Outside is a sea of mostly teenage girls, along with news crews and paparazzi. This happens more often than not now. Police have shown up, too, and have formed a line alongside airport security to try to shield us. I want to look around, to see if anything is different here, like different taxis or something, but the crowd is pulling all my attention.
They all rush forward, and our guards close ranks, pressing us into a tight huddle. One of them offers their hand. I grip their wrist and they pull me forward, into the crowd. A few of the girls are wearing shirts with my smiling face on them, which will never be anything other than super bizarre, especially because I look awkward in the photo they used. Clearly, Chorus Management wasn’t expecting this crowd, otherwise we would’ve gone out a different way.
Actually, no. They must know. They want this, they want it to be all over the news here, and for fans to post this to their social media. They want buzz.
“Sign this for me, Zach!”
“Jon, I love you!”
“Oh my god, I’m touching Ruben!”
I glance up for a second to see a phone in selfie-mode inches from my face. I smile, and try my best to make it seem genuine, even though I hate this with every fiber of my being. I try to get it. Chorus may be using them, but they’re innocent, and probably camped out for hours to see us. The least I can do is smile for a picture. They take a few photos, and two other phones are waved in front of me, both of them in hard plastic Saturday phone cases. I smile for those as well.
I hate thinking it, but I wish they’d just come and see us at our show.
With Keegan, a six-and-a-half-foot-tall hulk of a man, leading the way, we go toward the exit as fast as we can, shoving through the mass of people. Someone reaches out and touches me on the shoulder, then runs their hand across my bare neck. A chill goes down my spine as they shriek with joy and a bodyguard steps across, protecting my back. Paparazzi swarm around us, and I hear the familiar rapid clicking of their cameras, accompanied by blinding flashes, and their shouts to get us to look at them.
Just smile. Look here, Zach!
I squeeze the wrist I’m holding tighter.
I should’ve expected this.
It’ll be over soon. It always is.
We make it outside, where a minibus is waiting for us, surrounded by security guards. The crowd is so thick now that taking even a single step is difficult. In this two-minute walk I must’ve posed for at least thirty photos, and my ears are ringing from the sheer volume of the screaming.
“Zach, this way!”
“I’m going to cry.”
“I love him.”
I glance up, and see Ruben through the swarm of people. He’s seemingly unruffled, his handsome face basically expressionless. He notices me watching, and mouths You good?, concern etched across his features.
I give him a thumbs-up, finally smiling. Ruben normally only asks me something like that when my mask slips. I’m grateful; who knows what sort of stories will pop up if someone catches a photo of me looking anything other than freaking giddy at how I’m being treated.
Zach Knight isn’t allowed normal human emotions when people are watching. No one in Saturday is.
I climb into the minibus, following after Jon. Luckily none of the fans try to get into the vehicle. That’s as terrifying as it sounds, and I’d know: a girl jumped onto my lap once trying to get to Jon and she had to be pulled off by Pauline. She’s our other head guard alongside Keegan—the long blond hair she always wears in braids makes her easy to pick out in a crowd, which is useful, given she’s way shorter than any of us. She’s probably the buffest of all of us, with a stocky build that served her well in her previous life as a competitive shot-putter.
I raise a hand and wave at the crowd, thanking the fans for giving me this space at least, and then the door slides across and slams shut, quieting them to a dull roar. Erin gets into the passenger seat casually, like nothing is happening outside.
I stare out the opposite window, before starting the deep-breathing exercises my child psychologist taught me.
“You okay, boys?” Angel asks from the back seat.
I shudder at the memory of a clammy palm touching my neck. Who were they? And who does that?
I take out my phone and type a message to Mom.
Hey, I just landed.:）
I hit send, then slide down my seat and rest my head against the rain-speckled glass. I can’t get the crowd out of my head, and there’s still a piercing, high-pitched hum in my ears. I wish I could shake this off quicker, because I’m in freaking London. The shine of airports may have worn off, but visiting a new country is still incredible. I want to see the bridge and the tower and hear someone say “cheerio!” or something else to reinforce the fact that I’m thousands of miles from home.