“No! Don’t hang up. Let me ring him” I reach my hand out to one of the guards and mouth, “Your mobile.”
“Emilie, give me your dad’s number, and I’ll get it sorted.”
Mr. Gold is raging when I tell him what’s happened. “I will tan your hide.” What the heck is he saying? “That’s my daughter you—”
“I’m really sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Gold, but I need your help.”
His gasp is my answer, or maybe he’s getting a good breath to yell some more.
“I’m on my way to the school right now with guards, but she says she can’t come with me without your permission.”
“Bring her directly here,” he says and rings off. Okay, that’s getting tiresome.
In the process of sorting that, Emilie either rings off or loses signal. And now it keeps going straight to voicemail.
###
Emilie’s school is all dark red brick and entirely fenced-in beyond the car park.
Gregory rolls his beady eyes when I climb out of the van behind him. “I knew this would happen. You stay between Tom and me. Understand?”
Right, Tomo and Nicholaus. The dark-haired guards with us who look like twins even though they’re no relation.
The gate buzzes before we get to it. They were expecting us, aye? I send off a mental thank you to Mr. Gold.
At the end of the long covered walk, a red-faced, rotund Principal Childree meets us. He announces his name like he’s in the defense force and waves us into the blue-tiled foyer. “This way.”
A right, left, and right again later—more adults following us as we go along—we enter a large, beige block room with rows of black-and-white checkered tables. Pupils are surrounding and standing on these tables, and the sound of the crowd is as bad as one of our early, smaller venues. The guards pause at the doors while the principal and the adults—I’m assuming instructors—try to plow through the people. I can only stand there and try not to wee my pants while I consider all the ways this could go wrong. The band has been mobbed before, but we had a lot of security to get us out. And that was scary.
How do you think she feels? My shoulders tense up at that thought. When the crowd of mostly girls turns to us, there are two beats of silence and then another ruckus. The team follows the path the instructors just cut. “Get back. Get back,” they shout.
The crowd starts shouting the same thing.
I cross my arms at my waist, giving people less of a surface to pull at me, and try to make myself as small as possible while I follow Tomo closely. In a short space of time we’re at a short, narrow door.
“Open up,” one of the instructors says loudly and knocks on the door. He turns back and shakes his head. “She said ‘no.’”
She must’ve been told to come out a few hundred times already. Why would she believe yet another voice?
“Emilie, it’s us,” I shout, but I’m a couple of meters away—Tomo won’t let me any closer—she’ll never hear me over the crowd. “Let me talk to her.”
Tom nods and the minders fall around me, which opens the path to the cupboard. I get on my knees at the door. “Emilie, it’s me.”
She flings the door open; I have to catch it before it nails me square in the forehead. And there she sits cross-legged on the floor of a broom cupboard, her face pale, her eyes so dilated I can barely see any of the blue. “My legs are asleep, Julian.”
I reach for her, and it’s Gregory who stops me this time. I finally lose it. “Piss off! I’m helping her up.”
The crowd starts a new chant. “Piss off! Piss off!”
I get to my feet, wrapping my arm around Emilie’s waist and holding her close.
“Now look what you’ve done,” she says and looks around. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and winces.
“And you’re still joking,” I say, and look up at Gregs and nod. “Lovely.”
Emilie hobbles alongside me with one hand gripping my arm while we make it slowly out of the canteen. “Oh my God, look at all the phones. Julian, they’re recording us.”
Just as we’re pulling away from the school I get a text from Kasen.
Kase: Meeting you at her house.
Jules: What
Kase: Skipping last interview. Still have to meet the president so convinced them we needed security team together. Just wanna be there for you bro.
By the time we pull up at Emilie’s house, his texts aren’t so supportive.
Kase: Video of you and her at school. Are you stupid?
Kase: You going down a destruction checklist? Pictures, describing her on radio, video with arm around her
Fash, I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking. A ripe idiot, I am. Kasen’s much better about his girlfriend. The general public still doesn’t know she exists.
