Rummy 500 is our game. We’ve been playing it since I was little, way back when Gramp was still alive. I shuffle the cards in the fancy way he taught me: dividing the deck in two, shuffling them down, then back up in a bridge. Gram grabs the pad and pencil on her nightstand to keep score.
“How’s Ethan?” Gram asks.
“Awesome. His first single is being released next week.”
“That ‘Night on Fire’ one?”
I nod, placing the pile of cards on the table for Gram to cut the deck. Gram adores Ethan. She knows all his songs, all his videos. She’s a major fan.
“That boy is going to be famous,” she proclaims.
“I know.”
“No. I mean, really famous.”
The way Gram says it, you have to believe her.
“Did Mom visit yesterday?” I deal the cards.
“She didn’t get a chance. She’s always busy, that one. Running . . . doing . . .” Gram fans out her hand of cards, trying to space them evenly.
Mom should have visited Gram before she left on another business trip. She should be here right now. With both of us. But I don’t say anything.
“Your mother works very hard,” Gram says. “She works very hard to give you everything you need.”
“I know.”
“Just because she can’t always be here doesn’t mean she loves you any less.”
Gram is totally right. It’s not like I’m being neglected or anything. Plus I’m leaving for college soon. It really doesn’t matter anymore. I used to be super lonely. Even with having friends over all the time and my yoga and cooking classes and activities over the years, those nights when Mom was away on business trips felt so empty. Gram would come over to keep me company and spend the night. She lives down the street. But she hasn’t been feeling well, so she doesn’t come over as much anymore. Ethan is usually over if my friends aren’t. It’s not that I’m alone. It’s just that sometimes it’s lonely without Mom around.
But that’s okay. Who wants their parents around all the time? Having my friends and Ethan over whenever I want is awesome. And being strong and independent like Gram is badass. Gram has always been there for me. She’s the only one in my family whom I can count on. Which is why it’s so important for me to be here for her.
“I still can’t get over your hair,” Gram says.
The color was so dark when I dyed it black. I thought it needed something to break up the darkness. That’s why I had the jade streak put in a little while after. My natural color is light brown. It’s never really worked for me. Even when I tried a purple streak in it for a while last year. The first time I dyed my hair was the summer before tenth grade. I wanted it to come out a pretty blonde like my friend Marisa’s. But the blonde I ended up with wasn’t pretty. I dyed it back to brown that April.
Gram reaches for my jade streak. I lean forward so she can touch it. “It’s so soft,” she says. “I remember when my hair was soft like that.”
The part of Gram’s oxygen tube that goes into her nose is sticking out on one side. I reach over and gently press it back in.
“Thank you,” she says. She quickly looks back down at her cards. But not before I see her eyes fill with tears.
Gram hates being like this. She doesn’t like having to rely on anyone to take care of her. Taking care of people is her thing. She’s been a strong, independent woman her whole life. But for a few months leading up to her angioplasty and now in the hospital recovering, a lot of her freedom has been snatched away. Depending on other people to help her with the simplest things is killing her. I can’t think about what this is doing to her. If I think about it, I will start bawling and will never be able to stop.
So I stay strong. Or I try to. I visit Gram every day. I make sure she has everything she needs. I try to make her room look as cheerful as possible. Fresh balloons. The floral bedspread I brought from her house. A bouquet of roses that’s barely masking the smell of hospital disinfectant. At least they’re pretty to look at.
Appearances can make a huge difference. Making Gram’s hospital room more comfortable is the only thing about her situation I can control. I keep hoping that if everything looks happy on the outside, maybe the rest will be okay.
6
[206,887 FOLLOWERS]
The Invincibles have a show tonight at The Space, this all-ages venue near New Haven. They’ve played a bunch of local venues over the past three years. This is the biggest one. The Space printed huge posters with THE INVINCIBLES all big as the headliner. The posters are everywhere—out in front of The Space, on parking meters, in café windows. It’s so freaking exciting.
