“Just go!”
Jon pushes me on the back, and I swallow hard, then go up to Geoff. Unlike Jon, he’s white, and I’m pretty sure he’s started dyeing his thinning hair to cover up his grays. I don’t even want to know how much his sleek suit cost, but I’d guess it’s an obscene amount.
I offer my hand, and he grips it tight, giving me his perfect, professional smile. I think it means I have maybe a minute of his time. If a long talk is coming, he will generally act like I’m his long-lost best friend.
“Having fun?” I ask.
“I am.” He looks down. “But I can see on your face you didn’t come over here to make small talk. Want to talk shop?”
“I do.”
“Good, I like your priorities.” We move over to a quieter spot, down the side of the building.
My heart swells. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but if he liked even one of my songs, that would be enormous.
“So, what did you think?” I ask.
“I liked them. But you should know, Galactic Records decided to pass. Not because they’re bad, it’s just not the direction they’re hoping to go in with Saturday.”
I bow my head, and can’t bring myself to look into his eyes. “Oh. All right.”
“I want you to stick with it, because you’ve obviously got the chops, and I’d love to swing you a songwriter credit on the LP.”
“Right. So what should I do?”
“Just keep in mind what kind of band Saturday is. Play to what Galactic wants, not what you would want. We’re a pop act. If you’re stuck, try thinking of a song that would play on the radio, or in a mall.”
I wrap my arms around myself, and try to keep tears from welling up. This is just business. Even if it feels like it because of the amount of myself I put into those songs, it’s not personal. But seriously, a mall? I can’t imagine anything I’ve written making sense there.
“Cool, okay. I’ll take another swing at it.”
“Great. Good to see you. Have fun at the party.”
“Thanks for your time.” My voice cracks, damn it. “I’ll try again, and be more pop this time.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
I break away, my shoulders sagging. Geoff would never come out and say to my face that he thinks my songs sucked, but in reality that’s what he just said. I try to push that away, though. It’s fine. Who cares if Saturday never sings about the stuff I actually care about? It’s a job, that’s all. In what world does anyone with a job get to do whatever they want?
I wander inside the main building. It’s lit like a nightclub, with blue lights cutting through the darkness, and music so loud I can feel the thud of the bass. There’s a DJ and a bar, and to the side, I kid you not, is an enormous ice sculpture of a roaring lion. There’s even a tattoo station set up, where a girl is getting a tattoo on her arm. I peer closer, and see she’s getting the word GUILTY in cursive.
At the far end of the room, leaning against the wall, is Ruben, looking unfairly cool in a sweater and wool coat. Fans are constantly saying Ruben could be a model, and I can see it, what with his perfectly tousled black hair and angular jawline. I might need to work out to transition from cute to hot, but Ruben is already there, and I’m pretty sure he knows.
He’s talking to a modern-day Adonis. This other boy laughs, then rests his hand on Ruben’s shoulder for just a moment. I feel a weird stab in the pit of my stomach. The media and general public don’t know about Ruben yet, and even at a private party I want to tell him to not be so obvious. For such a smart guy, he can be kind of thick sometimes, especially around hot guys. I get it, girls make me stupid, too, but my stupidity has a much slimmer chance of causing a worldwide headline.
Jon appears, clearly having been looking for me. “Hey,” he shouts, over the music. “Have you seen Angel?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
“Shoot,” he says, his brow furrowing. “Nobody can find him.”
“Oh, crap. Okay, I’ll text him.” Panic starts to set in. Angel has always been the biggest partier of all of us, but lately he’s moved on to things heavier than alcohol. He has a whole new group of friends, who can supply him with anything he wants, and … yeah. I get why Jon looks how he does right now.
“I already tried, but, go on.”
Hey, just got here, where are you?
The typing bubble appears, then vanishes.
“He’s conscious,” I say.
“Well, that’s something, I guess.”
He scans the crowd. I recognize a few more people, their famous faces only momentarily lit up by flashing lights. A lot of them are already staggering all over the place or grinding on each other in pairings that would make magazine editors salivate.
“Where’s Ruben?” Jon shouts.
“He’s talking to a guy over…” I stop, because he’s not there anymore. I try not to think about what he’s doing now.
Jon looks at me curiously.
“Er, I saw them when I came in. They seemed close.”
Jon presses his fist to his forehead. “Can you find him and ask if he’s seen Angel? I’ll keep looking. Text me if Ruben knows anything.”
“Okay.”
I leave the dance floor, and go back out into the fair, searching for Ruben. I bet he’s here with that Adonis guy. I can only hope they aren’t being too obvious.
I shake my head. What Ruben does is his business.
I just wish he’d be careful about it. Anyone could’ve seen him. If I noticed, I’m sure other people did.
Except I spot Ruben by the pirate ship, and he’s no longer with the Greek god. He’s alone, and he seems to be in a hurry, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. A girl shouts his name, but he waves, and keeps walking, leaving her looking crestfallen.
I follow after him.
He stops a ways from the party, by the shore of the lake, and picks up a rock. He skips it, and it goes so far I lose sight of it.
I keep my head down all the way until I reach him. There’s nobody else anywhere nearby. Just us, and the lake, with the neon lights and sounds of the party distant behind us.
I notice his eyes are glassy. All thoughts of Angel fall away.