Fangirl (7 page)

The morning after the Peter concert, Josie, wearing one of her “freakish” outfits the mean girls whispered about—TOMS shoes, skinny jeans, and a black Rolling Stones T-shirt—thanked D for the ride to school. Then she and Ashley plopped into their first period seats for Human Biology class and opened their books to the section on adolescent psychology.

“The human brain,” Mr. Rickell began, “is not fully developed until into one's twenties.”

The class giggled. Seated beside each other, Josie and Ashley smiled.

“Believe it or not, that wasn't meant as a joke,” the gray-haired teacher continued. “The reason I tell you this is because, today, we'll be talking about adolescent sexuality.”

More giggles.

“And before you can understand what you are going through, it's best to first understand that your brain isn't designed to fully understand what you're going through. In fact, the brain, especially abstract reasoning that is used to assess long-term risk and consequences, isn't fully developed
until your early twenties. You may think you know everything, but biology tells us that you don't.”

Mr. Rickell showed a slide from his laptop on the projector screen, on which appeared in giant block letters:
SEX
&
ROMANCE.

“The difference is that one is an act, and the other is a thought,” he said. “There's a reason why so much of art—our paintings, our music, our poetry, our literature—grapples with these two words more than any others.”

The class fell silent.

“Sex and romance,” the teacher continued. “On their own, each is confusing enough. But understanding and experiencing both of them at the same time, well, that is one of life's great challenges. You may live your whole life without entirely figuring it out. Hopefully this class will help you on your path to self-discovery.”

Josie listened. But she didn't hear anything. She was too distracted by the sound of Peter's voice inside her head.

“Fan relations.”
That's what Bobby Maxx called his son's acoustic sets at high schools, the countless radio interviews, charity benefits, mall shows, hour-long autograph sessions, and meet-and-greets before and after concerts.

“If you don't love the fans, then you don't love your music, because it has to be about the fans,” Bobby reminded his sleep-deprived son in the limousine on their way to yet another appearance at a local Bakersfield high school.

As usual, Bobby was buzzing on a syrupy concoction he called a “red eye”—a monster cup of coffee with two shots of espresso, plus a spoonful of sugar dumped in, like some sort of bitter booster shot. Peter believed no man over forty should ever be that chipper that early, certainly not this far into a concert tour. As for Peter, he had a long night that even a heart-attack-in-a-cup couldn't fix. After the Bakersfield concert, he was up late arguing with Sandy at the hotel.

“I saw the way you looked at that girl,” Sandy accused Peter the second he stepped foot inside the hotel after the pair fought through a mob of fans amassed outside the Bakersfield Marriott.

“What girl?” Peter asked, though he knew exactly what girl his girlfriend was talking about. “What are you talking about?”

“Um, the
hooker
in that tiny patch of denim she probably thinks is a skirt.”

“Oh, okay. Got it. So now I can't even look at someone who's shouting my name in my face? Someone who, mind you, probably paid five hundred bucks for a meet-and-greet?”

Sandy grabbed Peter by the arm. “What I'm saying is that looking is one thing and
perving
is another.” Sandy's cheeks glowed red. “You know what, though? I don't really care. She's just another loser groupie.”

Peter didn't even try to pretend that he didn't check out Denim Skirt Girl. She was gorgeous and screaming at the top of her lungs, and, well, he assumed any guy would have at least peeked. But, if there is one thing Peter would take issue with, was what Sandy had just called his most loyal fans.

“Well,” he snapped, “those supposed
loser
groupies are the reason we are even here, why we have jobs.”

“Yeah, a job you complain about all the time,” Sandy snapped, texting on her iPhone to avoid eye contact. “For someone who supposably loves his job soooo much, you sure do complain about it a lot.”

“Supposedly,” Peter corrected her.

Sandy looked up from her phone. “Supposedly what?”

“You said supposably. That's not a word. Supposedly is.”

“Thanks, professor. Sorry, not everyone is Peter Perfect.”

Peter stared down at the guitar pick he squeezed between his thumb and forefinger. The skin around his thumbnail was red and flaky, the detritus from a bad habit of biting his nails
and fingers whenever he got too stressed. He had been trying to break the habit ever since last year. But it was proving a hard habit to break.

“Let's break up,” Peter suddenly blurted. Peter looked as shocked when the words came out of his mouth as Sandy was. Like an unexpected burp, it gave him a sense of relief.

The next morning, Peter was thinking about what had gone down the night before. And he was not happy. Not happy that his girlfriend didn't embrace his fame, his fans, and just enjoy who he was. He was mad at himself for never solving his own problems because he was too busy trying to make everyone else in his life happy, so much so that he couldn't even tell the man sitting next to him the pain he felt.

Just then, his dad interrupted Peter's self-pity party.

“So here's the deal, Son.” Bobby excitedly finger-scrolled his iPad. “Abby says no one knows we are showing up at the school today.” Bobby knocked his son in the arm with his elbow. “I love it, I love it, I love it. This is gonna be a hoot!”

Bobby chuckled so hard that his long hair, graying at the temples, fell in front of his face. Brushing his bangs back, he added, “Dang it, you're gonna make this girl's year, Son.” Bobby stomped his cowboy boot on the SUV's floor. “Plus, Hot Hollywood is gonna dedicate twenty-four hours of programming to you the day we release the new album. They're good media partners.”

