Maybe I am out of touch with reality, because where I’m expecting to be recognized immediately, nothing happens. No one approaches.
“No mob yet,” Brix mutters as he passes me.
I catch up.
“Sorry to burst your bubble and dint that ego of yours.”
“Just wait. This ingenious and very original disguise of sunglasses and a cap won’t shield me for long.”
Brix grabs a cart and goes straight to the fridge section to pull out liquid egg whites.
“Could you be more of a stereotype?”
He huffs. “Me a stereotype? Because I have a high-protein diet? You are aware muscles don’t magically appear on their own?”
“These did.” I lift the hem of my shirt and show off my toned abs.
Brix scoffs. “Please.” He lifts his, and holy forking fucknuggets. He has abs on top of his abs.
Super abs.
They could be their own superhero and wear their own cape.
I take the egg whites out of his hands and read the back of the carton. “How do these things work?”
Brix laughs, loud and warm, and then reaches for more.
We walk the aisles, Brix loads the cart with more healthy crap, and it’s surprising how both fascinating and boring I find this experience.
“So, this is what it’s like to be a normal person?”
“I guess as normal as a pop star is ever gonna get.”
“I like it.” I pause at the candy aisle. “But I have a question.”
“Shoot … no, wait, I probably shouldn’t tell you to shoot anything.”
“Funny. So happy we’re already joking about my poor choices. But no, I’m wondering when normal people go shopping, who’s there to tell you to stay away from the candy?” My feet move in the direction of delicious treats.
I might have a small sugar addiction. Especially when it comes to writing an album. Back in the early Eleven days, I piled on the weight fast.
I was always a chubby kid, but then puberty hit, I grew two feet taller, and I never struggled with my weight again until being given all the food I wanted when I asked for it.
Management had to hire a personal trainer and tell everyone on staff to give me a sugar allowance. Only so many calories per day.
After a while, it became habit, but standing in front of an entire wall of candy …
I go for some Twizzlers, but Brix grabs my hand before I can reach them.
“Normal people need self-control.” He tries to pull me away. “But I’m guessing in your case, it’s all on me.”
I slip out of his grip. “Good luck with that.”
Brix tries to block me from getting to more candy, but I’m determined to win. Sugar must turn me into some sort of ninja because more candy gets thrown into the cart than Brix can put back, and I’m too busy laughing at him to notice anyone join us in the aisle.
He manages to get his arm around my waist, and he pulls me back against him.
His big body surrounds me, and I might like it a little too much.
That’s when the piercing scream happens.
I pray for a medical emergency like someone dropping dead in the middle of the store, but no, we turn to find a girl, maybe fifteenish, her hand over her screeching mouth and a box of Milk Duds scattered all over the ground at her feet.
“Uh, it might be time to take this stuff to the cashier,” I say and step away from him.
“It’s one girl. Go say hi, and then she’ll be on her way.”
“That’s not how it works.”
More people converge because someone screaming is not normal.
It honestly looks like a scene from a zombie movie. Only, instead of blood falling from their mouths, it’s drool, and it’s contagious. My name is echoed in harsh whispers around the store. As recognition kicks in, everyone’s faces drop, and the shock starts.
It’s a goddamn epidemic.
“Way to go, Rambo. You’re supposed to protect me, and you’ve walked me into a zombie horde.”
“Let’s get out of here.” Brix ditches the cart and takes my upper arm, guiding me through the crowd of fans trying to get my attention.
I smile at all of them and shake the hands that reach for me, although with how fast Brix is dragging me, it’s more like quick touches and high fives. I try not to cringe at all the germs but make sure to keep my face public ready. All these people taking photos on their cell phones will no doubt post them to social media, and God forbid I look like a psycho, tired, high, or anything but perfect. Otherwise, I’ll get a phone call from Joystar’s PR department.
All the while, Brix doesn’t let go of my arm and guides me through the ever-growing audience of people wanting to get a glimpse of me.
It goes from a handful of people to seemingly everyone in the store. They all want to see the famous person.
Some even block the exit, knowing I have to pass them, but Brix bowls right through them.
We leave without buying anything, and once we’re outside, we’re quick to make a break for the car.
No one follows us, but there are a few who stand outside the store and watch us with their phones permanently attached to their hands as we drive away.
“You got hand sanitizer in here?”
“As per ridiculous rule number six hundred and eighty-five that I must be able to supply Mr. Valentine with hand sanitizer at any given moment, I put some in the glove compartment.”
“I swear someone sneezed on me in there.” I take out the small bottle that claims to kill ninety-nine percent of germs and wish I could bathe in the stuff.
“Question. Is your germ phobia about all germs, or do you just hate people touching you?”
“I don’t hate people touching me,” I argue. “It’s more in situations like back there where I’m touching people’s hands and I don’t know if they’re sick or not. I’m not germophobic, really, I’m … flu-aphobic. One bad case has scarred me for life.”
“Ah. Got it. A fan could theoretically lick you so long as they didn’t have flu symptoms.”
“Eww, no. But theoretically … yes. I’m not pedantic or obsessive over it. I just feel better if I’m able to wash my hands frequently. Anyway, I want to say I told you so because that was far from a successful shopping trip, but seeing as you didn’t get your precious protein, I think that says it clearly enough.”
Brix shifts gears. He looks all badass with his lips pursed and a concentration line across his forehead. “I don’t get it.”
“Don’t get what?”
“The mania. It’s not like you’re a Beatle.”
“I think you’re about thirty years too young to understand Beatlemania and not Eleven fandom. When Iris said you didn’t know who I was, I thought he was fucking with me.”
Brix side-eyes me. “I know of you … well, Eleven. I’m not dead. I just didn’t know any of your names or …”
“Or any of my solo songs.”
“Sorry.”
As refreshing as it is to be next to someone who can’t even fathom my fame, I can’t help the small seed of disappointment—as if all the work I’ve put in these last eighteen months to broaden my horizons and gain new fans outside of twelve- to seventeen-year-old girls and their moms hasn’t been enough.