American Girl On Saturn

by Nikki Godwin

  I wait half a second for the word to click in his brain before I push him with all my energy into the cold water behind him. A splash of H2O floods the poolside concrete and splatters over my feet as Noah bobs to the surface. I rush to the patio door before he has a chance to climb out and throw me in.

  But Milo blocks my escape.

  “Are you free tonight?” he asks.

  “As free as I can be on a lockdown,” I reply.

  He slides the patio door open and motions me inside.

  “I’ll hold Noah back,” he says. “As long as you promise to meet me out here at midnight.”

  Chapter Seven

  The numbers on my phone jump from 11:59 PM to 12:00 AM. Midnight. I silence my cell phone, slip it under my pillow, and glance down the hallway before tiptoeing out of my room. I hurry down the stairs, through the kitchen, and catch my breath before I walk over to the patio door.

  This whole “late night with Milo” thing was much easier when I was sitting at the table and he just showed up. Now I actually have to stand without my knees shaking. I have to walk toward him without tripping. I should’ve gotten here early, but I hated to look eager.

  He looks up from the poolside lounge chair when I slide the glass door open. He stands and walks toward me but stops halfway and picks up Emery’s firefly jar. He examines the lid with its poked holes.

  “Little Saturnite’s, I’m assuming?” he asks, shaking the empty jar.

  Seriously? He asked me outside at midnight to talk about Emery’s jar for catching glowing bugs? Just because he’s famous and gorgeous and can sing amazingly well doesn’t mean I want to sit outside with him on a hot summer night and talk about bugs with him.

  “Yeah,” I say, instead of lashing out over bug talk. “She likes to catch as many fireflies as she can on her way across. Then she gets in her tent, zips it up so it’s pitch black, and watches them glow.”

  “Her way across where?” he asks.

  “Our property,” I say. “Her tent is out near the treehouse. It’s a long walk. I think it’s outside of your boundaries, though. You guys aren’t supposed to venture off.”

  He smiles. “Well, I’m feeling rebellious. Plus, it’ll give us plenty of time to talk. C’mon.”

  He reaches out his hand, and I stand here like an idiot because I don’t even know what to do. The butterflies in my stomach engage in a boxing match with each other. What if I reach out and he jerks his hand back and laughs at me for thinking he actually liked me?

  “Okay, never mind then,” he says. He pulls his arm back to his own body. “Will you at least still walk with me?”

  Yep. I’m officially an idiot. All I can think about are the millions of girls who would kill – literally murder – to be in my place right now. And what do I do? Reject the boy with the caramel eyes.

  I can’t even speak, so I just nod and motion toward the yard. He walks a few steps ahead of me, jar in hand, and I rack the depths of my mind for something to say.

  He taps his fingers on the lid then unscrews it.

  “Are you gonna help me catch fireflies or am I going to have to do the bug thing alone?” he asks.

  “I can handle fireflies,” I say.

  Fireflies are nothing compared to the butterflies I’m feeling.

  We walk a few feet across the yard, and the moonlight glints off the side of his face. I wonder if he knows he’s as beautiful as he is. I’m sure he does. He’s told every single day that he’s perfect and gorgeous and amazing. Maybe he’s going through withdrawals from not having fans throw themselves at him. Maybe he needs me for an ego boost. Maybe I’m his confirmation while he’s here. Ugh, that sucks. I so don’t want to be a confirmation.

  A spark of yellow glows ahead of us, and Milo sprints in its direction. My flip flops aren’t much protection against the wet grass. It feels slimy against my skin.

  “Got him,” Milo says. He twists the lid back onto the jar and hands it to me. “I’ll catch them if you can handle the lid.”

  The little bug glows. It’s like holding a star or catching lightning in a bottle. I hold the jar against the night sky and watch the firefly flicker on and off.

  “Let’s play twenty questions,” Milo says.

  He doesn’t look at me, though. He stares off into the distance, probably gauging how fast he’ll need to run to catch up to that sparkling mass of fireflies across the yard.

  “That could get dangerous,” I say.

  Twenty questions is on the level of truth or dare. There are some things I’m just too scared to answer. And really, there are some questions I’m too scared to learn the answer to.

