Pop Star

by Meredith Michelle

  “Wow! It took me three years to break five million!” You are impressed, but not surprised. Serge and Niko have had almost as many requests for talk show appearances and magazine photo shoots as you have over the past month.

  “Very impressive,” Freddie slips his phone back into his pocket.

  “That is very exciting. Thank you, Freddie,” Serge says.

  “I have more good news.” Freddie smiles. “We have a record-deal offer from none other than Colton Powers. And that’s not all. You boys have been invited to serve as grand marshals of the Ukrainian Independence Day Parade. Your home town wants to honor its heroes. The timing would dovetail perfectly with the projected drop date of your first single. Looks like your days as backup dancer and catwalk crew member are numbered.” He pauses, waiting for Serge to respond. “So, what do you think?”

  Serge looks pensive, taking it all in. “I have to talk with Niko, of course.”

  “That’s it?” Freddie folds his arms across his chest. “Most people would be jumping up and down for this kind of opportunity.”

  “No, no, I am honored, of course,” Serge rises and runs his hand through his hair. “It is a lot to consider.” Serge looks over at you. “We would have to take a break from the tour, correct?”

  Freddie looks thoroughly confused. “This is what you wanted, what we’ve been working for, right? To take this thing to the next level?”

  Serge takes a long moment before answering him. “Please, allow me to speak with Niko, after the show,” is all he says.

  Freddie blinks a few times, throws his hands into the air. “Okay, speak with Niko!” He turns on his heel to walk out of the room, clearly exasperated. “You know where to find me,” he calls before shutting the door behind him.

  Serge turns to you, his eyes greyer than usual and full of an anxiety you haven’t seen before.

  “It’s okay.” You smile, going to him and placing your hand on his strong shoulders. “You should be excited. You have worked so hard—this is an amazing opportunity. Don’t even worry about me. I’ll be right here when you get back. Well, not right here. I’ll be in some other city somewhere. But you know what I mean.”

  Serge sits back down heavily. “Thank you, Sladkaya. Of course I do not want to leave you. But it is not just that.” He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “There is so much you do not know yet. It is difficult to understand.”

  You take Serge’s hand. “Will you tell me?”

  Sasha chooses that moment to barge back into the room, making you and Serge jump. Sasha uncharacteristically fails to pick up on the mood. “What am I interrupting this time?” he teases. “Haven’t you two lovebirds gotten enough of each other yet?”

  Sasha’s face falls when neither of you cracks a smile. “Uh-oh. Or have you actually gotten enough of each other, after all?” he asks slowly.

  You look him in the eye, trying to shoot him a meaningful glare. “Actually, Serge just got some good news. He and Niko have a possible record deal in the works.”

  Sasha looks from you to Serge then back again. “So why do you look like someone died?”

  “No, no.” Serge straightens up, manages a smile, and brushes it off. “It is very good news.” Serge looks at you wistfully.

  “Ohh.” Sasha nods his head knowingly. “I get it. Don’t worry, you two will be so busy you’ll hardly have time to miss each other. And I’ll keep a close eye on Henrietta for you,” Sasha assures Serge. “And Niko will have his marching orders.”

  “Thanks,” you tell him, genuinely grateful for his incorrect assumption.

  Sasha bats his eyes at you before returning to the remaining rack of costumes. “Young love.” He sighs, “is there anything sweeter?”

  You smile reassuringly at Serge and reach up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. “Let’s talk about this more later, okay?” you whisper into his ear.

  “Later, yes,” he answers distractedly, then walks off to prepare for his performance.

  That night, Serge makes love to you with a silent urgency, his mouth on yours as he pulls the robe from your body and pushes you to the bed, using his hand to be sure you are ready, then driving into you powerfully. His breathing quickens almost instantly, his whole weight pressing you into the soft bed in release as he shudders against you.

  After, he rolls onto his back, gazing up at the ceiling as he catches his breath.

  “You okay?” you ask after a few minutes.

  “Yes. I am just thinking.”

  You roll onto your stomach and run a finger down Serge’s abs, ridges noticeably defined even in the dim light. “Care to tell me what about?”

  Serge’s stomach rises and falls as he thinks. “All this about a single, and an album, and the Independence Day Parade. It is a little stressful.”

  You rest your head on his chest and watch him as he speaks. You can see the anxiety on his face.

  “It’s a lot,” you say. “I remember how overwhelmed I felt when I started getting some traction.”

  “I am very happy with the success,” Serge says, glancing down at you, a flicker of a smile on his face. “It is all because of you and I am very grateful.” His expression becomes solemn again. “But things are complicated with me. And with Niko.”

  “Oh.” You had just assumed Niko would be on board. You hadn’t stopped to think that maybe the resistance was coming from him. “He isn’t so excited about all of this?”

  “No, it is not that. He is excited, too. But there are things I have not told you, Sladkaya. Things that I did not think were important anymore.”

  Serge strokes your hair, sending a shiver down your spine. You wait in silence for him to continue.

  After a long moment, Serge takes in a breath. He rests his hand against your arm and gazes into the shadows as he speaks.

