Page 89 of If This Gets Out

This time, Ruben and I don’t interact at all.

“And, cut! Great work, boys, I think we got it that time!”

My stomach sinks.

The video shoot went almost half an hour overtime, which means we’re rushing to make it to the meet and greet.

At this point, meet and greets aren’t a super common thing for us. They used to be: with every show people could buy a VIP ticket and get the chance to meet us. I always felt a weird mix of excitement and awkwardness during them. It was so great seeing fans, but the rushed nature of it made me feel uncomfortable. Plus, people often told me deeply traumatic things that had happened to them, before the photo was taken and they had to move on. I never knew what they wanted me to say back to them, and felt guilty I couldn’t properly respond to the devastating news they told me.

So I’m not exactly disappointed that with our increased celebrity came increased security risks, so meet and greets ended, save for special occasions.

This special occasion is a contest run by Prosper, the mega-conglomerate that owns a share of Galactic Records as well as a few dozen other companies. A magazine owned by a different subsidiary of Prosper ran a contest in whichthe winners would get to meet us, and in order to keep them happy, Geoff sent us.

Our bus pulls into the back lot of the theater. Two Chase guards climb out first, to check the area, and once they say it’s safe we all get out, and go into the backstage area of the theater. We’re led straight down the hallway, toward the stage.

Erin turns around, blocking our path.

“Hey, boys. Given our situation, we’re going to do this a little differently for group shots. Ruben, you’re going to stand next to Jon, and Zach, you’ll be next to Angel.”

Ah.

Our new formation.

It seems it’s extending even past the video.

“Okay,” says Ruben. “This is ridiculous. We can all see what you’re doing.”

“It’s just until Russia,” she says. “For your safety, we want to make sure word doesn’t get out until then.”

That sucks, but it does make sense.

Ruben crosses his arms, but doesn’t say anything. Erin spins, then leads us out onto a stage. In the seating area, a line has formed, made up of about fifty contest winners, mostly teenage girls and their parents. They’re fenced in by dozens of security guards, like they’re dangerous.

The screaming starts.

It’s almost deafening. Some of them start crying. A bunch of them have brought homemade signs, along with bags filled with things to give us that I know we won’t be able to keep. They must know it, too, but they still bring it. Maybe it’s because the thing that matters to them is the act of giving it to us. Or maybe they think their present will break through the slush, even though, honestly, it never does, which is another thing I feel guilty about.

The cameraman is already in position, so the four of us line up, in our new, freshly approved order, with Ruben and me standing as far apart as possible.

The first girl comes up onto the stage. She’s in all black, and her hair is clearly dyed raven-dark. Her mascara is thick, and she has leather bracelets on.

I would die for her.

“Hey,” she says, nodding at the others before coming right up to me. “Zach, I made you something.”

“Oh, that’s so nice! Thanks.”

She hands me a paper bag. I open the bag, pulling out a hand-stitched piece of art, with the lyrics from the chorus of “Fight Back,” my favorite song. I relate to every single line Randy Kehoe wrote for it. I answered an interview questionyearsago asking what my favorite lyrics are, and she’s clearly remembered.

“Oh my god,” I say. “I love this!”

“Really? I’m not the best at stitching, and it’s a bit wonky in the corner, I’m sorry.”

I clutch it to my chest. “Don’t be sorry, I love it, thank you.”

“Falling for Alice is my favorite band,” she says, before her eyes widen. “Besides you guys!”

I laugh. “They’re my favorite, too.”

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