1999

Washington, DC

We find the VHS tape in Alex’s backpack. We are looking for snacks, but Ty feels something large and rectangular instead. He pulls it out. The cardboard slip has a woman with huge breasts, brown areolas the size of sand dollars, a tartan skirt.

“What is it?” asks Wes, reaching over Ty’s shoulder for it.

“It’s porn,” I say. It is strange to see evidence of their sexuality like this. Usually it’s glossed over.

Alex is asleep in his bunk, a bag of chips half-eaten in his lap. Wes’s and Ty’s eyes meet. “Let’s put it back,” Wes says, zipping the backpack closed. We deliver it to Alex’s bunk and filter over to the front seats.

Wes turns to me. “Have you ever?”

“What? Watched porn?”

He nods.

“No.” It’s the truth. But I wonder if my answer should have been yes. If porn should have taught me how to have sex like it has for most boys my age.

Ty smiles. “Have you ever heard Alex on the phone with his girlfriend? It’s like—” He looks behind him just to ensure no one else is listening. The three of us lean our heads closer together. Wes’s small hoop earring catches in my hair. “It’s like, ‘Savannah, you’re such a good girl. You make me so hard.’ Stuff like that. He’s so loud. Doesn’t even try to whisper it. I think he wants us to hear him, honestly. I’m always his roommate in hotel rooms. Unfortunately.”

“Savannah? As in Savannah Sinclair?” I pull away from them and lean back against the headrest.

“There’s only one Savannah,” says Ty.

“Doesn’t she say she’s a—everyone says she’s a virgin. Don’t they? I mean, doesn’t she say that?”

“They haven’t done anything,” Ty confirms. “As far as I know. He would tell us immediately. But on the phone, they find ways. Clearly.”

All I know about Savannah is what everyone else does: she sprang up from somewhere deep in the Bible Belt. A cream soda blonde. Strong, angular features, like the model Gisele Bündchen’s. She prays before bed every night. Thanked God in her acceptance speech for Best New Artist at the Grammys. But no matter how many interviews of hers I listen to, she remains enigmatic, unbreachable; she unlocks herself only for certain people. This comforts me, since fame is being spread out on an operating table, cold silver twisting and prodding. Organs once folded behind thick walls of skin now exposed to light.

Still, I was taught that life is full of tolls, talent and beauty the only payment. And if the world has finite resources, then what is taken by others is forever lost to me. So when I watch Savannah or Gwen on television or hear them cycled on Top 40, my envy flares. I can’t help it.

“Where are you now?” Gwen asks.

“We’re near DC.”

“I’m in Nashville.”

“That’s pretty close.”

“I wonder if this is the closest we’ve been to each other all year.”

“Might be.” I glance out the window of the van, at the rock formations guarded by nets on the side of the highway bend. Where is she, out there? She’s told me her shows are getting bigger and bigger, a progression of stages that she has trouble comprehending.

“I wanted to ask you about something,” she says. “So Tammy and I saw a mother with two kids on the side of the road. She was pulled over and they were screaming in the back seat. Tammy said she never wants to have kids. Like, she knows in her soul that she doesn’t. She’s certain. But I’ve always been certain I do want them. I used to have a baby doll I’d carry around everywhere until it was so dirty my mom threw it out. So Tammy and I were wondering if everyone feels that way definitively. One way or the other. Like, if you lined up every person on the planet, would they say, ‘Yes, I’ve dreamed of having children since I was little,’ or ‘No, I’ve never pictured myself as a parent’? Maybe most people fall somewhere in between, given the circumstances of their lives.”

“Yeah, I think I’m somewhere in the middle,” I say. “I don’t actively fantasize about having a kid. And if I don’t have one, if for whatever reason that doesn’t work out, then I’d be fine with it. It would depend on how stable I feel. I don’t know. I’m worried I wouldn’t be a good mother.”

“I wouldn’t be fine with it,” Gwen says. “Maybe that’s just a problem with me. Maybe it’s my personality—I very urgently want to pass down my genes to someone else.”

“They are superior genes.”