“Where are we going again?” Peter grumbled, grabbing the iPad from his dad.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Hot Hollywood's Contest Winner Surprise Appearance

Peter will be appearing at Lawndale High School in Bakersfield on June 4. Limousine pickup at 8:35 a.m. I will meet you there. At 9:00 a.m. Peter will be surprising the winner of Hot Hollywood's “Sing It to the Maxx” contest. Jackson Phillips and his crew will meet you at the front entrance and will escort you inside. You will hand the winner a certificate to an all-expenses paid trip to see Peter in concert. Hot Hollywood will have all the winner information upon your arrival, but attached is a link of the winner's video. Will wrap at 9:30 a.m. and you will be driven directly to the airport.

“Dad, have you seen the video?” Peter asked.

“No, but Abby told me it's a good one. And she's pretty cute. Take a look.”

Peter clicked on the contest winner's video submission. A pretty girl started singing a song she said she wrote just for him.

When you're just a kid and Mommy says good-bye

You hug her, try not to cry

Then Daddy wakes you in the night

Says we gotta go, I don't know if she'll be all right

“So this girl wrote this song herself?” Peter asked.

“Yep, well, that's what they tell me.”

Bobby could see Peter's face twisting into knots.

“What's wrong, buddy?”

“Nothing.”

“Son, c'mon. You can't fool the fooler.”

“It's Sandy,” Peter said.

As the car pulled into the school's parking lot, Bobby wrapped his arm around Peter. “We'll talk about it,” he said, turning up the volume on the iPad.

Their angel's been taken, makes Daddy yell

Please don't go . . . don't go . . . don't go

Only God can rewind

But I'm here to remind

You before it's too late, or you're too old

Kiss and hug and hold

And sing your song

'Cuz the trip ain't so long

Breakin' hearts is always wrong

Before you walk, please hear my song. . . .

Peter stared out the window at the kids walking around the campus, their daily lives trudging along, lives moving on.

“Dad, I really want to cut this song.”

“Mmm-k. We can make that happen.”

“No, for real,” Peter added. “I
need
to record this song.”

“You did
not
get your picture with Peter Maxx,” Josie declared. “No friggin' way.”

“Sorry, but I did.” Ashley giggled. “Swear. To. God.”

As the pair walked out of first period, Josie was practically hyperventilating, kicking herself for not finding a way inside the meet-and-greet with Ashley after the show. But her mom wouldn't let her ride in someone's car past midnight, and she couldn't take that risk. Josie could have sworn Peter made eye contact with her in the crowd a few times, especially when he walked down the catwalk and strummed a guitar solo right in front of her during the second encore. She was just five rows away from him and, to Josie, it looked as if he—possibly maybe—cracked a smile.

But, still, she couldn't believe Ashley got to meet Peter Maxx! Plus, she got a picture with him. Not good at all. Sort of the story of her life: another missed boy opportunity. Just like the time when Frankie, her shy but cute neighbor, invited her to prom on Facebook. Stupidly, she didn't check her messages for a week. Result: she missed the dance. Or like when her dad gave her the option of spending last summer vacation with him in Canada, and she decided instead to stay home and be there for her little brother, since he got depressed when at home alone.

“So was he nice?” Josie asked.

“Ohmigod. So nice.”

They plopped down on a patch of grass in the quad. “And, please, please, please don't hate me,” Ashley added. “But check it out: he's even cuter up close. Perfect skin. Swearzy.”

“I already am so hating you right now.”

“Seriously, Jose-ski, don't get all hormonal on me.”

The second-period bell sounded and the two girls grabbed their backpacks and walked across the courtyard. Their nerdy-but-nice musical director, Mr. Marrin, walked up as they approached class. “Good morning, ladies,” he said with an emoticon-like smiley face. Mr. Marrin normally wore a tie and shirt to school. Today, he wore a brown corduroy sports jacket and a nice pair of jeans, the dress-up outfit he normally reserved for performances only.

“Ashley, can you come with me?” he said.

“Am I in trouble?”

“No, no, no. Just come with me.”

“Can Josie come with?”

Mr. Marrin laughed. “Of course.”

Josie noticed that not only was Mr. Marrin acting odd, but on most mornings the courtyard was bustling with kids hurrying to their next class. Instead a group of kids huddled on the far side of the courtyard by Mr. Riley's drama room, where Josie and Ashley had after-school chorus. The group of kids were trying to peek into the windows, but the blinds were drawn.

“Why's everyone freaking out over there?” Ashley asked.

“No clue,” Josie replied.

She and Ashley stepped to the rear of the swelling mob. “Maybe ole Rilerz finally got in trouble with the principal for playing Eminem too loud or something,” Ashley wondered.

“No. Really, Ash. This is so not normal.”

They stepped through the crowd and into the classroom. Immediately, a TV camera pointed at them. Not like the kind of tiny flip cameras fans focused on Peter last night, or the cheap handy-cams they used in the AV department. Rather, it was a big news camera, with a light shining from atop it and an audio guy poking a boom mic at them.

“Surprise!” Hot Hollywood reporter Jackson Phillips yelled, jumping out from behind his camera guy.

If human jaws were physiologically capable of opening up so big that from a standing position a chin could touch the floor, Josie's and Ashley's would have done just that. The room full of students and some looky-loo teachers erupted in applause.

But as Jackson and the cameraman walked closer to Ashley and Josie, each girl's reactions looked startlingly different. Ashley beamed and put her hands to her oval mouth like a pageant queen. Josie, however, stood stiff as a mannequin, wrinkling her forehead in confusion the way one does when someone starts randomly speaking a completely foreign language to you on the street.