The Brightsiders

by Jen Wilde

  “I’m already emailing Sal.” My thumbs slide over the screen of my phone as I type her an email, asking for her help. “She’ll know what to do.”

  The moment the email swooshes off into the ether, I get a text.

  ALFIE: how fucking dare they?

  EM: I’m on it. Asked Sal to take legal action.

  ALFIE: good girl. you don’t deserve this.

  ALFIE: are you okay?

  EM: Numb. Mad as hell. But not surprised.

  ALFIE: you want me and Ry to come over?

  EM: Thanks, but Chlo is here.

  ALFIE: ok. if you need anything.

  EM: Thanks xo

  My phone starts buzzing in my hand. Kass is FaceTiming me.

  “Hey,” I say.

  I can see that she’s still in bed. Her hair is a mess, and mascara clumps under her eyes. She must have had a big night.

  “What the hell is wrong with them?” Her voice is so loud it makes me wince. “I am so sorry, Em. I cannot fucking believe they did this.”

  “Unfortunately,” I say with a sigh, “I can totally believe it.”

  She sits up in her bed. “You are never allowed to talk to them again. You hear me? You’ve given them enough second chances. I forbid it.”

  She rambles on for a while like this before I manage to get a word in.

  “Kass!” I say. “I get it. And I agree with you. One hundred percent. I already called Mom and told her that I’m done.”

  She wipes a hand down her face like she’s relieved. “Okay. Good. You don’t need them. You’ve got me.”

  “Hey,” Chloe says, putting their arm around me and poking their head into the shot. “And me, too. I’ll always have your back. Both of you.”

  I put a hand on their knee and squeeze. “I’d totally fight for you two. Like, claws-out, gloves-on fight.”

  They both laugh. Chloe curls their fingers into a claw, their long shiny nails looking sharp as knives. “Roar!”

  Just then, my phone buzzes with an email from Sal.

  Emmy,

  I contacted our lawyers the moment I saw the cover this morning. We’re on it. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure this won’t ever happen again.

  Hope you’re okay, love. I’m here if you need me.

  Sal

  Sal comes across as uncaring sometimes, but when one of her people is under attack, she’s there. Like a mama bear, she shows up ready to take down the threat.

  I have some pretty stellar people in my corner.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I snuggle under a blanket on the Brightsiders’ private jet, shaking with nerves. We’re on our way to New York. Sal hooked us up with a gig on Good Morning America to celebrate the surprise release of the track. In just two hours, “ILY” will be out in the world.

  “Do you think they’ll like it?” I ask Ryan, who’s just woken up.

  He gives me a thoughtful smile. “Em, they are going to adore it. I can feel it.”

  I wriggle excitedly in my chair. “Ahh! I can’t stand this suspense! I just want them to hear it now!”

  Our crew are scattered throughout the plane: Zach and our glam squad of stylists, Sal and a few other people from our management, and our security team.

  The past few days flew by in a blur of rehearsals and long sessions in the studio that ran late into the night. It’s been a welcome distraction from the media vultures circling around me right now. After video of my freak-out at the newsstand went viral, and people heard my mom admit my parents’ lies on the phone with me, the narrative turned in my favor. But all this has made gossip blogs even more thirsty for stories, and the number of paparazzi stalking me has increased dramatically. While all that has been happening around me, my feelings for Alfie have been wreaking havoc within me. In a word, it’s been intense. Which is why I’ve hardly left the recording studio in three days.

  Sal wants to drop “ILY” on our fans the minute it’s ready. Alfie, Ryan, and I have worked closely with our team at the studio to make sure it debuts at midnight tonight. I’ve only left the recording studio for a few hours at a time to sleep and shower. I should be exhausted, but I’ve never felt more alive. This is the work I was meant to do.

  Alfie stretches his long legs out next to me. I’m so painfully aware of every move his body makes. Of every word he says. It’s like my heart is trapped in one of those escape rooms and Alfie holds all the clues I need to set myself free.

  Wow, that makes me feel pathetic. I really need to get some sleep.

