Dave

My fingers danced upon the smooth keys of the Korg keyboard in front of me, sending out rich, vibrant chords. "That's what it's supposed to sound like, C.T.," I informed Clint, pressing out a single note.

He fingered his chord and bumped out a little bass. "That."

"Yeah."

Bob tapped his snare a few times impatiently. "Ready now?"

"Up yours, Duke. Let's do it."

Bob good-naturedly grinned and gave us a count. "One. Two. One, two, three."

Tap tap tap tap tap -

"Then I slip into a dre-e-e-eam, the feelin' inside, is ten stories high," sang Scott, and we all joined him for the chorus, which went smoothly, as songs always did when we got into the groove. Scott lifted his hand up and snapped his wrist for us to cut off.

"I'm beat. I need a drink."

"'Kay."

Clint lifted his bass from around his neck. "Are we only rehearsing this one song?"

"It's all we're billed to play," I replied.

"Bites."

I shrugged. "I'm just glad it's almost over. If we wanted to, we could cut out early, right?"

"I bet so."

Scott disappeared offstage somewhere, harrumphing off to be by himself. He truly was not himself lately. A wild man with the mike only yesterday while jamming with the Hansons, today he seemed meek, his mind fixated elsewhere. Partly, I understood why Clint was so pissy about the secret we couldn't tell him: the secret was dragging down Scott's performance, and without his craziness, none of us could seem to shine through as much.

I heard some light applause coming from the back of the wide auditorium. Peering out, I saw a tall blond male clad in olive green cargo pants and a black T-shirt, clapping his square, boyish hands and grinning this sagacious grin that suited him perfectly. It showed off his lips and the natural brightness to his smile, and it also showed off the perk of his delicate nose, wide, but still perfectly shaped. His blond mane hung in unbelievable thick masses aside his cheeks, parted slightly to the left, and shorter, wispier trendils that wouldn't calm down into the rest of his hair showed off the delicate curl that was so reminiscent of Isaac's hair. He showed so many mature features (such as his broadening chest) that it was difficult to believe he was a little over a year younger than me.

"Encore, encore. Bravissimo. There ain't no party like a Mo-phatts party, 'cause the Mo-phatts party don't stop."

I grinned over my microphone at Zac. "You made it."

Zac came into the light, looking up at me from ground level. "Yep. Don't think I'm not missing a trip to Chinatown for you, D."

I caught a glimmer of gold around his neck. "So they saw the necklace?"

I ventured forwards and hopped off the stage, landing next to Zac. He affirmed,

"Yeah, and actually, they recognized me. I gave one of them an autograph for their daughter!"

"That's cool, Zac! We had to get through your security by waving Taylor's underwear around in his face."

Zac busted up laughing, just imagining his own mental picture of the situation. I beamed, still high off of singing, a feeling which Zac more than likely understood all too well.

"Well, I bummed some money from my Dad," he reported. "Wanna walk down the street and see if there are any good places to eat?"

Zac

Dave considered, and nodded. "Sounds cool. I think I saw a Mexican restaurant down the street."

"Um, actually, I was thinking about one of the thousands of hot dog vendors," I admitted, grinning. "While I was in the taxi, I saw one, and I thought, 'That is some damn good eating.'"

Dave's smile widened. "Whatever floats your boat, Zac. I don't care. Let me go check and see with my Dad. I think we're pretty much done, and Scott is probably wandering off lost by now."

"He'll probably see a mirror and stand looking at himself for hours," I said, which made Dave giggle. "Sounds like Scott. Come on, my Dad's backstage, let's go ask him."

We both climbed back up onto the stage and scampered across it, heading back through the black curtains to the little rooms and hallways backstage. We found Frank talking with the manager of the concert hall they were rehearsing in. He noticed Dave and then me, and said,

"Hi, boys. What's up now?"

"Dad, me and Zac want to go get something to eat, is that okay?"

Frank looked amused at us. "Well, we were just about to stop and grab some dinner at Don Pablo's, that Mexican restaurant down the street . . ."

Dave and I shot each other looks. "Well, um, actually, I just wanted to go with Zac," he said.

"Where?"

"Just up and down the street outside."

Frank eyed me. "How did you get here, Zac?"

"Um, I hitch-hiked," I joked.

Frank and Dave laughed. Dave added, "Well, we took him instead of Bob . . ."

"I noticed the drums seemed a little shaky . . . just kidding, my boy. I guess that would be fine."

"We can take a taxi back to the hotel a little later," Zac said. "My Dad made me take our cell phone, so I have means of communication, just in case."

