Beware of Boys (2 page)

Charly kept pace with her physically, but mentally lagged behind. No, it wasn't cool to her. She had been surrounded and had clashed with one of her used-to-be-favorite singers, and she knew that the whole shebang would be on the Internet before she'd made it out of the mall. She pushed through the exit door onto the street, then gave Lola a side-eye. “No. It was—what in the . . . ?” she yelled, impacted by a sudden force. Her body jerked sideways, making her topple. She thrust out her arms to soften the fall, and caught sight of the force in her peripheral. A group of guys ran down the block, and one of them had her purse in his hands.

“Charly!” Lola yelled, simultaneously reaching out to help up her friend and scurrying toward the thieves at the same time. She moved one foot one way, then twelve inches back the other, clearly unable to decide between helping Charly or pursuing the perpetrators. “You okay? They snatched your purse?” she asked, looking down the block as Charly stood.

A motorcycle zoomed up, skidding to a stop in front of them. “You . . . ?” the rider said something, but Charly and Lola couldn't make it out. The voice was muffled behind the helmet.

Charly dusted off her knees and wiped the dirt and rocks from the palms of her hands. She looked at him, then pointed to her own head, hoping he understood she was referring to his helmet. “I can't hear you! Not with the helmet on.”

The guy nodded, then slowly lifted the helmet's visor, revealing his chocolate complexion. Charly gulped. From what little she could see, the guy was scary looking. A thick scar was across his eye, and tattoos, like wallpaper, decorated the part of his neck that she could see. The scariest of all, though, were the three teardrops tatted under his eye. She had learned back in Chicago that teardrops were deadly trophy marks, each one standing for a life taken. “Here,” the gruff voice said, then tossed her purse to her. “I think that's yours. Everything's there. They didn't have time. . . . I didn't give 'em time. Check it.”

Charly looked at him, then down to her purse. She rifled through it, then nodded because she didn't know what else to do. She was confused. “I'm good.”

He nodded, glaring at her through cold eyes. “You sure? Good, good. Like not-snitching good?”

Lola sucked her teeth.

Charly reared back her head, wincing. Snitch, though spelled with five letters, was equivalent to four-letter word where she came from. A curse. “I was always taught that snitches get stitches,” she said, not knowing what she was going to do after this was over with. She was no fool though. Even if she planned on calling the cops, she'd never warn him. Not with the way he looked.

“True. True, good looking, and pardon those knuckleheads. They don't know no better, but they will. I'ma see to it. Trust!” he growled, flipped his visor back down, then sped off.

Charly stood watching him with wide eyes as he disappeared around the corner. For the life of her, she couldn't process what had just happened. Not at the rate it went. Two minutes ago, her purse had been snatched. Thirty seconds later, it had been returned.

“Check it!” Lola urged, walking up next to her. “Is everything in there?”

Charly snapped to, then opened her purse and rifled through it again. She nodded. It was all there, including her phone. She exhaled, not realizing she'd been holding her breath. “Nothing's missing.” She looked at Lola, trying to read her expression, hoping that they felt the same way. Lola nodded as if she could read Charly's mind. “If we say anything—if this gets out—you know I won't be able to go to the concert. It's bad enough I'll probably be on the Internet later.”

Lola laughed. “You're probably on there now! You and M
kel, and I know he won't be happy about that, especially since he's known for helping girls.”

Charly reared back her head, remembering the guy in the store had said something similar. “What do you mean?”

“Duh!” Lola said. “I asked you to read the article. Didn't you? M
kel is one of the three who's formed the foundation to help girls.” She shrugged, switching topics. “But what's important now is we'll be able to go to the concert. You got your purse back, and everything's in it. It makes no sense to cry about a mess after it's been cleaned up.”

“Especially if crying will stop you from seeing RiRi perform!” Charly agreed, then walked forward and put her arm in the air. They needed a cab.

C
harly's feet couldn't move her fast enough as she rushed down the aisle, surrounded by men who resembled huge trees, while she watched Lola leading the crew and pushing people out of the way. The lights were dimming, the audience was screaming, and teenagers, most wearing too much perfume or makeup, or not enough clothes, were scattered everywhere except in front of their purchased seats. Charly cringed as she made her way closer to the first row, shaking her head at Lola, who was in front of her, but only by a few feet and with a few different people sandwiched between them. Her breath caught in her throat as anxious adrenaline built inside her. She was sure that at any moment, her evening plans would change. She'd gotten dressed to have a good time, not fight, but she knew that before the night was over and after security stopped escorting her, she'd be mixed up in a brawl-till-you-fall moment. Lola, who was proving herself a fan to the nth degree, had turned into a human bulldozer, shoving concertgoers, one by one, to clear the path.