  “You remember that Niko and I told you we studied music together.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you asked whether we grew up near one another.”

  “Right, and you didn’t really answer.”

  “Correct. To answer your question, we did grow up very near one another. In the same house in fact.”

  You startle a little then settle back down, wanting Serge to go on.

  “It is a very complicated story, but I will give you the short version. Niko’s father was Nikolas Zinckenko.”

  “The bodybuilder?” You know the name well. Almost as famous for his physique as he is for is strong accent, a popular subject of late-night show parodies, you also remember that Niki Z., as he was known, had some sort of short-lived political career after his run in Hollywood ended.

  “Yes, that is the one. Nikolas was very famous in my country, very rich. He became a popular movie star and lived in an enormous two-story penthouse in Kiev. The ceilings were so high it felt like a palace. Everybody knew Niki Z. when I was growing up. My mother started out as his house cleaner and then later became his assistant.”

  Serge shifts his position before he goes on. “There were always whispers when we went out together, Niki, Niko, Niko’s mother, and I. Very rarely did my mother come along. She always explained that she had some errand or other to do. But I did not understand until I was much older. All I knew was that I got to live in the grandest building in all of Kiev, possibly in all of Ukraine, and that my best friend, Niko, only four months older than I, was always by my side.”

  You begin to understand, but wait for him to continue his story.

  “Of course, I wondered where my father was, I asked my mother about him constantly. She told me the story of the handsome prince with whom she had shared one romantic night under a majestic willow tree, that she ran from him at the stroke of midnight, and that she never saw him again. But she promised that one day he would find us, reveal himself to me, and that finally I would know who my father was.”

  Serge smiles to himself, having told the too-familiar tale.

  “Well, one day I was playing war with Niko—we must have been about six years old
—chasing him around the house when Niki yelled at us both for making too much noise and ripped the weapons we had crafted from sticks and cardboard right out of our hands, and breaking them over his knee. Niko and I retreated to his bedroom in tears, stung by Niki’s anger. I sobbed, telling Niko my own father would never be so cruel, and that one day when he returned he would stand up to Niki and take us all away to live in his castle. I shared the tale my mother had told me so many times, and Niko’s tears turned to laughter.

  “With the unabashed cruelty only a child can have, Niko had opened my eyes to what had been before us all along. ‘That story, the one your mother has told you over and over again,’ he said, ‘it’s a nursery tale. It is called The Golden Slipper. It is not about your mother and father. It’s not even true.’

  “I managed to scream, ‘You’re lying!’ before running off to find my mother . . . I remember her holding me in her arms as though I was still a baby, stroking my cheek and drying my tears, rocking me back and forth while she told me the truth. I had been living with her handsome prince, Nikolas Zinchenko, all along. He was my father. That fictitious night under the willow tree happened when Niko’s mother, Anya, was four month’s pregnant with Niko. And best and worst of all, Niko was my half-brother.

  “My mother made me promise to keep what she had told me a secret, even from Niko, and told me that when it was time, my father would tell me the truth himself.”

  “I knew that my mother would not ask me for such a confidence unless it was very important. And even at such a young age I knew that we had a good life. I had seen children out on the street, children in my school who had holes in their shoes or ate nothing more than a boiled egg or a crust of bread for lunch.”

  You stretch your arm to lay it across Serge’s chest, running your fingers lightly over his muscles, gazing at his handsome face as he speaks.

  “Suddenly I understood why Niko and I attended different schools yet shared a music instructor, why Anya seemed at times affectionate and kind and at other times icy and distant, why my mother rarely accompanied us on outings, and when she did why she trailed behind us by at least several meters. In some ways, that day changed everything. And in many ways it changed nothing at all.” Serge blows out a long breath, and you sense that he has finished speaking.

  You wait a few minutes before asking, “When did your father finally tell you?”

  “Not until several years later. Nikolas became a well-known politician, then the Ukrainian Ambassador to the U.S. It was at that time that we moved to Washington D.C., to the Ukrainian Embassy there. It was a big change for our family. Even though Niko and I were tutored in English since we were small, the new country still felt very foreign. It helped that Niko and I had each another.

  “Eventually the States grew to feel more like home. We spent hours exploring the city, on hot days we would wander through the museums, or sit in the shadows of the monuments. And we would take long walks along the Tidal Basin in the spring, counting the days until the trees would be in bloom. It reminded us of home, a little.”

  “That’s why you love the cherry blossoms so much.” You smile.

  “Yes, they hold many memories. And now a new memory, as well,” Serge takes your hand in his, kissing your palm.

  “And you managed to keep your secret, even from Niko? That had to be difficult.”

  “Yes, but not as difficult as what happened next, something none of us expected.” Serge sighs, his eyes distant. “Anya became very ill soon after we moved to the States. Niko and I knew she was in and out of doctor’s offices frequently, but no one told us the truth until she had been ill for months. She died almost one year to the day after we moved into the Embassy. Pancreatic cancer. It was very quick.”

  “I’m so sorry,” you tell him, feeling the sting of tears in your eyes. “That must have been devastating.”