"Scout's motto, be prepared," Frank nodded. "Just don't be out too late alone. And here, Dave. Take some money." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a ten dollar bill. "That should be enough. Look both ways before you cross the street, don't talk to strangers, don't take strange foods, and don't pick up any prostitutes."

"Okay," we both said, giggling at Dave's dad's odd sense of humor. Frank nodded again and walked onto the stage. Dave and I turned to each other with ecstatically evil smiles.

"Kickass," Dave muttered. "We are young, we are free . . ."

A half-hour later, Dave and I were walking side-by-side on the sidewalks of the dingy street, hot-dogs overflowing with cheese and chili in our hands, laughs being passed between us. Humor and puns came so easily with us both that we soon found ourselves unable to breathe for laughter. The simple joy of being with someone you clicked with was indescribable. I felt completely comfortable with everything I said, not paying attention to having to be funny to live up to expectations, feeling currents of electricity passing between us without a kink in the wire.

"It looks like it rained a little," observed Dave. "It was pretty cloudy at the shoot."

"Now it's humid," I complained, wiping my hair out of my face. I would be in dire need of a shower when I got back to the hotel; it was pretty mucky.

"So, like, Clint is not leaving Scott alone. He thinks Scott is in the middle of some huge crisis or something," Dave was telling me.

"Did you ever see that one Full House where Danny thinks DJ is in the middle of a mega-crisis and snoops through her sock drawer?" I asked Dave. Dave shook his head.

"Full House is gay. Danny and Joey were gay together. That's why neither of them had girlfriends."

Dave

"Nah, Danny had Vicky. For like an entire season," Zac answered.

"But then he came out of the closet, and Vicky left him," I joked. "I can't believe you watch and know all this junk about Full House."

"You kidding? I used to watch it and make fun of it all the time. I still do. You know what, in a magazine, somebody once compared me to the Olsen twins," Zac informed me.

"Them? Nah, you're way prettier than them, Zac," I told him, a teasing smile on my face.

"Don't you think I know that? I was insulted," he replied, taking a bite of his chili-dog and smiling at the same time, making him look adorable. I was growing a strange liking to the dimple in his chin; it made him look charming and dignified while still looking silly.

"Say 'owce cream,'" I prompted him suddenly.

"What?" He looked at me as if I had grown demonic horns.

"You know how Michelle on Full House never said 'ice cream,' she always said 'owce cream'?"

He snorted. "Yeah."

"Say 'owce cream.'"

" . . . Owce cream."

I snickered. "Definitely cuter."

Zac edged his mouth into a sly smile. "Are you coming onto me, D?"

"Hey, baby . . . call me Big D, all my sluts do," I cracked, sticking my left hand up into a "gun" by pointing my finger out and my thumb upwards, and then clicking my tongue.

"And why on Earth would your sluts choose a name like 'Big D'?" he asked me cynically.

"Well, why do you think?" I grinned. Zac snorted again.

"All right, 'Big' D," he said, making his fingers act like quotation marks. I grinned and shoved his shoulder in an offended manner. He shoved back, and I just chuckled and shoved him back again. Instead of pushing me back, he smiled and shook his head. "So, did you ever find out what Scott and Taylor fought about?" he questioned.

"Well, all I know is that sensitive toes were stepped on," I replied.

"Taylor said that Scott denied, like, that what they did was because of love."

"I heard that, too. I know that Scott feels really ripped-up about that. It's like, I know he feels something for Taylor, or he wouldn't let the whole thing effect him so much. And I heard Tay thinks that Scott is using him."

"Same on my end."

"Using for what, that makes me wonder. Obviously, I mean, we've seen the physical closeness between them. Remember how they were holding hands under the table in the Hard Rock?" I asked, eyeing Zac in the dim street light. He nodded, a twisted smile on his pillowy lips.

"I hate to say it, I mean, I really do, but they are so damn made for each other."

"I think so, too," I agreed. "If only they could get it through their heads to see that."

"I know. Just look at them when they're together. They're happy. They have so much in common. Scott shouldn't let the fear of liking another guy get in his way."

Then, Zac stopped in mid-step. I raised my eyebrows and stopped, too. "What's wrong?"

Zac faltered. "Oh my God. I cannot believe I just said that."

"Said what? Why? You were completely right," I told him.

"Um . . . no, never mind," Zac was muttering. I grew confused.

"O . . . kay . . ."

Zac and I continued on silently, finishing the loaded, great, greasy hot dogs and taking in the sights around us. I felt a little fuzzy as to why Zac had stopped, but then Zac spoke again.