“For four days,” Jon says wryly as he falls into step with us.
“Uh-huh, thank you, Captain Obvious, I can count,” Angel says, side-eyeing Jon. “A, I’ll take the four days of downtime if I can get them, and B, within those four days will be the biggest event of your lives.”
“Oh, is your birthday party bigger than the Grammys, now?” I ask.
“And the Billboard Music Awards?” Zach adds, throwing me a smirk.
“Both,” Angel says. “There’s gonna be peacocks.”
Jon snorts, and wipes the grin off his face when Angel shoots daggers at him. “I can still withdraw your invitation,” Angel says.
“No, please, I can’t miss the peacocks.” Jon flips around so he’s walking backward, clasping his hands together toward Angel.
“Thin. Ice. Braxton.”
We reach the dressing rooms, where our team is waiting to undress us. Surrounding us are four portable clothes racks, and as we’re systematically stripped, the clothes get tagged and placed in the right order on the hangers to be dry-cleaned. It’s on them to keep meticulous track of the dozens and dozens of outfits, which of the four of us wears what outfit, and when. They make their jobs look as easy and seamless as we do ours, but I don’t envy them the headache.
As someone who grew up performing in musical theater, I’m used to stripping off costumes after a show. The difference here is that while we’re on tour, it’s out of one costume and into another: we don’t get to dress ourselves anytime a camera can see us. Chorus Management chose our roles years ago. When our stylists aren’t juggling the conveyer belt of ensembles for the shows, they’re compiling and purchasing casual outfits for us to keep us on-brand whenever we’re on duty. And we’re always on duty.
Essentially, our clothes—our costumes—tell the story of our personalities. Just not our real ones.
Zach’s something of a bad boy: leather and boots and ripped jeans and as much black as they can cover him in. Angel’s the fun, innocent goof, which means lots of color and prints, and nothing too tight-fitting or remotely sexy—much to his chagrin. Jon’s the charismatic womanizer, so the golden rule of dressing him is show off those muscles on pain of death.
As for me, I’m the inoffensive one with the pretty face, approachable, safe, and unremarkable. Most of my wardrobe is filled with crew-neck sweaters and cashmere in warm neutrals designed to make me seem soft and huggable. And, of course, there’s no point looking safe and unremarkable if you don’t act it, so my guidelines are clear. No mention of my sexuality in interviews, no showing off onstage, no strong opinions, and definitely no public boyfriends. I’m the blank canvas that fans can paint their dream personality onto. The wild card option for those whose tastes weren’t satisfied by the other three.
The opposite of everything I was raised to be.
As curated as we are, though, the interesting thing is our most devoted fans often see straight through it. The ones who watch and consume everything involving the four of us. I’ve seen them describe our personalities online in a way that’s much closer to the truth—referring to a sensitive, sweet Zach, or a type-A, cautious Jon. A wild, hilarious Angel, or a perfectionist, darkly sarcastic me. I’ve seen them get into arguments with other fans online, as both sides insist they know the real us. None of them know the real us, of course, because they don’t know us at all, no matter how much they wish they did. But some see us more clearly. They see us, and they stay. They see us, and yet they seem to like us more than anyone does.
Go figure.
Erin’s scrolling through her iPad as we’re undressed, a steady anchor in the middle of organized chaos. “Once everyone’s ready, I want to meet with you all about next week,” she says. We groan in unison, and Zach initiates a competition with me over who can groan the loudest. The winner is unclear, because Erin shushes us before either of us reaches our max volume. “I know, I know,” she says. “You’re all tired—”
“We’re zombies,” Angel corrects, before taking the lid off a water bottle with his teeth.
“Yeah, Ruben almost fainted,” Zach pipes up, and I kick his shin as Erin looks at me sharply.
“I didn’t faint, I just … got clumsy.”
“It’ll only be a few minutes,” Erin says. “Ten, tops.”
Jon hands his button-down gray shirt to our stylist, Viktor, revealing a broad, hairless chest that, like the other two’s, is almost as familiar to me as my own by now. While Jon’s standing topless, Angel shakes his water bottle to spray icy cold water on him. Jon gasps and yelps, jumping on the spot while Zach cackles. “Angel! You suck, why?”