Emilie’s father is loads calmer by the time we get inside her house.
“So she’s your lyricist now?” he says and points to Kasen. “That’s what your buddy there told America.”
Calm, but not overly reasonable.
Doug nods toward my bestmate. “Tom, take Kasen back to the car.”
But Kasen skirts around the small den, hopping over the couch like a pommel horse, to stand beside Mr. Gold. “I had to say that. I’m Kasen Monreecy.” He holds his dark brown hand out and the older man takes it.
A small, brown-haired woman, standing on the other side of Mr. Gold, eyes Kasen. “It’s okay, sweetie. We understand,” she says and shifts a bairn on her hip. Aye, that must be baby Hannah.
I smile at Emilie’s mum. “I hope you’ll keep understanding, Mrs. Gold, because I think what’s best for Emilie right now is to bunk…er, sit the rest of the school term out.” I look down at Emilie, who up to this point has only jerked her gaze from one person to the next. “What year are you, Emilie?”
“I told you—I’m seventeen.” She looks at me like I’m a nutter. “So, yeah, I can’t exactly skip school.”
Kasen gestures to Emilie. “He means what grade are you in. Seventeen…a senior?”
When she nods, he carries on. “What about homeschooling? Jules, she can have my sister’s tutor. Ms. Tish is certified and everything.” He shrugs. “Let’s face it, keeping her on so I could learn French was a load of crap. Emilie needs her more.”
Aye, it’s pure dead brilliant. I love that lad more than ever.
Emilie turns to me. “I’m not going to be homeschooled. I’ll be bored out of my mind stuck in this house.”
Perfect grumble, Emilie!
“Then come on tour with us, will you?” I ask. “You can still do your coursework.”
Pandemonium takes over the small living area: “No.” “I can’t do that.” “Jules, what the hell?” “Okay.”
Mrs. Gold is the only one smiling and nodding. I don’t have to convince her, do I?
Aye, it’s risky, but I’ve learned from the lads that it’s best to ask for forgiveness from management than ask their permission. When something is done—it’s done.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Mr. Gold waves his hands in front of him. “I know today was bad, but you can fix this. Get on those online sites and tell those people it’s like your buddy over there said. She’s just the songwriter and-and you can tell them to leave her alone. They’ll listen to you. You’re famous. Tell them.”
I eye Kason’s face; we’re the only ones in this room who knows that can’t happen now. He narrows his eyes at me then looks over at Mr. Gold. “Sir, it’s not so easy. They won’t believe—”
“They won’t believe me,” I say, unwilling to let Kason fix my blunder. “When I got to the school, I had to help Emilie walk and—”
“They hurt her?” Mr. Gold’s gaze goes to Emilie’s legs and he stomps toward her. “If they hurt my daughter, you’re gonna have hell to pay. She didn’t ask for all this.”
“No, they didn’t—”
“Dad!” She backs up before he gets to her. “I’m okay. Quit blaming Julian. Nobody forced me to drive him to the
river last night. I had no idea someone would take pictures of us in my car.” She shudders. “Ugh, it’s filthy. And I would have washed it yesterday if it hadn’t rained. But it’s all me, okay? Maybe him a little but you have to be pissed at me too.”
“Well,” Kasen raises his hand. “You do have to blame Julian for the video at the school.”
“I told you they were recording.” Emilie laughs. “You shouldn’t have come.” She shrugs. “Just get online and say my leg was asleep.”
I gaze at her a second before nodding. “Okay.” What can I do other than whatever she says?
She takes a deep breath. “They’re not going to believe you, are they?”
“No,” I say with a shake of my head. And I can’t look at her I’m so ashamed. Of course me going to her school would make the lyricist story harder to believe. Then me holding her while we walked out of the canteen…I should have listened to Lauren.
Doug.
Gregs. Everyone was being smart and I was daft.
Mrs. Gold whispers something to her husband.