We got here this afternoon for sound check. Then Ethan and I spent a few hours walking around New Haven. We’ve both been here a bunch of times. New Haven is our closest city. I like seeing all the familiar places again. The yoga shop where I got my yoga mat. The Italian district with the best pizza. The toy store where Ethan kissed me next to the finger paint. The boy is so hot he can even make me melt in a toy store.
I wanted to get back to The Space early to scope out the scene. The crowd is usually just Yale students and locals. But it seems like everyone is here tonight. A few kids from school are even here. The Invincibles go on in half an hour. It’s hard to believe Ethan was playing to an empty room at this random arts center three years ago and tonight he’s headlining at a packed club.
Sunset Victim is the opening act. The crowd is way into them. Which is impressive, considering that almost everyone is here for Ethan. They’re a cool band for being older. Their lead singer/guitarist sounds a lot like Morrissey from The Smiths. He has a sweet emo vibe with his shabby-chic tie and ratty Converses. The bassist is rocking a teal theme. His pants, shoelaces, watch, and earplugs are all teal. I wonder why he has to wear earplugs. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re over thirty and still in a band.
Georgia wanted to come tonight. She had to go to her cousin’s wedding. I wish she were here. I could really use my best friend to help me chill. Ethan and the guys are backstage getting ready while I’m trying to blend in with the crowd. But blending in is hard to do when no one else is alone.
“Are you a Sunset Victim fan?” a girl yells to me over the music. She’s wearing horn-rimmed glasses, a tee that says INITECH, and looks like she’s in her midtwenties.
“Not really. I mean, they rock, but I’m here for Ethan Cross. How about you?”
“I work with Wade. The guy on bass?”
“Oh, cool. His color coordination is impressive.”
“I’ll pass along the compliment.”
“Do you work in the music industry?”
“No, we’re programmers. You’d be surprised how many tech geeks are wannabe rock stars.”
We watch Sunset Victim start a new song. This time, the girl on keys sings the lead. They’re good. Like, really good. Hearing hot bands that are unknown despite their tremendous talent makes me realize how hard it is to break out. How many awesome bands are there in the world? How many bands stay together for five, ten, even twenty years, refusing to give up on the dream? The fact that so many bands like Sunset Victim exist makes it even more amazing that Ethan is finally blowing up.
“So you’re a big Ethan Cross fan, huh?” the girl asks.
“I’m his biggest fan.”
“Don’t all fans say that?”
“Yeah, but in my case it’s true.”
“Prove it.”
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”
We push our way through the crowd. Ethan showed me the side door that leads backstage when we were here for sound check. He said I should tell the guy guarding the door that I’m on the list.
“You on the list?” the door guard wants to know.
“Yes. I’m Sterling—that’s me.” I point to my name on his list. The glare he gives me makes it clear that this guy does not appreciate people poking at his clipboard. I’m just so excited that my name is
on a backstage access list. How cool is that?
He opens the door for us.
“Thanks,” we say.
“Enjoy.”
We go down a dim, narrow hallway to the dressing rooms. I try to ignore the scribbled sign on one of the dressing room doors marked PRIVITE. The marker in my bag itches to be set free. But I don’t want to look like a dork at Ethan’s biggest show ever.
“Um . . . how did we get backstage?” the girl asks.
“You’ll see.”
Ethan is in the last dressing room. The door is open. He likes leaving his dressing room door open so people can feel free to drop in. Ethan is getting pumped, tossing a foam football around with the band guys, who are lounging on the couch.
“Hey, baby.” Ethan comes over and gives me a big hug. I can feel his heart hammering with adrenaline. He gets nervous before every show.
“Hey. It’s packed out there.”
“I saw.”
“Some kids from school came.”
“Who?”
“I think they’re sophomores.” I reluctantly pull away from him. “Ethan, this is . . . Sorry, I don’t think I asked what your name is.”