  I haven’t been able to keep my eyes shut since we left LA, so I’ve filled pages of my notebook with subpar sketches of the Empire State Building, bagels, coffee cups, and city skylines. I’m absentmindedly tracing my pen in a spiral on a cluttered page when I get an idea. Our publicist asked us to prepare blasts to send out to our followers to announce the song drop, and these cute doodles could be perfect. I turn to a new page and write ILY in the center in big, thin letters. Underneath, I add, Surprise! New single out now! and decorate the blank space with unicorns, rainbows, hearts, and stars.

  Soon, the plane lands and we get in our convoy of black SUVs to go to the hotel. I check the time on my phone every minute, counting down until my baby song is released.

  “Five more minutes!” Sal calls as we wait in the lobby of the hotel for everyone to check in. Phones are chiming with texts and emails as the people here communicate with our people back in LA, making sure the links are ready for us to tweet out. I slip on my headphones to listen to “ILY” one more time to make sure it’s flawless.

  The time comes, and Sal hits send on the press release to all the media outlets. “Go, superstars!” she says, beaming. “Blast it!”

  I post my sketch to Snapchat, Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, and everywhere else, along with a link to the single on iTunes. My phone blows up. Likes, retweets, shares, screenshots, comments … they come in so fast I can’t keep up.

  Sal buys everyone a round of drinks to celebrate, although pretty much everyone opts for water because we have an early call time for Good Morning America. My fingers tap-tap-tap on my screen, replying to excited tweets from all our Brightsiders fans.

  “The best part,” Alfie says, grinning at his phone, “is that this is just the beginning. Imagine what the response will be tomorrow!”

  “Right?” Ryan adds. “It’s gonna be out of control after the show in the morning!”

  “Wild!” Alfie says. They high-five each other, and then Alfie holds his hand up to high-five me, too. I want to take hold of his hand and never let it go.

  “I think it’s bedtime for me,” I say, yawning. I bid good night to our whole crew and make my way up to my room. I don’t know how I’m going to get a wink of sleep tonight. Nervousness has held its hand out to Excitement and they are doing a fancy waltz in my stomach.

  The first thing I notice when I walk into my room is the generously stocked minibar. I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at it, tapping my feet on the floor. It’s like I can hear the devil on my shoulder, telling me that just one drink would ease my nerves. Just one of those teeny tiny bottles of booze would help me get some sleep. And sleep is vital when you have such an important show in the morning. A show that could make or break your career.

  The angel on my other shoulder chimes in, reminding me of all the times just one drink has led to three then five then ten until I blacked out. I drag my gaze away from the minibar and pry myself off my bed. I’d rather be sleep-deprived than hungover. I’ve come so far: almost six weeks without a drop of alcohol. Giving in now would mean I have a bigger problem that I thought. I’m not my parents. I’m just a normal eighteen-year-old girl who binged a few times too many. I’m not my parents.

  If Mom and Dad were here, they would have cleaned out the minibar already. They’d be dialing room service for refills or heading down to the hotel bar to keep the party going.

  That’s not me.

  I slip on my unicorn onesie and hop into bed, choosing to binge on social m
edia instead. My cute little drawing has amassed thirty thousand likes on Instagram. Whoa. I jump on Twitter and scroll through all the tweets in the now-trending #ILYOUTNOW and fan-started ILY ALEMRY—the ship name they use for Alfie, me, and Ryan. I’ve already been retweeted over ten thousand times and “ILY” is shooting up the charts. Double whoa.

  I tug the deliciously soft hotel covers higher and snuggle under it, watching the tweets flow in as I cry happy tears. Some of our die-hard Brightsiders have sent me videos and snaps of themselves singing along to the song, and I cry even harder with every one I watch.

  After hours of soaking up the love, I take a teary selfie and post it with the last two lines of “ILY”:

  Look at you, I hope you know,

  Look at you, I love you so.

  I add, Thanks for the love, kids xoxo

  Then I roll over and try to get a little sleep. But not a minute has passed when my phone lights up with a text.

  ALFIE: you’re still up.

  I stare at it, chewing on the inside of my mouth, trying to stop myself from grinning. I can’t be in love with him.