  “Okay, we’ll go Emery-style and make our own rules,” he says. “We don’t ask questions we wouldn’t be willing to answer ourselves, and if at any point we feel awkward about a question, we don’t have to answer it. Fair enough?”

  It’s like my own Twitter Q&A with Milo Grayson. Who cares if I’m an idiot? Right now, I’m the luckiest girl in the universe.

  “Fair enough,” I say. “You go first.”

  “Question numero uno,” Milo says as we walk toward the string of trees that line our property. “In your honest opinion, who is the best looking guy in Spaceships Around Saturn?”

  I feel like Aralie the instant I put my hand on my hip. Milo glances over at me and bursts into laughter. He shakes his head.

  “I knew you wouldn’t go for that. Let me try again,” he says.

  The silly smile never leaves his face. The moon acts as his spotlight, making sure the world sees his smile. He completely lights up the dark night.

  “Favorite song of all time?” he asks.

  “‘Bleeding Butterflies’ by Sebastian’s Shadow,” I answer.

  I feel like I’m bleeding butterflies these days. Sebastian’s Shadow was onto something. Maybe they could see into the future and knew that Spaceships Around Saturn would form and become famous, and every girl in the entire universe from Earth to Saturn would bleed butterflies any time one of the SAS boys was in the vicinity.

  “You’re a Shadow fan? Isaac Torrey is the reason I learned to play guitar,” he says.

  Oh my God. He is a fan of my favorite band in the entire world. No one around here listens to Sebastian’s Shadow. Well, none of my friends do anyway. Sebastian’s Shadow is too screamy, too dark, too emo, too whatever for my friends. No one that I know appreciates awesome guitar riffs or deep, symbolic lyrics, but Milo Grayson does!

  “I love them,” I say, almost too fast. “They’ve been my favorite band for the last three years. I saw them last year, and they were amazing live. And they’re the nicest people ever.”

  Milo nods much too quickly.

  “I met them backstage at an awards show,” he says. “I completely got all star-struck and froze and could barely talk to Isaac. He’s so underrated. He’s a musical genius.”

  I can’t imagine Milo ever being star-struck. He’s more famous than Isaac Torrey could ever imagine being. I smile at the thought of Milo being tongue-tied and starry-eyed.

  “I have a picture of me with Isaac,” I say. “It was at the meet and greet before their show. My ex-boyfriend accused me of cheating on him when I posted it on Facebook. It was the greatest compliment ever.”

  “Well maybe I need to take you with me to the next event where I may cross paths with Sebastian’s Shadow. You can introduce me and help me get the words out,” Milo says.

  Hopefully that spotlight of a moon isn’t casting down on me. I’m the one who’s tongue-tied and starry-eyed now. Thankfully Milo is more concerned with catching fireflies.

  “Your turn,” Milo says.

  Every Saturnite out there probably knows the answer, and Emery could tell me over breakfast, but I ask him anyway.

  “The bromance with Tate – what gives? You seem closer to Noah,” I say.

  He laughs and nods.

  “I am closer to Noah,” he admits. “But when we first got signed, for some reason I ended up next to Tate in most of our
promo pictures, and because my arm was usually around him, the fans ran with it.”

  “Ohhhh, so Noah is more of your type then?” I can’t help myself.

  “Hey now,” Milo says. “You didn’t want to tell me your type, so I can’t possibly feel comfortable telling you mine.”

  Thirteen fireflies and too many questions later, my butterflies have settled. He’s told me about his family, growing up in Canada, and that his favorite color is blue. He prefers Italian dressing over Ranch, and his favorite parts of being in a boyband are the brotherhood, the whole ‘living your dream’ bit, and the fans. The worst parts? No privacy, no sleep, and the fans. If my brain didn’t remind me every three seconds that he’s famous and perfect and on Emery’s bedroom wall, he could totally pass for a super cool, regular human boy.

  He unzips the flimsy door to Emery’s tent while I hold the sparkling jar.

  “Ladies first,” he says, motioning me to go inside.

  I crawl into the tent, and Milo’s silhouette enters behind me. He sits down across from me before zipping us inside. We fall into darkness minus the little speckles of light in my hand.

