’s stylist was already down there. Aixa was saving the lounge chair next to her for me like she somehow knew I would show up. Aixa is one of those people who is so classy she scares me. But now that we’ve talked and lounged and read magazines together, I feel way more comfortable around her. How awesome is it that we could lay out by the pool in January? Seventy-five degrees is my kind of winter. I never want to leave this hotel. Our suite probably isn’t as big as most of the other hotel rooms on tour will be, but it has an oceanfront balcony. And it’s impeccably designed. Boutique hotels are all about the details.

  I’m admiring the deco trim in the lobby when a group of three girls plunges through the revolving doors in a burst of laughter. They have enough luggage for a year. A porter whisks over to them and starts arranging their bags on a cart.

  “If he were any hotter, he’d be on fire,” a tall girl in platform wedges proclaims.

  “Where were you the first time you heard ‘Night on Fire’?” a short girl with an I LIFE tank top asks.

  “Ordering fro-yo. Half peanut butter, half marshmallow, with bananas and chocolate syrup. I’ll never forget it.”

  Gram would get a kick out of the peanut butter marshmallow banana fro-yo. That’s probably what Elvis would have.

  “I was driving home from school,” the short girl says. “I could not stop screaming. I almost hit a stop sign.”

  “You were texting me from your car?” the third girl says. “Do you know how dangerous that is?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Not tell you Ethan was on the radio?”

  “You could have pulled over.”

  “Ladies,” Platform Wedges says. “Let’s remember why we’re here. We’re the ones who discovered Ethan. How many other fans here for this show can say they saw him at The Space? Before he was even headlining?”

  “Zero,” I LIFE confirms.

  “Exactly. We freaking rule.”

  Normally I would let this kind of manic chatter roll right off me. But now I shoot the girls a look. Why does every single fan have to be so possessive of Ethan? It’s like they’re all competing against one another to claim ownership of him. Ethan’s not an object. He’s a real person. With a real girlfriend.

  If these girls only knew they were staying at the same hotel as Ethan. They’d take turns sleeping so one of them could always be on the lookout in the lobby.

  A familiar boy comes up to me. I recognize his shaggy, dark hair and gray eyes, but I can’t remember where I’ve seen him before.

  “You into art deco?” he asks.

  “I’m getting into it. The designs are gorgeous.”

  “There’s a deco tour of South Beach. Let me know if you’re interested.”

  “Thanks. Have you taken it?”

  “Don’t need to. I used to live here.”

  “Sweet. You grew up here, or . . . ?”

  “Not exactly.”

  I wait for him to explain. He doesn’t.

  “This is going to sound horrible, but I can’t remember where we met,” I admit.

  “I’m Damien. A roadie with the tour? I saw you—”

  “—backstage at rehearsals, right! Sorry, I’ve been meeting so many people.”

  “No worries. I was going to introduce myself that day. Only you were . . . busy.”

  The memory of Damien saluting me as Ethan closed his dressing room door makes me blush.

  “I’m Sterling. Nice to officially meet you.”

  “You, too.” Damien looks around the lobby. “Sick hotel, huh? This tour’s going to rock. We usually don’t get to stay at places this nice. If Ethan hadn’t insisted the crew stay where he does, we’d be at the Holiday Inn.”

  “How long have you been a roadie?”

  “Three years.”

  Damien doesn’t look that much older than me. I guess he didn’t go to college.

  “Do you like it?” I ask.

  “I love being on the road.”

  “It seems like it would be fun for a while. But I don’t think I could travel all the time. Don’t you get homesick?”

  “Never. The thought of settling down depresses me. It’s like once you grow roots somewhere, you become entrenched in routine. You get chained to some small life you build in your tiny corner of the world. Behind walls that trap your suffering and smother your instincts. Life should be more than coming home every night to the same sad place. It all relates to my theory of higher intelligence.”

  “Which is?”

  “What if there’s a form of intelligence higher than humans? Maybe we are to them what pets are to us. How are our lives that much different from hamsters? They’re comforted by the routine of running in their wheel. They’re like us, doing the same things day after day, mindlessly sticking to the familiarity of our little world because we’re afraid of what exists beyond the walls we’ve built.”

  Two other guys from the tour pass by us on their way out. Damien nods at them.