“C'mon, Charly!” Lola urged, wiping her nose with Kleenex and standing on the side of the front row. She was waving her hand frantically, as if Charly were clear across the auditorium instead of feet behind.

Charly held a finger to her lips, shushing Lola. The last thing she needed—or wanted—was more attention, and Lola knew it. After the blowup in the sneaker store, how could Lola not get it, she wondered, then corrected her thoughts. It wasn't like she was some huge celebrity, that's what Charly kept telling herself. But she had to admit that even though she considered herself just another teen, she wasn't. Not anymore. She and Lola had been stopped three times in Madison Square Garden's lobby by fans who'd wanted to take pictures with her and get her autograph before she entered the arena. Hired security, dressed in NYC cop blues, complete with badges, had offered her an escort, then warned her that she could prove to be a security risk if fans kept swarming her when she'd refused. But Charly didn't listen to the police or the voice inside herself that told her that although she thought she was her old self, she wasn't. Instead, she'd opted for another pair of shades, and tried to elude crowds by turning her head the other way. This hadn't worked, and five-oh had ended up assigning a staff team to take her to her seat. Now here she was, flanked by giants who were outfitted in black shirts that had the word STAFF stretched across their bodybuilder physiques, and a senior citizen who was armed with a flashlight.

The senior citizen pushed past Charly and the staff, making his way to the front row. He looked at Lola, then shook his head, clearly irritated that she was acting like the Garden had hired her to get the crowd in check. He stepped around Lola as if she weren't there, and reached out his hand to a group who stood in front of the seats. “Tickets, please? Pass me your tickets so I can make sure you're supposed to be sitting here,” he demanded, clicking on the flashlight like it was already dark in the arena, then shined the beam on their ticket stubs after they'd passed them to him.

“Well?” the staff guy up front asked the man with the tickets.

The senior citizen nodded. “They're clear, but . . .” He scratched his head. “We're going to have to relocate them for all the seats you need. The rest of the row's full.”

Even over all the noise, Charly could hear the group protest, and she couldn't blame them. She wished someone would tell her she had to relocate after she'd bought her tickets and outfit. “That's not necessary,” she yelled to the front, then tapped one of the security men on the shoulder, and repeated herself. “They bought their tickets just like I did. Why should they have to move?” she asked.

Staff guy gave her a side eye, clearly not caring about what she thought. “Because we say they do. Security measure,” he explained after she looked at him like he was cuckoo. “You should've alerted the Garden that you were coming. Then we could've been prepared.” He turned away from her, then nodded to one of the other tree-trunk-looking men wearing a STAFF shirt, standing up front.

The man returned the nod, then turned on the group in the first row. “Move down. We need four seats,” he boomed.

“Yeah. Four seats,” Lola parroted, bopping up and down in the two-hundred-dollar sneakers Charly had begged her not to buy because they were too close in color to her nutmeg complexion, making her look barefoot. They also didn't look good with her naturally platinum-blond hair and made her look fluorescent in the yellow outfit she wore.

“Four seats for what? There are only two of us,” Charly began, then was interrupted by a crackling static sound coming simultaneously from all the staff's walkie-talkies.

The man in front of her grabbed the sides of his radio, then held it to his ear, listening intently. He moved it to his mouth, pressed a button, then mumbled something unintelligible to Charly's ears. Seconds later, another man dressed in similar shirt crossed the stage, making his way to them. He was just as huge as the rest, but, unlike the others, he wore a pleasant smile. “
Extreme Dream Team
Charly St. James, right?” he asked, marrying the show and her name together as if that were how her birth certificate read. He was towering feet above them, but his infectious smile made him seem closer.

Charly looked up and nodded. She returned his smile. “Yes. I'm Charly St. James—from
The Extreme Dream Team
.”

“Yes!” Lola yelled, jumping up and down. “That's her. She's Charly.”

He squatted down, then waved his hand for his fellow staff brethren to escort her to him. He held out his hand, then shook hers. “You should've had your people contact our people—then you could've entered through the private entrance. How many pluses do you have?”

Charly's eyebrows crinkled. “Pluses? Like math pluses and minuses?”

He laughed, then shook his head. “Sorry, I've been in the industry too long, so I tend to speak industry lingo. Pluses? Yes, like plus-ones on guest lists. Like Charly plus-one, or Charly plus-two. You've heard of that? How many people do you have with you?”

Now it was Charly's turn to laugh. If she and Lola had gotten into the Garden free, then she could claim to have a plus-one, but since they'd paid, there wasn't a freebie attached and she couldn't consider it anything other than paid for. “I bought our tickets, but there are two of us, if that's what you want to know.”