His mouth drops open. “She doesn’t need them,” he bellows.
We watch as the missus leans in and whispers something else.
“Mamma,” Emilie starts. “Stop it. I’m not going.”
“No.” Mr. Gold folds his arms over his chest, reminding me of Emilie’s stubbornness, and narrows his gaze on his wife. “She’s been doing better, and I don’t expect a bunch of teenage boys to fix…everything.”
I haven’t a scooby what she must be saying to him.
“Mr. Gold,” I start, “You said this morning Emilie has a good head on her shoulders.” His words feel weird on my lips. “Sh-she didn’t give two toots about my fame. There’s no way she’d let any boys take advantage of…she wouldn’t let anyone take advantage. Am I not right? You’ve no reason to worry, and she’d get to see more of this beautiful country of yours. We’re going to the Grand Canyon and Stone Mountain in Georgia and…have you ever taken her to Canada?”
He looks at me a moment then shakes his head. “She’s never been to any of those places, but Emilie belongs with us.” His eyes get shiny before he leaves the room abruptly, and Mrs. Gold follows.
Chapter 6
Emilie turns to me, daggers fairly flying from her eyes. She slaps my chest. “What do you think you’re doing? You think you can guilt my dad into letting me go? Pushing me to go. No, I’ve never been to Stone Mountain or wherever, but I’m not letting crazy fans push me into site seeing in the middle of my senior year.”
Doug moves closer to us. Out of the corner of my eye, I clock Kasen shaking his fuzzy head at the overprotective minder. “He’s fine, Doug.”
Guilt her dad? I didn’t—
“Just because he hasn’t taken me on a hundred vacations….” She rests a hand on her forehead.
Fash.
“I didn’t mean anything like that.” I drape my arm around her shoulder.
“Stop it.” She shakes off my attempt to hug her. “I can’t just up and leave. It’s my senior year.”
“You’re going back to that, are you? It’ll be weeks before it calms down at your school.” If ever. I frown down at her. “Go on tour with me.”
“Stop looking at me like that.” She stares at the floor. “I have things. I’m missing the SGA meeting. I have to help with the theater scenes next week. I have to…How did all this happen?” She turns away and mumbles, “And what about Mark?”
Mark…Och, the boyfriend.
“Emilie! That’s over with,” comes her mum’s voice, and we all jump. The jolly woman is pure dead serious now. “You need to go. It’s over.”
“I know.” Emilie rocks from one foot to the other and squeezes her eyes shut. “God, Mom. I don’t even care anymore that—I just want answers.”
Mr. Gold stands there with his arms crossed over his chest still, his eyes red.
It’s time to lean on pride. “Our minders take very good care of us. Right, Doug?”
Emilie’s dad snorts.
“My security team is top notch.” Doug gives him a curt nod. “Nothing ever gets past us.”
“Daddy?” Emilie’s voice trembles.
He opens his mouth then shuts it again. “Well, you can’t go to school now.” He throws his hands up then pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s ruined that for you.”
I’ve no idea what just happened between him and Emilie, and I can’t help but feel like I’m going to be the one to be blamed for it. But as I replay Mrs. Gold’s words, I have to fight a new surge of elation.
Emilie and her boyfriend are over. It must have been a bad relationship and they want to put some space between her and this boy. I don’t have a problem with that. Aye, I’ll make her forget.
Kasen lifts his chin at me. “We’re hitting the airport as soon as we’re done at the White House. The assistants are packing our bags now.”
“Luke and Parker?”
He aims a thumb over his shoulder. “Outside waiting for us.”
I chance a look at Emilie, who is staring at her dad. A twinge of guilt pierces my calm.
“I guess I’m packing my own bags.” She jerks her gaze back to me and whispers, “Maybe I’d feel differently if you just asked me, but this is messed up.” With one last scowl at me, she leaves the room, but not before leaving this rankling, “You have no idea how hard it’s going to be living with me.”