  “I mean, think about it,” he goes on. “We watch our cats and dogs perform their little rituals. They come running for food on cue when they hear the rustle of the bag or the whir of the can opener. Dogs go ballistic at the door when they hear keys jangling. We think their lives are so simple. But aren’t our lives just as basic, only on a larger scale? What if some higher intelligence is watching us the same way? When we wonder about things that could exist beyond what
we know, we’re like every dog jumping and barking at the door, dying to get out. Most people wake up at the same time, go to the same job, come home to the same dinners, watch the same shows. There has to be more to life than that. It would be freaking depressing if there wasn’t, you know?”

  Damien just gave me so much to think about I don’t even know where to start. I kind of like routine. But I also like adventure. What would it be like to travel for a living? To have no one place to call home?

  “What about people who like their lives?” I say. “Not everyone is unhappy.”

  “It’s sad how unhappy the majority of people are. But they stay at jobs they hate and in marriages that aren’t working because they’re afraid to make a change. They don’t understand that life has to change in order to get better. They’re settling for mediocrity out of fear. I don’t want to be like that. I want to find a better way.”

  “I get what you’re saying,” I tell him. “If you’re not happy, what’s the point?”

  “Exactly.” Damien looks at me with those soulful, gray eyes. Now I can see more in them than depth. There’s also loneliness.

  “So are you excited for tonight?” I ask, attempting to lighten the mood. “Or is opening night just another gig for you by now?”

  “The energy is exciting. Opening and closing nights are the most charged.”

  “I’m so happy I get to be there.”

  “Are you going to watch from backstage?”

  “Zeke gave me a front row center seat. He kept asking if I was sure I wanted to be up front in the limelight. As if anyone will even notice me.” This is Ethan’s first show of the tour at a major sold-out venue. I have to see what it looks like from the floor.

  “Trust me,” Damien says. “They’re noticing.”

  He looks at me. I recognize the intensity of his look.

  “Well . . . I should get ready,” I say. “You’re going over soon, right?”

  “Yeah. See you there.”

  “See you.” Walking back to the elevators, I wonder if I read Damien’s look right. Maybe not. Maybe he just needed someone to talk to.

  • • •

  The show is beyond amazing. When Ethan comes out onstage, the surge of screaming from the crowd makes my pulse race. The energy of twelve thousand fans oscillates all around me. I’m so close to the stage that the projection screens are undecipherable dots of color. The only reason I know what’s showing on them is that I was here for rehearsal. Videos of Ethan practicing guitar in elementary school and performing in talent shows in high school play in my mind. His mom showed me hours of recordings when she was narrowing down possible video clips for the tour. I love that she kept all of them. These screaming fans obviously love it, too.

  Being this close is a rush. It’s just me and Ethan with no one else in between. I can see the sweat dripping down his face. His sneaker twitching as he counts the beat to “Now and Forever.” The outline of the mati in his pocket. When he finds me in the front row and smiles at me, he makes me feel like I’m the only one here.

  I take some pictures. The view is perfect. I snap an excellent one of Ethan jumping from a riser, flames blazing behind him. The effects look a million times more impressive now. The crowd is singing along to every word. Every word that Ethan wrote, hoping someday they would be embedded in the minds of his fans.

  At this moment, with the crowd screaming and the music resonating and the rich sounds of Ethan’s voice filling my heart, there are no words to describe how happy I am for him. He always knew that dreaming big would lead him here. He envisioned all of this so long ago. Then he made it happen. Ethan Cross never gave up.

  Ethan Cross proves that dreams do come true.

  26

  [10,702,596 FOLLOWERS]

  Life on the road is fun. At least, life on the road from Miami to Orlando in Ethan’s double-decker tour bus is fun. This tour bus is like a huge, tricked-out trailer. There’s a kitchen against the wall behind the driver’s area. The living room extends from the front door to the office. A black leather sectional couch in a U-shape takes up most of the living room. A dining table and chairs are set up next to the kitchen. There’s a bathroom downstairs and another bathroom and four bedrooms upstairs. Except for the highway views and constant motion, the bus totally feels like an apartment.

  The band and crew are riding in other buses. Ethan’s bus is just us, his vocal coach Liz, Zeke, and two drivers who switch on and off. Ethan and I have bunk beds in the bedroom we’re sharing. We’re sitting on the big stretch of couch that runs along one side of the living room, strategizing how Ethan will sneak into my bed tonight.

  “We should wait until everyone’s asleep,” I say.

  “Zeke never sleeps. The man is a beast. He won’t care anyway. He knows we hook up.”

  “Ssshh!” I hiss as Liz passes us on her way to the kitchen.

  “We don’t have to be quiet. I’m telling you. They don’t care.”

  “Excuse me, but I care.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s embarrassing.”

  “It’s embarrassing for you to be with me?”

  “No! It’s embarrassing that they know.”