He waved his hand as if disgusted. “Paid?” He raised his brows and pressed his lips together as if in thought, then relaxed. “Okay. Bring them up. Charly and her plus-one,” he said to security. “Charly, you don't mind do you? RiRi invited you backstage, but if you'd prefer to watch from the front row, that's cool too. You can just meet after the concert. Seems she's a fan of your show.”

Lola screamed, then ran toward the side of the stage with her hands waving in the air like she had been chosen to compete on
American Idol
. “I'm the plus-one. I'm the plus-one!” she yelled. “And I'm meeting RiRi.”

Charly thanked the security guy, then followed the entourage of the tree-trunk-looking men who flanked her backstage. A slight smile parted her lips. To herself, she may have been just another girl, but she knew she had to digest that many didn't see her that way anymore. And that was all right with her, at least for tonight. Being invited backstage by the princess of R & B/hip-hop was a perk she could learn to live with it.

“Hurry, Charly!” Lola urged, waiting for Charly. More security was protecting the stairs that led to the stage, and they wouldn't let Lola up.

Charly strutted, getting there as quickly as she could. She was barely five feet behind Lola, but it felt like more than fifty feet separated them. Finally, she made it. “All right, all right already,” she said, then turned to the giants clad in STAFF shirts. “Thank you. Next time I'll have my people contact your people,” she said to them, then locked arms with Lola and climbed the stairs. “And start acting your age, Lola. You're seventeen and acting elementary. It's embarrassing.”

The view from stage left was more amazing than Charly would've ever imagined. She took in the lights, production, music, and background dancers, and gained more appreciation for the work behind the concert scene, which, to her, wasn't too different from the hard labor that she and the crew of
The Extreme Dream Team
put into their show. After they'd put in all the work, the show was presented in a neat package, but the audience would never know what went into creating the gift. And Charly was sure that RiRi labored just as hard because everything seemed effortless, which was a sign of diligent practice.

“You see her?” Lola asked, sniffling and pointing to RiRi, the songstress from the islands. She was stunning, and she sounded as good in person as she did on her tracks. “She just pointed and waved at you,” Lola said, acting like the true fan she was, while reaching into her small purse and taking out an allergy pill, which she popped into her mouth and swallowed dry.

Charly elbowed Lola, then waved back. She grinned so hard her cheeks hurt. “Yes. Yes, I see her. But wait . . . do you see her head? Her hair's messed up.” Charly jumped up and down, frantically waving her hands in the air to get RiRi's attention. When RiRi looked at her, Charly pointed to her own hair, acting as if she were flattening it, then swooping it behind her ear. She thrust her index finger toward RiRi, mouthing,
You. Fix it!

RiRi pointed to her chest, still singing, then nodded when Charly confirmed she was talking to her. RiRi did as she was told, but still had hair standing up on her head as if she had a jolt of static pulling it up from above. She held up her thumb to Charly, asking if she'd accomplished fixing her do.

“Oh. God. Don't turn around. It's him.” Lola said, reaching over and giving Charly's wrist a death grip.

The blood stopped flowing to Charly's hand. “Lola, let go.” She shook her head in the negative at RiRi, while trying to wriggle free of Lola's grasp.

“Behind you,” Lola unsuccessfully tried to whisper.

Just as Charly was about to turn her head, she heard RiRi say her name. RiRi waved her out, then exited off the other side of the stage, excusing herself with one finger held in the air, and nodding toward her main backup singer, who introduced Charly. “Everybody, give it up for Charly from
The Extreme Dream Team
! Guess she's not too happy with RiRi's hair. I guess that's why she's getting her own extreme makeover show, huh?” The audience cheered, and Charly's heart hit her knees as she wondered how everyone knew of her plans. Plans that weren't guaranteed by contract. “C'mon on out, Charly! And you too, the other surprise—bring Charly out with you,” the backup singer said, waving.

The audience cheered, and a shoulder brushed against her, but Charly couldn't have seen whomever it belonged to if she wanted. It was just that dark on the side of the stage. “Beg your pardon,” a male voice said in a familiar raspy tone, one that was delicious and not mean like M
kel's had been in the store. A voice Charly was sure belonged to RiRi's other surprise.

Whoever it was moved in front of her now, and grabbed her hand, pulling her on stage as RiRi reappeared from the other side with a mirror in her hand. In the breeze of time, Charly's heart stopped. Whoever wasn't just Whoever anymore, and the delicious raspy voice was no longer delicious. M
kel. They were literally inches from one another. He smiled as if they were old friends; then the light in his eyes died as he penetrated her with the softest baby-browns she'd ever encountered. She knew he would have frozen them to a dull-brown if he could. As if he hadn't just hit her with a piercing glance, M
kel took a step toward her, wrapped his arm around her, and waved to the audience, whispering between teeth clenched in a phony smile, “This isn't for you. It's a charade for the fans and RiRi. If you can be professional enough, do us all a favor and play along.”