The girl is staring at Ethan. “Holy crap.” She bugs her eyes out at me, mouth hanging open. “You’re Ethan’s girlfriend?”
“Told you I was his biggest fan.”
“Holy crap.” The girl is incapable of elaborating. And I still don’t know her name.
The stage manager knocks on the open door. “Ten minutes,” he says.
Ethan goes over to his bag and looks for something. I know it’s the mati his grandfather gave him after his fifth-grade talent show. A mati is an eye symbol that protects against negative energy. His grandfather was given this mati in Santorini when he was little. The old man who gave him the mati had survived cancer and many years of poverty, and outlived his entire family. Now it’s Ethan’s good-luck charm. He puts it in his pocket before every show.
“We should let you get ready.” I kiss Ethan on the cheek. I’m not a shy girl, but something about kissing Ethan on the lips in front of the band is awkward. Sometimes the guys watch us instead of looking away. “I’ll be right up front,” I tell him, taking my camera out of my bag. Ethan wanted me to take pictures tonight for his fan page.
“Thanks for doing this,” Ethan says.
“No thanks needed. When you’re the most famous rock star in the world, you can thank me then.”
The guys laugh. But I know what Ethan’s thinking. He wants to be that rock star so badly it hurts. He can feel it. He can taste it.
Ethan knew he was going to be famous when he was six. That’s when he started taking guitar and voice lessons. He told me about that day he was at a guitar lesson. He was strumming a new chord when he suddenly knew he was meant for insane fame. He was too young to understand the scope of his epiphany, but he knew in his heart what it meant. His fate was undeniable.
He was six.
Ever since then, Ethan’s been working hard to turn his big dreams into reality. His philosophy is that if you have a strong vision of what you want and you do something every day to work toward that goal, you will eventually achieve it.
As the guys laugh at the possibility of backing up the world’s biggest rock star, I wonder if that’s exactly who Ethan will become.
7
[223,879 FOLLOWERS]
“I hate that I missed it!” Georgia wails.
“Your cousin got married. I think that’s a bit more important than a show.”
“As if it was just any show.” Georgia shakes her head miserably at the orange bell peppers she’s chopping. We’re making a big, fresh salad in my kitchen. We have the apartment to ourselves. As usual. “I should have been there.”
“You’ll be there next time. And it’ll be even better. Trust me, Ethan is blowing up.” Ethan was amazing last night. The Space crowd was electric. When he came onstage, girls screamed so loudly my eardrums buzzed. They were fangirling hardcore the whole show. They couldn’t get enough.
“I was reading comments after the show. Your pictures were fabulous.”
“Thanks. But we can do better. I’m thinking of asking Marisa to take pictures at the next show.”
“You should. Her pics are mad profesh. She could seriously sell them.”
“Zeke has been talking about setting up a merchandise page on Ethan’s website. Maybe he’ll post some there if she takes them.”
“Girls will be on them faster than you can say ‘door poster.’”
Looking at Georgia sitting across the kitchen counter, it hits me how funny time is. How funny and weird and bittersweet. Two years ago, Marisa was the one sitting there. She was my best friend. And now Georgia is.
Georgia moved here at the beginning of last year. I reached out to her in Earth Science to make her feel welcome. Being the new girl at a small school must have been excruciating. I wanted her to know that I had her back from the start. We both had lunch after class. I asked if Georgia wanted to sit at my table.
“Oh my god thank you,” she said. “I was up all night worrying about sitting alone. You totally saved me.”
We instantly bonded over Rachael Ray.
“I love her,” I gushed when Georgia took a Rachael Ray collapsible sandwich box out of her lunch bag.
“She’s so talented,” Georgia agreed. “And cute. And funny. How is that fair?”
“I think it’s inspiring. She proves that you can have it all.”