  “Of course they know. Everyone knows.”

  “So you don’t care if everyone knows you’ll be sneaking into my bed?”

  Ethan pulls me onto his lap. “I’d be crazy not to want people to know I’m sneaking into a gorgeous girl’s bed.”

  I giggle. Liz walks by with a granola bar. She pretends not to notice I’m draped all over her client.

  “Hey, Liz,” Ethan says. “How’s it going?”

  “You have half an hour,” Liz says ominously. She retreats to her room.

  “What happens in half an hour?” I ask.

  “You get tickled.”

  “No tickling.”

  “In half an hour? You’d rather be tickled now?”

  “No!”

  “I think you might.” Ethan wiggles his fingers at me.

  I scream and spring off his lap. Zeke pokes his head out of the office, covering his mouthpiece.

  “Simmer down, kids,” he says. “I’m on a conference call.”

  “You heard the man,” Ethan tells me. “Simmer down.”

  “You started it.”

  “Only because you said you wanted to get tickled.”

  “I did not!”

  “That’s not how I remember it.”

  “I asked you what happens in half an hour.”

  “Oh. Lessons.”

  “Crazy how you’re working all the time. Even on the bus.”

  “Gotta keep the instrument tuned.”

  “I wonder if the guys are having this much fun on their bus.”

  “They might be if Gage wasn’t complaining all the time.”

  “He told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  “About how he’s . . . you know. Not happy.”

  “Gage is unhappy?” Ethan’s voice drips with sarcasm. “In other news, the sun is hot.”

  “Doesn’t it make you feel bad, though? I mean, you are the one getting all the attention. Maybe there’s something you could do to help him.”

  “Like what? Become huge so he gets more attention than most artists dream of in a lifetime? Oh, wait. I already did that.”

  “What about if you added ‘Aluminum Rain’ to the set list? You could—”

  “Look,” Ethan interrupts. “I appreciate what you’re doing here? But you don’t understand. This is way more complicated than throwing Gage a bone. I’ll take care of it.” Ethan picks up his phone to check messages. End of discussion.

  My stomach drops. Why did Ethan have to shut me down like that? I was just trying to help. But it’s like he thought I was insulting his judgment or something.

  Ethan’s phone rings. His phone has been blowing up. This is the longest conversation we’ve had without his phone or a crew member interrupting us since before the tour.

  “Hey, Sydney,” he
says.

  Sydney is like a whole other sister now. She’s gradually come to admire Ethan’s passion and the amazing life he’s creating. Everyone treating her like rock star royalty at school probably helped to improve her attitude.

  “Did you send it?” Ethan is asking Sydney. He checks his screen. There’s a picture of Sydney and two of her friends. They’re all wearing mati necklaces. Ethan said in an interview how the mati his grandfather gave him is his lucky charm that he puts in his pocket before every show. The video went viral a few weeks ago. I saw a bunch of girls at the Miami show last night wearing mati jewelry—necklaces, rings, bracelets. One girl painted a mati on a white tee in dark blue and light blue with Ethan Cross circling around it in black. I even saw a picture posted on Ethan’s fan page of a girl making heart hands with a mati tattooed to the back of her hand.

  Zeke bursts out of the office. Zeke is always bursting into and out of rooms. Being fueled by the five cups of coffee he’s compelled to drink before noon every day helps him to maintain a perpetually wired state.

  “What was that?” he fires at Ethan.

  “What was what?”

  “All that screaming while I was on a conference call?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “It was my fault.”

  “No, it was Ethan’s fault,” Zeke insists. “He knows better than to get you all worked up when I’m conducting business ten feet away.”

  “Okay, Dad,” Ethan says. “Jeez. Overreact much?”

  “Hey. I’m on the grind for you twenty-four seven. Your career was built from the ground up by me. Maybe you need me to act like a father figure to straighten you out. Legendary producers don’t want to hear kids screaming in the background when they’re trying to negotiate a deal.”

  “I’m not a kid. I can take care of myself.”

  “No, you are a kid. You need to do what I say. I know what’s best for you. Like when I tell you not to stay up so late, you need to get to bed earlier. You looked like crap for that early photo shoot.”

  “How was I supposed to know they moved the time up?”

  “Schedules change all the time. You know this. You have to be ready in the morning for anything. The day can take a million different turns. I want you looking polished and professional by eight every morning.” Zeke angles his head toward his mouthpiece. He does this when he’s getting a call. Then he glances at his phone to see who’s calling. “Go for Zeke.” He bursts back into the office, slamming the door behind him.