Gwen laughs.

“I think the main thing that appeals to me about having a kid is the reason I shouldn’t do it.”

She asks, “What’s that?”

For a moment, I’m ashamed. It feels very wrong to reveal this about myself, for some reason. “Well, I think it’s forced love, in a way. It’s like, you bring this being into the world and it’s dependent on you. It’s helpless. It’s going to love you for that reason. No matter how much you hate your parents, there’s always love. I love my mom. I also hate her. Same with my dad, even though he left when I was a baby and I’ve barely spoken five words to him my entire life. And that’s really appealing. You know another person in the world will have a connection to you, no matter what you do.”

“Do you think anything could ever sever that?”

“Fuck no. My dad has a new family. A new wife, two boys. He left, and I still wait for him to call.”

“Has he?”

“No.”

“Well, maybe he’s seen you on TV.”

“Doubt it. Wouldn’t he call if he did? Wouldn’t he want something from me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you see what I mean, though?”

“I don’t know,” she repeats. “Maybe I just want to give myself completely to someone else because I’m afraid I’m selfish. Mike wants me to say I’m a normal girl. But I’m not, I never was. I always felt I had to prove I was better.”

I remember having this exact same thought watching her on TRL. “Maybe you’re being hard on yourself.”

“You are, too. You don’t see yourself at all.”

“Because I look to everyone else for approval,” I say. “Sonny says so. But where else is there to look? You can’t be a singer unless someone is listening.”

“Yes, you can.”

I ask how.

“Don’t you sing to yourself in the shower?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, there you go.” Then she asks if I’ll do something for her, and I say I will.

“Record yourself singing. Play it back. Pretend it’s not your own voice but someone else’s, and assess it that way. Promise? Axel told me to try it, and it really helped me feel better about myself.”

“Who’s Axel?”

“Axel Holm. One of my producers.”

“Okay, fine. But it probably won’t help me see myself any differently. Do you ever feel like everything you say is stupid? The other day, MTV was here to film this behind-the-scenes video. Cameras followed the boys around. I said something—what did I say? I think the cameraman asked me, ‘What’s it like on tour?’ Something like that. I said, ‘The food is really good.’ I really wanted to show this random cameraman I was eating. For some reason, it was so important to me.” The van changes lanes. I wait for a moment as we race past a truck carrying stacks of cars. “Sometimes I feel like I walk around with this haze in front of my eyes. I keep waiting for the day when I’ll wake up and it’ll be clear, and I’ll know exactly what to do and what to say.”

On the other end, she sighs. I hear police sirens. The yap of a small dog. She must have opened the hotel window. I picture her reaching out, the wind running through her fingers, the sweet lick of freedom.

“I feel like that, too. That exact same feeling,” she says.

I record myself, like Gwen said. Play it back. It takes effort to separate myself from the voice I’m listening to. What does it sound like, truly? When it’s controlled and on pitch, it’s like canyon rock, the layers stacked in thick, colorful bands. Sometimes it is soft and breathy, other times a hard, impressive punch. Sometimes it breaks a little, then recovers momentum. Maybe it’s not as gorgeous as Savannah Sinclair’s, but despite every internal protest, I know we can both be talented.

The next day, I’m on the treadmill in the hotel gym.

“Hon?”

It’s Sonny. He has his pager in one hand and his cell phone in the other. “Looking great, sweetie. Lyle and Pat are on the phone.” He returns his wet mouth to the receiver. “Yeah, yeah, she’s right here.”

They tell me they’ve set a date for the album release. In the fall, I will go on a national radio tour, then to New York, then Toronto, then London. And on a Tuesday in November, I will be born. After we hang up, I tick like a bomb, crying happy tears into Sonny’s chest, because now I know when I will finally detonate.

I push through the double doors and into the hallway. At the craft services table, I hold up my badge so they will let me take food. I grab a napkin, two carrots, a stick of celery.

Ty and Wes are sprawled on the couch in their greenroom, eyes closed. They nap in any space they can find: an hour on the bus between cities, five minutes between meet and greets and sound check. One of their security guards is reading a magazine in a folding chair.