“She makes a seriously delicious cookie.” Georgia took out something wrapped in aluminum foil. She opened the foil to reveal four of the most appetizing chocolate chip cookies I’d ever seen. They looked almost as good as mine.
“Did your mom make those?” I asked.
“No, I did. I love to bake.”
“So do I!”
“That’s so cool. How did you get into cooking?”
“My mom can’t cook. I took over the kitchen when I was twelve. I even take cooking classes.”
“There’s a cooking class? I didn’t know that.”
“It’s an outside class. You could still sign up if you want. It just started.”
Georgia joined my cooking class. Then she showed me how she tweaked Rachael Ray’s chocolate chip cookie recipe to make it even better. We’ve been inseparable ever since.
“Should I mix a dressing?” Georgia asks when the big salad is done. We never use bottled dressing. Bottled dressing is for amateurs.
“Sure.”
“What do you feel like?”
“Something tangy. Spicy mustard, maybe?”
“Done.” Georgia springs off the stool and comes around the counter to dig through the refrigerator. Mom always keeps it stocked with whatever I want. I make a grocery list for her every week. We usually go grocery shopping together when she’s around on weekends. It’s our thing.
“You’re running low on spicy mustard,” Georgia announces, her head in the refrigerator. “How about something with orange?”
“Oooh, Jamie Oliver does a sage and orange dressing you’d love.”
“We have liftoff!”
I love that Georgia gets as excited about cooking as I do.
We take our salads over to the couch. My laptop is waiting on the coffee table. We look at pictures from last night again. Tons of comments are still coming in.
Could you possibly be more gorgeous? Love everything about this pic—the lights, the angle. Great shot.
Ethan, your music is elevating the industry standard at a time when music that means something is rarely being produced. Thank you for the enlightenment.
ur sooooo cute!!!!!
There’s been a huge spike in Ethan’s followers since yesterday. Could that have been from the show? I check his fan page. Someone posted a video from the show that already has over ten thousand views.
We go to his website. The “Night on Fire” video has a lot more comments. Even his older videos are getting way more comments now.
; “Wow,” Georgia marvels, “Ethan’s a freaking rock star.”
“Look at this.” I point at the most depressing comment on the “Night on Fire” video:
awsome u look so hottt ur my fav musisan I wnt 2 met u on day lv jen age 11
“Does anyone know how to spell anymore?” Georgia says.
“It’s a dwindling skill. Beyond depressing. It should not be hard for people to spell words correctly. Hot with three Ts? How pathetic is it when misspelled words are actually longer than the correct spelling?”
“Maybe this new generation is a group of aliens who’ve come to Earth to abduct our intelligence.”
“Wouldn’t it be hilarious if I could edit Ethan’s comments? These fangirls wouldn’t even know how to read them.”
Georgia looks at me. “It really bothers you.”
“Of course it does! These girls are making themselves look like idiots. Is that the best they can do?”
“Why does it bother you so much?”
“You know my relationship with typos is volatile.”
“Oh, I know. But there’s not much we can do about the fangirls. That’s how they write.”
“You’re right. I should chill. He has plenty of smart fans. Some of these comments are clearly from Yale students.”
“And teachers and doctors and PhD candidates. Everyone loves Ethan.”
It’s astounding how widespread Ethan’s appeal is. Which is exactly what he needs to blow up even more. After all of his dreaming and hoping and hard work, his time is finally here. Typos and all.
8
[355,707 FOLLOWERS]
Oh my god.
Ethan’s first single is on the radio.
Shut. UP.
I’m so excited I can hardly work my phone to call him.
“Hey,” Ethan answers like nothing’s going on. Like the moment we’ve been waiting for isn’t happening right this very second.
“So I guess you’re not listening to Z100.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“It’s on?!” I hear Ethan turn on his radio. Both our radios have been set to Z100 for any Invincibles news. It’s basically all I’ve been playing for the past two weeks. I turned my radio on the second I got home from school today. “I thought it wasn’t coming on until tomorrow.”