How to (Not) Date a Popstar |✓|

1.1 Somebody That I Used To Know

The line started in the mall and was endless as far as I was concerned. Every girl in a million-mile radius had shown; most of us had been there since early morning, waiting for the chance to see Tyler Moore. The closer I got to its head, the more the line grew, guaranteeing latecomers would surely be turned away. After all, you had to get up early for a chance to swoon up close at America's favorite bad boy. In a couple hours, Tyler and his people would then pack up shop, sending a thousand broken hearts scattering across Harbor Village; the world would drown in oceans of teenage tears.

My best friend danced on her tiptoes in a fruitless attempt to see above the crowd. "Remember, Aaliyah—if we get up there and he says he doesn't know you, I'm having you committed."

I raised my hand, ticking off all the reasons it was impossible for Tyler to ever forget me. "I've vacationed with his family, I used to babysit his little sister, and I know things about him so personal and embarrassing I could sell them to the tabloids if I was heartless. But don't forget—I know things about you too, Quinn Davis."

Slowly, the line moved forward, until eventually we caught a glorious glimpse of Tyler here and there. He sat at a small table, flanked by two burly security guards who scowled with unnecessary force. Tyler's actions seemed robotic, signing the pictures and CD's and t-shirts with little variation to his technique. Every once in a while the equally indifferent blonde woman at his side would lean over and whisper in his ear. He didn't look happy, he didn't smile. Maybe he was a robot...

"Wow. This could be the biggest day of our lives." Quinn sent her dreamy gaze fondly across the crowd. "Forty years from now, when we're fat and old and have nothing to show for ourselves, we'll look back on this moment—and cry hysterically."

"Good times."

Quinn may have been happy, and joking, but I knew deep down she was nervous. Every so often she reached up and fiddled with her necklace—a gold locket on a matching chain. Her father had given it to her the night he promised to come home from Iraq. Any time Q was nervous, she'd slide the chain from ear to ear—which she'd been doing since we got in line. At her father's funeral, they'd played one of Tyler's songs during the service, his voice moving even the stoniest people to tears. Today was special for her too.

We were nearly there. Up ahead, a teeny-bopper with braces burst into tears the minute Tyler took his CD from her hands. He opened the case, looking at her with gentle expectation.

"To?"

She couldn't have been more then twelve or thirteen. Her skinny shoulders heaved as she attempted to reply, but it was impossible to speak around the sobs.

The mother came to her daughter's rescue. "Her name's Brianna—B-R-I-A-N-N-A. Poor thing, she had a speech planned—practiced in the mirror for days."

This at least earned a half-smile from Tyler. "To... Brianna." He spoke while writing, biting his lip between the words. "Thanks... for... being... my... sweetest... fan..."

Tyler returned the CD, causing the girl to howl and cover her face. Her mother steered her away... and suddenly I was there—closer to him than I'd been in ages. I had seen Tyler in concert a year ago, when I was nothing more than another face in the audience. The backstage passes had sold out too quickly to purchase, so the best I could do was hold up my lighter and sway with the crowd, pretending he could see me.

I searched Tyler's emerald eyes for something I recognized beyond just his wall-poster looks. He was only seventeen, but time on the road had matured him. I knew him well—his newfound confidence was equal parts arrogance and unaddressed loathing. It showed in the indifference of his demeanor, and his stubborn refusal to smile. He also needed a haircut, his ash-brown hair falling to his shoulders in a shiny mixture of waves and curls. It brushed the tops of his leather jacket, where his posture was stiff underneath. His dark brows raised in recognition and finally, finally Tyler cracked the tiniest of smiles.

"The time has come, the walrus said..." I grinned like a fool, waiting for him to provide the next phrase of the poem. Our poem.

The blonde woman was not so impressed. Tyler had kept it casual in a t-shirt and jeans, while she popped in all places from a slinky red dress. She was at least twice our age, with the cocky impatience of someone whose time was worth money. She was either his agent or his manager, and she certainly wasn't pleasant.

"What was that?" Her lovely Australian accent was offset by an ugly sneer.

I smiled anyway. My mother had taught me to be polite in the worst occasions. "It's from a poem. By Lewis Carroll? It's Tyler's favorite."

"She's right, it is." Tyler shot her a meaningful look she ignored. "Hey, Aaliyah, wanna introduce me to your friend?"

"Quinn, this is Tyler. Tyler, meet Quinn."

"Hi."

"Hi."

They barely glanced at each other.

"Well, Quinn here is your biggest fan—"

"A moderately-sized fan," she corrected. "But I did enjoy your last album. Aaliyah was totally obsessed with dissecting the lyrics, weren't you, Aaliyah?"

"I wasn't obsessed. I was... curious." But the damage was already done. Tyler's grin was merciless. Was it for me or Quinn? With her cool blue eyes, dirty-blonde waves, and beach-model frame, Quinn was known for turning heads. And if Tyler found out she could sing like him... Funny how the two people with the biggest voices I knew were completely silent.

"Here." I grabbed the t-shirt from Quinn's hands, passing it to Tyler. "Could you sign this for Quinn's cousin?" He accepted, his fingers brushing against mine. I felt a sharp thrill in the pit of my stomach, like a leap from a cliff would inspire.

Tyler scribbled his name in the bottom corner of the picture, pausing as he recognized the photo—a candid shot of an on-stage performance. His back was to the camera, interposed by a bright, faceless crowd of thousands. The picture was black and white, but you could still make out the spotlights, how they shined on the audience and illuminated Tyler like an angel. His microphone was raised to his fans.

Tyler gave the shirt a half-smirk of approval, then passed it on. Why did he hand it to Quinn and not me? He nodded, smiling at Quinn like they were old friends. "So, how did you guys like the concert?"

Quinn took back the t-shirt, twisting it nervously in her hands. "I couldn't go. Some asshole gave me the chicken pox. But Ali went—"

"Yeah." I nodded, the smile riding in on autopilot. "It was great. I loved it."

"Really? Then where's your t-shirt?" By now it was quite clear—the blonde woman did not enjoy my presence.

"Um, well..." I looked down at my shoes, tucking my hair behind my ear in embarrassment. "I didn't buy one. I couldn't afford it. I was saving up for dance camp, so-o-o-o..."

"Why do you do this?" Tyler suddenly turned on the blonde woman full force. She didn't seem to care, which only fueled his anger. "She feels bad and it's your fault. Sometimes you're worse than my dad, y'know that?"

She brushed her hair from her shoulders, not to be deterred. "Tyler, I'm your manager—"

"Exactly, Astrid, you're supposed to manage me, not embarrass my friends—as if my public image isn't important! You're making me look like an asshole—"

"You do that on your own, Tyler. So put a smile on, act happy, and soon enough we can put this cheap little experience behind us and get back on a plane to civilization. Mm?" And she went back to her Blue Tooth.

"I'm taking a break." Tyler left his seat, storming away from the table in a chorus of boos and sadness. His bodyguards followed, the impenetrable wall between his world and mine. His manager hardly noticed when he left, but I did.

He never said goodbye.

***