  EM: I am.

  ALFIE: I can’t sleep.

  EM: Same.

  ALFIE: you want to go for a walk or something?

  EM: Ok. Meet you in the hall.

  I slip on the complimentary hotel slippers, pull my unicorn hood over my head, grab my room keycard, and step out into the hall. Alfie is strolling toward me from his room, wearing leggings and his Gryffindor house sweater.

  “I forgot you’re a Gryffindor,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

  He tsks at me, shaking his head. “And you call yourself a Slytherin.” He flicks the fluffy horn on my hood. “Or are you a unicorn now?”

  I lift my chin up. “I’m not exclusively Slytherin or unicorn. I can be both.”

  He giggles. “Believe me, I get that.”

  It takes me a second to realize he’s referring to being genderqueer, and I giggle with him.

  We wander around the hotel, hand in hand, comparing all our favorite responses to “ILY” so far.

  I’m confused and euphoric and afraid and hopeful all at the same time. We meander down the hall, our hands swinging between us. I want this hotel hallway to stretch on for miles just so I can feel my hand in his a little while longer.

  “Have you ever been to the roof of this place?” he asks.

  I shake my head. He turns us around and leads me over to the elevator.

  “You’ll love it,” he says as the doors open and we step inside. “When we stopped here on our tour, I wasn’t on my anxiety meds yet so I didn’t sleep much. So I hung out in the rooftop lounge writing songs while everyone else slept.”

  Hearing that makes me want to hug him forever.

  We rise up three floors to the roof, then walk through a dimly lit and empty restaurant and out the glass door to a terrace. The cold November air greets us, prickling my cheeks and making me realize just how thin my onesie is. I tug on Alfie’s hand to go back inside.

  “It’s freezing,” I say, my teeth already chattering. “And I think this floor is closed. I don’t think we’re allowed to be up here so late.”

  He grins. “What’s the point in being famous if we can’t break a rule every now and then?”

  I shiver visibly, and he lets go of my hand and takes me by the shoulders, guiding me back inside. “Wait here,” he says before going back outside and disappearing behind a timber screen covered in vines. A minute later, he pops his head out from behind the screen and waves me over.

  When I reach him, he’s standing by an outdoor fireplace in a secluded corner of the terrace. He holds a blanket over his arm and gestures to a hanging egg chair.

  “Your chariot awaits,” he says.

  I hesitate, my arms hugging my torso as an icy breeze washes over me. My whole body shivers, and I gravitate toward the chair in front of the fire like a moth to a flame. The chair swings slightly as I climb into it and get comfy, then Alfie slides in next to me, wrapping the blanket over us. Between the heat from the fire, the heat from our two bodies under the blanket, and the heat that’s been brewing between us since Hawaii, I shift from freezing to overheated in less than a minute.

  I’m so self-conscious that I don’t even let myself breathe too much, as if any sudden movements might scare him away like a startled rabbit. I don’t know how to act around him now.

  LED lights sparkle from within the vines creeping above the fireplace and the screen behind us, replicating the night sky. I start counting them to take my mind off my frantic heartbeat and my close proximity to Alfie. I don’t even make it to ten before I become intensely aware of his arm pressed against mine, our hips and thighs touching and our feet dangling next to each other out of the chair. Alfie starts humming Ryan’s song “And by the Way,” his fingers tapping his chest to the beat.

  “Are you excited about your first gig as lead?” he asks.

  An uncontrollable smile forms on my face. “Very. But I’m nervous, too. I almost thought about having a drink back in my room, just to calm me down enough to sleep.”

  He turns to look at me, but I can’t meet his eyes. I’m too scared of what I’ll see.

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” he says. “If you ever feel that way, you know you can always text or call me.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll keep that in mind. You are the resident expert on resisting the temptations of alcohol.”

  He gives me a cute salute and pairs it with an even cuter wink. “Major Sobriety, here for duty.”

  I chuckle and pull the blanket up higher. “How do you do it? All the parties we go to, all the nights we spend around people drinking, how do you just say no every single time?”