“So we want to go see some monuments tonight,” Ty says, yawning. He uncurls his fists, then flexes all his fingers.

“When?” A carrot snaps between my teeth. I wait for a moment as I chew. “After the show?”

Ty nods.

“But won’t we be pulling out?” By this, I mean the fourteen trucks carrying arena equipment and the buses carrying people.

Ty laughs, and Wes murmurs something to him about being immature, then shakes his head. “Not until late. We might have an hour or two. And we’re only driving to Maryland.”

“Didn’t you already see the monuments on your eighth-grade field trip?” I remember matching green T-shirts and worn sneakers. A boy who vomited up macaroni, the stink lasting the entire drive home. On the bus, the cool place to sit was in the back row near the bathroom, and when our teacher’s head was turned, couples would squeeze inside to hook up, the floor vibrating beneath them.

“No,” says Ty.

“Nope,” says Wes.

That night, for the first time, Wes and Ty watch me perform from the wings. I’ve moved up to the main stage for some performances. A banner with my name hangs down from a beam, quietly billowing in the wind. As the sky deepens from purple to black, I begin my set. Before, the girls in the audience were uncertain of me; some threw their empty water bottles. Hair elastics. A shoe. Others chanted “What’s the ETA?” followed by three rapid claps. I don’t think they understand their own collective power: to the labels, these girls are as influential as a pantheon of gods. I’m terrified to stand before them. But tonight, they are starting to bob their heads, a collective yes. The crew, carrying equipment and sputtering walkie-talkies, pauses for a moment to listen. Mike gives Sonny a thumbs-up. Wes and Ty exchange glances in the dark. My silhouette is framed by light. I perform a routine of hip isolations and dizzying body rolls, just praying I look like Gwen.

When my set is almost over, I reach for my water bottle. I feel a little faint, but I can’t stop now. “Thank you all for coming. This has been so fun. I know you all want the main event.” The chanting, screaming, crying builds. “I know you all want ETA, right? I have one last song for you. This one is called ‘Sweat,’ and it’s my first single.”

The reaction of the girls in the crowd surprises me. They are roaring. As music swells from the speakers, they recognize my song. The waves of validation batter me. For once I think: I might be gorgeous, might have talent, this all might be mine.

Illuminated statues cast long shadows on the silvered grass. We carry a pack of beer and a few Red Bulls. “Now this dude,” says Ty, standing before a carved face, “definitely shouldn’t have a gun.”

“What war is he from?” Gabe asks.

“Hmm, can’t read it,” says Ty. “Don’t think it says.”

Wes and I walk a few feet behind them. He hands me one of the warm beer cans and says, “It was on the bus for a while. Sorry.”

It sprays my cheek when I open it. He reaches forward to wipe it off, then licks his finger. “Yummy.”

I slap his hand away. The night is muggy and damp. We struggle for breath, pausing to sip our beers, fingers slippery from the condensation on the cans.

Absentmindedly, Wes starts to walk ahead of me, toward the reflecting pool. He always moves like he knows exactly where he is going. The dyed strands in his hair are gilded by the moonlight. He lifts his hand to brush low-hanging leaves. Sometimes he tugs on them roughly, and they snap off. Because of the immensity held between us, I can tell we are alone.

“You killed it tonight,” he says. “This is what the crowd was like.” He presses his hands to his cheeks and raises his voice a decibel. “Oh my god, it’s Amber Young. Oh my god.”

I look down at my feet; my face is hot. He must sense my embarrassment, and the joy behind the embarrassment, because his hands fall to his sides and suddenly he looks very serious. “It was cool to watch you.”

“Did you ever get a feeling you were going to make it before it happened? Did you ever know for sure?”

“What do you mean by ‘make it’?”

I frown. “I guess however you define it.”

He scratches his head. Pulls me toward the pool’s edge. We kneel beside it, and I touch my palm to the surface of the inky water. So does he, and the ripples we create collide together, then collapse. The water stills again.