  “So,” Milo says from somewhere within the tent. “What’s the deal with Godfrey? I thought butlers wore tuxedos and were unbelievably proper.”

  I laugh. Godfrey was here before I was. Sometimes people mistake him for our grandfather, and we just let them think he is. Dad’s parents died when he was young, and Mom’s family lives across the country. We see our grandparents twice a year, tops. Godfrey suits the role better anyway.

  “His wife owned a flower shop before I was born,” I explain. “Mom used them religiously, but his wife was diagnosed with cancer and died shortly after. It was really fast. Godfrey lost the shop paying for medical bills, and he was about to lose his house too. Mom and Dad had just gotten married, I was on the way, and Mom gave him the guest house and a job.”

  “And he’s been here ever since?” Milo assumes.

  I nod, but he can’t see me.

  “He’s more of Mom’s personal assistant. Or errand-runner,” I say. “He has a lot more free time now that Aralie and I can drive ourselves places. But with Dad’s job, he wasn’t always here to help Mom run in different directions, so Godfrey did.”

  “Well, it sounds like you have a pretty awesome life here,” he says.

  That would be so lame if it wasn’t coming from the mouth of an international superstar.

  “Can I quote you on that when lockdown is over?” I ask.

  “You can quote me on anything you’d like,” he says.

  I hear the smile in this voice, and I’m grateful for the darkness. Now I can plaster that goofy fangirl grin across my face, and he’ll never know.

  We sit in the tent with our glowing jar for another few minutes while he rambles on about song lyrics and stupid marketing tactics they’ve used and all of the awesome places he’s visited. He talks about the time they were kicked out of (and banned from) a hotel because Benji and Jules decided to go swimming in the outdoor fountain. Then he talks about Noah’s bad tattoo jobs and how Tate collects phone numbers at nearly every show.

  “This is so weird,” he finally says, completely ending all talk of his Saturn brothers.

  “What’s weird?” I ask.

  Now is one of those times I wish we weren’t in a dark tent. I can’t see his face. I bet he’s doing that thing with his mouth – that puckered up sideways kiss thing that he does.

  “I never get to have actual conversations with girls,” he says. “Most of them just scream or cry, and the others are too shocked to speak.”

  Saturn’s angels are singing! He’s totally oblivious to my fluttering nerves. My attempts to hide my newly-found Saturnite status have worked.

  “I’m pretty good at keeping my cool around famous guys,” I say. “Isaac Torrey will totally back me up on that.”

  But Isaac Torrey looks nothing like this beautiful boy. Of course I kept my cool around him. And he’s like thirty…and married. He’s not even on the same planet as Milo.

  “I don’t doubt that,” he says. “What do you say we set these guys free?”

  He reaches for the jar, and his skin brushes against mine.

  I will not scream like a fangirl. I will not scream like a fangirl.

  He grasps the jar and shuffles over to the zipped up doorway. He crawls into the night air and extends his hand to help me out. This time, I take it.

  We walk hand-in-hand halfway across the yard until he decides this is the perfect spot to release our jar of stars. He sets my hand free so he can untwist the lid. One by one, the fireflies disband and rejoin the summertime air.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you could draw?” Milo asks as he reseals Emery’s jar.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you could play guitar?” I counter.

  “You never asked,” he says.

  I smile. “Neither did you.”

  He nudges me with his elbow and treks on toward the house. He tosses Emery’s jar back and forth between his hands, and I hope it doesn’t shatter on the patio or the entire household will be outside to see what’s going on.

  Luckily he sets the jar right back where he found it and walks to the sliding glass door. Before he opens it, he looks back at me.

  “Can you give me some practice ink too?” he asks.

  “Hmm,” I say. “Depends. Can you write me a song?”

  A smile spreads across his face, and I know I’m smiling like a total fangirl at my bravery.

  “Next time we do this, you bring your Sharpies. I’ll bring my guitar,” he says.

  Chapter Eight

  “Chloooooeeeeeee.” Emery hisses my name from my bedside. “Chloooooooeeeeeeee.”