  He shrugs. “It wasn’t easy at first, but now everyone knows I don’t drink, so they don’t even try it anymore.”

  “But how?” I ask again. “Like, I’ve seen how people offer you free drinks all the time. It doesn’t even faze you. You’re always just like, ‘Nah, I’m good.’ And if someone pressures you, you’re like, ‘Nah. I don’t drink.’ And people just accept it. Whenever I try saying that to people, they look at me as if I’m an alien or something.”

  “I get those looks, too,” he says. “But people get over it. And if they don’t, then they’re not people whose opinions matter to me anyway. Like, why would I want to impress someone who judges people for choosing not to drink?”

  Oh my God. That’s exactly what I used to do. I was so worried about impressing people, I never asked myself if they impressed me. And people who give me shit for being sober? Why would I want to impress them? Why would I want to be friends with people like that?

  I slap a hand to my forehead and let it sit there, hiding my eyes.

  “Em?” he asks.

  “I tried so hard to get people to like me by drinking or going clubbing or saying yes when I really wanted to say no … I never thought to ask myself if I like them. God, I’ve been so desperate that I literally have been craving the approval of people I might not even want to be friends with! Ugh. UGH. UGGHHHHH!”

  Alfie searches for my other hand under the blanket and squeezes it. “Everyone does stuff like that every now and then. Remember when we were touring with Lost and Found? I spent that whole tour trying to look cool for them.” He pauses, taking in a deep breath. “I got drunk with Nate and Levi one night. Like, really drunk. They starting giving me shit about our fans. Just making fun of them like they weren’t real fans or some crap like that, just because they’re mostly teenage girls. I started mouthing off; I don’t even remember what I said. Something about their heads being so far up their asses that they can’t tell that all they do is talk shit.”

  I snort with laughter, but I can tell he didn’t mean it to be funny.

  “One of them,” he continues, “I can’t remember which one, pushed me. He said, ‘You dress like a man but I bet you still hit like a girl.’ So I took a swing at him, but I was so drunk I basically just punched air
, and when he dodged it he fell on his face. It made so much noise in my hotel room that the tour manager came up and started screaming at us. He threatened to kick the Brightsiders off the tour. I was terrified that I’d ruined our one shot to make it big. I haven’t touched alcohol since.”

  I turn to him, my jaw hanging open. “Jesus Christ, Alfie! Those fucking assholes. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I didn’t want you or Ry to get mad at me.”

  He stares straight ahead at the fireplace, his head hanging slightly, like he’s ashamed of himself. It’s such a sad sight to see.

  “Oh, Alfie,” I say, frowning. “We would never be mad at you for standing up for yourself. If I was there I would’ve taken a swing at him, too. So that’s why you never drink?”

  He thoughtfully traces his fingers over his chin. “Part of it.”

  “What’s the other part?”

  He gives me a sideways glance. “I don’t know if you want to hear it.”

  I turn to face him, showing him he has my full attention. “I do.”

  “Hmm,” he says. “Well, it’s because of your parents. But I really, really don’t think you wanna hear the full story.”

  My heart starts racing. I’m not sure I want to hear it, either, but I have to know. “Alfie, I said I want to hear it. I can handle it.”

  He purses his lips, then nods. “One night, maybe when we were thirteen or fourteen, you rode your bike over. Your parents were trying to sort things out, remember? They hadn’t partied or even touched alcohol for a month and one week, so you hadn’t needed to sleep at my house in a while. You’d been so happy at school, so excited and proud of them. And they’d started spending more time with you. Then, one night, I heard you tapping on my window, and my heart sank because I knew that meant they were partying again. You didn’t say anything when I opened the window, but there was a big thunderstorm that night—you were soaked and shaking like a leaf. I gave you a pair of pajamas, then you crawled into the bottom bunk without a word.”

  “I remember that storm,” I say quietly. “The damage it caused was on the news the next day. Trees fell down in my street, and wires were all over the road.” I remember riding my bike through it, too, lightning cutting through the clouds, thunder so loud it shook my bones. Hail stinging my cheeks and my knuckles as I clutched my slippery handlebars.