The article was supposed to be funny, JC knew, and he supposed it was for the
most part, teasing and cute and projecting a more mature image than they used
to project, and that was good, that was great, that was exactly what JC
wanted, what they all wanted.
"I like it," Justin said.
"You would," Chris shot back. JC didn't say anything, but Chris was right.
Suddenly Justin was all about toughness and machismo and acting like more of
a man than he was. It was the pictures, JC thought, the ones he did on his
own with that art photographer. JC had his book on a shelf at home and took
it out and looked at it after he'd seen the Vanity Fair pictures. He hadn't
really liked the pictures much, he remembered, not even the first time
around.
"It's racy," Lance said. He sounded pleased. "We're racy."
"You're as racy as a Buick on a Sunday," Chris said. JC laughed even though
the whole thing left a foul taste in his mouth.
"You went to church before the interview, you dork." Joey shoved him.
"I'm still racy," Lance said. He crossed his legs at the knee, and Joey
cracked up. "What'd you think, C?"
JC shrugged. He didn't really want to say that he thought it was a stupid
article because it wasn't really ... stupid. JC didn't know what it was.
There was a word for it, he was sure. He'd have to look it up later in his
thesaurus or the synonym dictionary Lance had gotten him for his birthday
which was very cool, like a window into a secret room of words that you never
knew exist--
"C?" Justin said, shaking his shoulder. "What'd you think?"
JC shrugged again. "It was okay," he said.
"JC didn't like it because they mentioned Bobbie," Joey said.
"JC didn't like it because they made him sound like an art loving dipstick,"
Chris said. Justin rolled onto his back laughing.
"I just thought it was okay," JC said, looking at his hands. He'd gotten a
manicure a day or two ago and his hands still had the smooth professional
look he liked. That would be ruined as soon as he got home and started
painting again because when he was painting he just didn't seem to have time
to take care of his hands like he did when he was writing music, but for now
they looked ... clean. Like a well-groomed dog.
"You really didn't like it, C?" Joey asked.
"It's all about publicity, man," Justin said.
"Do you ever wonder why?" JC asked. "Like why is it that they get to say
anything they want about us and we have to sit back and laugh it off and say
that it's funny or whatever? Why is that cool?"
"C," Chris said. "You're fluttering."
JC clenched his hands together in his lap. Fluttering. That had come from
an interview, too, one with Vanity Fair or Details or some other magazine
that thought it was too good to cover them when they had the number one
selling album ever and it could make fun of them, calling Chris "spastic" and
"ugly" and Lance "boring." Another one he hadn't liked.
"C, man. Really." Justin touched his knee. "If you want, we can, um. I
dunno. Do another interview or--"
JC shook his head. "Nah. Nah. It was okay. I just didn't really like it.
It wasn't bad or anything."
"Okay," Justin said. His hand was huge on JC's knee. "I'm gonna go get
food. You guys want?"
JC looked out the window while they grabbed their coats and stuff, knowing
he'd crossed one of the lines they tried not to cross.
"So," Lance said, after the door shut behind them. "You didn't like it."
JC turned from the window. "I told you. It was okay."
"Right. Liar, liar, pants on fire." Lance poked him in the arm.
JC tried to smile, but ended up sighing anyway. "She just made it sound like
we were a bunch of frat boys who talk about boobs and, and tits and stuff,
all day, and--"
"Boobs and tits are the same thing, Jayce," Lance murmured, and JC couldn't
help it, he was laughing again, over his frustration.
"Shut up." He pushed, but Lance was bigger now, stronger than he used to be.
They all were, except for him. JC felt sometimes that he was standing in a
forest of people he used to know, grown tall and heavy and unfamiliar. Lance
smelled the same though, and sounded the same, and his presence felt the same
under his new silky skin: solid. Lance.
"Sometimes," he said, feeling sheltered and secure under Lance's arm, "I
think about quitting."
Lance laughed, then, circling JC and pulling him close. "Baby, you can't
stop," he murmured. "Don't even think you can."
"I didn't say I was gonna stop," JC protested, struggling against Lance's
grip. "I said I thought about it. I just hate it sometimes." He gave up
struggling and sat still. "I hate the way that they make us sound sometimes,
like I'm a stranger, like I'm not even in my own group, like I don't even
belong in here. I started this group, Lance, me and J and Chris and--" He
knew he was fluttering again, hands flying up under Lance's arm, hair
swinging into his face.
"It doesn't matter," Lance said in his ear, his voice low and soft and
soothing, so soothing that JC wished he could believe it.
"No, I know," he said. He wiped his face with his fingertips. "I know.
It's just." He sighed.
"I know," Lance said, and that was when JC really lost it. Lance held him up.