The Fly (U2 Fanfic)

Tryin' To Throw Your Arms Around The World

"Girl, where the fuck have you been?" Nat exclaims, blasting my eardrum.

Holding the phone a safe distance from my ear, I reply, "Dude, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Well, you better tell me. I'm seconds away from filing a missing person's report."

Pressing the phone closer to my ear, I say, "I'm touring with U2."

Instead of the girly exasperated gasp I was ready for, along with the obsessive fangirling and excessive questions, she guffaws. "June, seriously. Tell me what alley you're in, and I'll give you a lift."

"No, I'm serious. I'm touring with U2. Last night I wandered off into their dressing room for an autograph, but they thought I was a journalist they were expecting to tour with them, so I played along."

"You're insane."

"Nat, I swear I'm too much of a pessimist to have such a positive imagination."

"And they buy it?"

I chortle, turning my back so it's flush against the wall. "They totally --" my words and heart lodge in my throat as I see Larry standing a few feet away. He doesn't seem insulted or confused or mad by any means. His blue-eyed stare gives off an analytical mood. "Buy it," I mutter.

"Glad someone does because I think you're totally off your rocker."

I keep staring at Larry, waiting for him to vanish, hoping he's a figment of my imagination. It seems like he's gotten closer, kind of listening into the conversation in a way you wouldn't consider intrusive. This is all a side effect from malnutrition, sleep-deprivation, not having money, those flashy lights I was too close to in the show tonight. Guess what? He's not going anywhere. "Nat..."

"June, you're gonna have to prove it."

I sigh. "But how am --"

In the middle of my question, Larry gingerly slips the phone out of my hand and presses it to his ear. "Hello, who's speaking?" he greets in his Irish accent, soft in contrast to my brash American one.

A pause, but mentally I hear Nat telling him it's Natalie Rupert speaking, like she does when she answers the phone for everyone, even her parents. Larry adds, "Well Natalie, this is Larry Mullen Jr. speaking from U2. How are you doing tonight?"

From my few feet away, I hear Nat squeal so loudly that Larry has to hold the phone away from his ear as a shy smile comes across his face. A blur of hysterical babble comes out of her line of the phone, to which Larry replies, "Yes, I'll make sure to tell her. Lovely speaking to you, Natalie. Have a wonderful night." He places the phone on the receiver. "She said she's sorry for doubting you."

I grimace, remembering the central topic of the conversation. The little white lie I'm living in that's become a large secret. "Larry, I'm so sorry. I didn't - it just... happened so suddenly and I always wanted to be a... please don't tell anyone. Please."

Truthfully, I wouldn't blame him if he did run back there and tell Bono, Edge, and Adam all about how much of a despicable snake I am. Stealing another person's job while knowing what it's like to be unemployed, lying: that's two of three of the qualifications to hell. If I cheat on this trip, I'm gonna have a V.I.P. seat right next to Satan himself! I'd rat me out. "Tell anyone what?"

"About... wait, are you serious or are you saying --"

"You're secret's safe with me."

It's hard for me to comprehend what he just said because it sounded nothing like screw you, bitch. I'm gonna throw you so far under that bus you'll get caught in the pipes before the tires hit you. "Really?"