  “Yes, for Niko especially. I still remember her funeral so vividly. I stood in line behind Niko to kneel at her casket. His back was so straight and so still as he knelt. When he rose to face me his eyes were dry, his face stoic. He was ten years old, already taller than I was, but still had the face of a boy. He grasped my arm as he walked past me. ‘Brat,’ he said. And I knew then that he knew.”

  “He called you a brat?” you ask, incredulous.

  “No, no.” Serge laughs. “It means brother.”

  Suddenly you feel hot tears track down your cheeks. “Oh,” you say, quickly swiping at your eyes.

  “That night, Nikolas sat us both down together and told us the truth I already knew. ‘You are brothers,’ he said. He looked much older all of a sudden, I remember, and he had such sadness in his eyes. ‘You have always been brothers. This is more important now than ever before. You must always support one another.’

  “Niko looked at me solemnly and I at him. In that moment we made a silent pact. From then on we never spoke about any of it. We just adapted, as children do. And we grew even closer. All of the anger, the fear, even the joy we had we poured into our music. We communicated most openly, most genuinely, when we played our cellos together. We did not need words. To this day, we do not.”

  You gaze at him softly. “That’s a beautiful story,” you say. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

  Serge smiles. “Of course, Sladkaya.”

  “Does he still live in the States, your father?”

  “No, no. Nikolas and my mother moved back to Kiev many years ago. Of course, they have asked us many times to come back, just for a visit. Every holiday season, it is the same. And every time we have a reason not to return. We keep ourselves busy. Kiev is a place that holds many memories, but also much sadness . . . but now it looks like we are going to go back, after all of this time.”

  Serge is quiet for a few minutes, thoughtful, giving you time to absorb all he has told you. A part of you wants to offer to accompany him, to help him navigate what is sure to be uncertain territory. But part of you also knows it’s a journey he needs to make on his own.

  “If nothing else, maybe it will bring you some closure,” you offer.

  “I guess I am going to find out,” Serge says, running his fingers through your hair and pulling you into his strong embrace.

  Three weeks later, Serge and Niko play their final opening act in Atlanta and head to the airport for their flight to Kiev. The August air is thick and hot as you embrace outside the terminal. Serge gives you a long, slow kiss.

  Niko clears his throat loudly. “I am melting out here,” he says impatiently. “What do you think this is, Casablanca?”

  Serge laughs, giving you one more kiss.

  As Serge and Niko walk through the terminal doors, cello cases strapped across their backs and luggage dragging behind them, a draft of frigid air escapes, sending a chill across your skin. Serge turns to look at you one more time and gives you a brave smile before the doors slide shut behind him. You shiver slightly despite the hot day, then slide back into the waiting car, unsettled and missing Serge already.

  The tour drags without Serge there to keep you company. You knew you would miss him, but you had no idea how much you had come to look forward to little things, like his kiss in the wings when he and Niko finished their set, his playful whispers as he accompanied you up the stairway to the catwalk, a walk he refused to give up even when a backup dancer was found to take his place, the way he would lie on your side of the bed to warm it up before you joined him beneath the covers.

  Sasha does his best to fill the void. “What am I, chopped liver?” he asks as you refuse his tenth attempt to get you to go out to a club with him after a show.

  “I’m just tired,” you tell him.

  “You are pining,” he retorts. “It’s really kind of pathetic.” Then he smiles. “You are really into this guy, aren’t you?”

  You look at him and shrug. “I guess I am.”

  “Well, I have to admit it. He’s the best one yet.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t you think so?”
>
  “Of course I do, I’m just happy to hear you say it.”

  “I’ll deny it if you repeat,” Sasha says with a smirk. “But I am glad you are happy.”

  * * *

  On the tour bus to Louisiana, you call Serge at almost midnight. The time difference means that the only time you can really talk is very early morning or very late at night. So far, the trip is going brilliantly.

  “It’s been a whirlwind,” Serge tells you. “We are being driven place to place, never knowing what our next appearance is. We just say yes to everything.”

  “And how are your mom and Nikolas?”

  “They are very, very happy. They want us never to leave. They ask why can’t we make a career in Kiev. Nikolas is trying to bribe us with a private recording studio. He promises to build it in the basement of the apartment building. He is very persuasive.”

  “Sounds tempting,” you say, wondering whether Serge and Niko might actually be considering it.

  “It is tempting,” Serge admits, “but not as tempting as what awaits me when I step off of the plane and have you back in my arms, Sladkaya. I miss you very much.”

  “I miss you too.”

  Serge lowers his voice, speaking quietly into the phone. “Just wait until I am back, Sladkaya. I have many plans, for when I have you all to myself.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Oh yes, really.”

  “What kind of plans?”

  Serge speaks slowly, his voice low. “First, I am going to undress you very, very slowly, then I am going to kiss every inch of your body, and when I finish, I am going to slide under the covers and pay special attention to your—“

  “Sergei!” a familiar voice yells in the background. “Come, the car is waiting!”

  “Chyort!” Serge exclaims. “Okay, I am coming!”

  You laugh. Though you don’t know what the expression means, you get the gist. “Tell Niko I say hi,” you tell Serge.