  I feel around for my cell phone and glance at the time. It’s too early in the morning for Emery to be in my room whispering my name at great lengths.

  “What?” I mutter into my pillow.

  “Tate’s head is on your door,” she says.

  Her words are as clear as the windows after Godfrey has Windex’ed them.

  I push off of the bed just enough to see her face. She’s serious, but there’s no way Tate’s head is on my door. Did Emery get all hyena happy in the night and decapitate him or something?

  “What are you talking about?” I ask her.

  My attempt to glance at the door is useless. She closed it behind her on the way in. Oh God. What if she has gone crazy and decapitated Tate and plans to hang my head on the door next to his? What if we’re her trophies from the summer of lockdown?

  Emery isn’t a guillotine or a game hunter. That late night firefly-catching session must’ve really jacked up my brain. I need more sleep. But I’m awake now. My mind explodes with fireflies and Saturn droplets and the fact that Milo said there’d be a next time.

  “Tate’s head is on your door,” she repeats. “Aralie put it up there.”

  I throw the covers back. Aralie could definitely be a guillotine. She might could even pass for a human game hunter. But then Jules’s head would be on my door instead. I know that much.

  At the risk of being seen with bed hair and smudged, leftover makeup, I venture across the bedroom and pull my door open. Emery wasn’t lying. A magazine cut out of Tate’s head is taped onto my door.

  “I was going to get him down for you,” Emery says. She walks over to me. “But I can’t reach him. I think you should stick it back on Aralie’s door. She’s crazy.”

  The tape is still fresh on the back of the photo and peels easily off of my door. I take the few steps down the hallway to Aralie’s door and gently press Tate’s head to the surface so I don’t alert her. She probably just did it to entertain Emery anyway, so I’ll play along. Emery slaps me a high-five upon seeing my handiwork and rushes down the stairs in a mess of giggles.

  I disappear back into my bedroom to brush my hair and freshen up my makeup. There’s no way I’m going downstairs looking like death-warmed-over. Any other summer day? Sure, who cares.
When Spaceships Around Saturn is crashing at your house? Never.

  Emery harasses Benji with another Q&A over breakfast. Yes, he likes the friendship bracelet. No, no one else has ever referred to him as ‘Benji Bikini’ to his knowledge. Yes, chocolate milk is better than regular milk. No, he doesn’t like bananas. Where does she even come up with this stuff?

  “I saw something about you on the Twitter,” she says.

  It always cracks me up how she calls it ‘the’ Twitter. She also watches ‘the’ YouTube. As annoying and loud-mouthed and wild as she can be, it’s moments like this that make me appreciate her five-year-old mind.

  Benji takes another gulp of milk.

  “Please don’t talk about Twitter,” he says. “I’m going on three days without it, and I feel it.”

  Emery ignores him and continues. “She said you have twenty-seven tattoos. Do you?”

  Benji buries his face into his hands.

  “I have a lot,” he says into his own skin.

  “Twenty-seven?!” Emery’s eyes bulge like a scared frog slipping off of a lily pad.

  “Yes!” Benji throws his arms into the air. “Yes, I have twenty-seven tattoos, and I plan on getting twenty-seven more.”

  Note for girls on Twitter: @Benji_Baccarini does not like to talk about his tattoos at breakfast.

  I grab a muffin from the plate on the table, wave to Mom in the kitchen, and disappear out onto the back patio. The Saturn boys will have to fend Emery off on their own. It’s too early, she’s too fangirlish, and I have to deal with her year-round. They can have her during lockdown.

  An hour later, Emery hauls me back inside, away from the warmth of the morning sunshine. I follow her back to Dad’s game room. The guys are already in here. Aralie curls up in the corner of the sectional.

  “We’re all here,” Emery says with a proud smile. “Now we can watch the DVD.”

  “What DVD?” I ask.

  “Our live DVD,” Milo answers, nodding toward the flat screen. “You know how arrogant we are. We like to watch ourselves.”

  Noah looks over at me.

  “And you need to be here so you can tell me how awful my tour stylist is,” he says. “In fact, you should come sit on the other side of Milo. That way, you can lean around him and give me that disgusted look you gave me yesterday when you dissed my shorts.”