I’d love to blame the Scots blood for making me so pushy. But I know better than that. Note to self: independent women do not like to be told what to do, and if you forget again, you’re a ripe idiot.
Kasen’s lips are straight lines when I turn back to him, he hurriedly wipes the worried expression away. Fash. What have I gave myself? But mine and Emilie’s personalities mesh like nothing better.
Emilie’s mum leaves the den mumbling about suitcases, and Mr. Gold stalks off to a room somewhere at the back of the house. Or maybe it’s a back door.
Kason widens his eyes at me. “That’s a lot of emotional baggage, my friend,” he whispers.
“Is this what they call junk in the trunk?” I ask him.
He lets out a bark of laughter then turns toward the wall, his shoulders shaking. What? Oh shite, now I remember. He has explained this once to me already. I lock my jaw up and fairly drool all over myself to keep from laughing out loud.
Mrs. Gold is back minutes later with a couple of black suitcases; she bumbles her way to Emilie’s room.
“Don’t forget your passport,” Kasen calls out. “And pack enough for six weeks.”
Emilie sticks her head around the corner and shoots daggers at Kase’s back. “I thought this was a North American tour.”
“And that includes Canada too.” I lean against the wall and try to meet her eyes. She won’t have it, though. With a sigh, I stare at the brown carpeted floor.
There’s a slam at the back of the house, and Mr. Gold comes back in with an umbrella.
Kasen turns to me. “Maybe we should wait in the car.”
Mr. Gold snorts. “I think that would be a great idea. Wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute—I want to know everywhere you’re going.”
“Of course.” I turn to Doug, whose eyes are bulging. The general public is never supposed to know exactly where we’re going—where we’re staying. But when Kase’s little sister came along… “Just like we did with Layla’s parents, Dougie. Emilie is a minor, you know.”
About twenty minutes later, the lads and I are loading three large suitcases into the back of the Sprinter van. Well, we try until security prods us out of the way. We get into the massive limo—I guess we have the car because of our White House visit—and wait for Emilie to say her goodbyes.
“Her dad is intense,” Kasen says.
Luke gives off a wry laugh. “At least he cares.”
I’ve met all of the members’ family apart from Luke and Parker’s father. So I can’t say that I don’t like him, but I hate the way he makes my two mates feel.
After a few muted words to her parents, Emilie crawls in, clutching her white satchel to her chest.
Parker moves over, giving her room to sit beside me, but after looking around, she chooses the spot beside Kasen instead. Parker and I on one side, and Luke, Kasen and Emilie scrunched up on the other side of the limousine cab.
Emilie looks everywhere but at me when we pull away.
###
Before the day, I’d been nervy about meeting the President of the United States of America. But now, as we enter Washington D.C. again, all I can think about is the crabbit girl in front of me. She’s refusing to come in the White House, afraid more pictures will be taken of her. Of course she wouldn’t be meeting the President with us lads, but if she’d come in with the rest of the entourage, not as many guards would have to be placed around the car. That’s what Doug says, anyway. But Emilie’s not budging on the subject.
Luke had thought to bring me a new shirt, so I wouldn’t meet the President wearing this rumpled pullover that’s already in all the pictures today. The rest of the lads made a quick change at the radio station. Emilie looks away when I toss the shirt to the floor and reach for the white button-up.
She says, “I guess the abs aren’t airbrushed.”
Parker wiggles his eyebrows. “But his cheekbones are.”
“Aye, like you can airbrush cheekbones.” I rub down my supposedly enviable facial structure and stop abruptly. “Wait. Can you?”
The lads crack up, and Emilie gives up on fighting her smile.
She doesn’t shoot any more daggers at me, but she doesn’t smile at me specifically either. Luke and Parker get her talking soon enough.
“So as our new lyricist,” Parker says, holding an imaginary microphone in front of his mouth, “what can we expect from you?”
Emilie smiles and leans toward Parker’s imaginary mic. “For my new job as band poet, I shall read the boys to sleep with my fancy words.”