We lean back on our palms and turn to each other.

“I’ll never be satisfied,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ll always want the next thing. The next album to be better. To work with different producers. Whatever. So I don’t really reflect on whether I’ve ‘made it’ or not. You can’t get too comfortable.”

He picks up his beer and takes a long, deep drink.

“I have this idea that when I can buy my mom a house,” I say, “then I’ll be successful, I’ll have finally made it.”

“I thought you hated your mom.”

“Well, I think it’s my way of getting back at her. It’s kind of a fuck-you. I remember when we passed big houses in our town, she’d always say, ‘Those people have more money than God.’ She was so jealous. It’s the life she always wanted for herself. So one day I’m going buy her one of those houses, and I hope it makes her happy.”

He uncrosses his feet. A couple passes behind us and we don’t say anything else until their footsteps fade away.

“What about your dad?” he asks.

“He left when I was a baby.”

“I guess both our dads are pieces of shit.”

“Yours, too?”

“Oh, yeah. He took me and my mom off his health insurance plan during the divorce, right before my mom ended up getting cancer. She lived, it’s fine,” he adds quickly. “But I remember her crying on the phone and I didn’t understand she was trying to cover her treatment costs out of pocket. Which is impossible, obviously. Given how much it was. I was six or seven. Everything I was doing—the auditions, all the commercials I booked—was to bring money in for her treatment. I got my first paycheck for a commercial at seven years old, and it was for a couple hundred bucks. And I thought I could use it for something for myself. Then she told me about her bills and I felt like the worst person in the world.”

“And you were only seven?”

“Yeah, I was.”

I tell him I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

“She’s fine now,” he says. “It’s all good.”

“What kind of cancer?”

“Ovarian.”

“That’s what my grandma died from.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

I laugh. “I don’t know why I said that. It’s fine, I barely knew her. Not to be morbid, but cancer is probably how I’m going to go. It runs in the family.”

He takes another sip of beer. “Well, I think we really are going to have some sort of apocalypse next year. That’s what everyone is saying. Maybe nuclear disaster. Or we’ll be overtaken by all our garbage. We won’t be able to live on the planet anymore. Does what we’re doing, making music, even matter in that case? If the world is really going to end in a few months?”

“I think it matters a lot. I think it’s all we have. It’s proof of what we are able to do.”

“If the only evidence of human civilization turns out to be an ETA song, that would be hilarious.”

“No, it would be telling. It would say a lot about us.”

He waves this off, but I can tell he liked hearing it. He rips out blades of grass and sprinkles them onto my knee, where they fall in a delicate pile. We’re silent for a few moments as he does this. It feels like he’s touching me.

“Wait,” I say, reaching for his knee. I place my fingers on his kneecap and slowly spread them open. It is the motion of a bomb exploding, or a jellyfish propelling itself toward the surface. “I heard this feels a bit like an orgasm.”

“Does it?” He reaches forward and does the same thing to my other knee, the one without the grass. It is definitely a brush of a deeper feeling.

Suddenly, I’m nervous to be alone with him. Unsure, a preteen girl again in a dark closet with Jack Nichols, Lindsey and Rachel giggling just outside the door. My emotions are so huge, and words are so small—how could all this desire possibly fit through my mouth?

“Where are Gabe and Ty?” I ask.

He glances around and says he has no idea, but we should find them. He holds out his hand, pulls me to my feet. The pile of grass topples from my knee. Cicadas moan from the trees.

Looking down at me, he starts to smile. “You’re short,” he observes. He places his palm on the top of my head, presses down slightly. Everything is tensed and coiled, ready to spring, an animal hiding in the brush.

We search every monument nearby. Ty and Gabe are not at the Lincoln Memorial, but one of the girls sitting on the steps recognizes Wes. He quickly pulls me away. By now we are laughing, weaving between trees, Wes singing, Oh where, oh where has my little Ty gone, oh where, oh where could he be?

Above us, the clouds disperse and reveal the full breadth of sky. Unable to find Ty or Gabe, and assuming they’ve already headed back, we set out for the buses.