UPSTAIRS IT'S CHAOS AS usual. Biblio only officially opens at six for dinner, but the preparations start in the early afternoon. There's inventory to take, plates to wash, stock to prepare, gelato to freeze.
Every time I walk into Biblio's entrance I love to imagine the first impression diners get of it.It's massive – a double vaulted ceiling with chandeliers illuminating tapestries and old paintings. Oak bookshelves crowded with books bought in second hand stores line most of the walls.The cleaner is changing the roses and candles on each table, while a waiter stacks menus on the bookshelf at the entrance. The menus are inside old book covers to keep with the library theme.I consider going into the kitchen to say hi to mom and dad, but I know they have their hands full.So I spend the rest of the afternoon in the back room working on my school assignments.Even though I have a couple of solid hours uninterrupted, I still only manage to finish half what I'd hoped to get done. That's probably because every few minutes I look out the window, watching birds in the mulberry tree fighting over the fat purple fruit.Beyond the mulberry tree, Forest Park stretches out, filled with oaks and maples lush with new summer foliage. And beyond that, the snow-capped peak of Mt Hood. I reckon it might be one of the most beautiful views in Portland.And it's totally wasted in a restaurant back room used for storing paperwork.I work this way until the room is infused with buttery late afternoon sunlight.At five I pick up my guitar and head downstairs.The shop's started to fill up.During the week The Night Owl goes full hipster. Ironic facial hair and sailor tattoos every way you look, and loud conversations about Nietzsche and almond milk versus oat milk. I guess they like all the owls and the twelve to twelve thing – we stand out from the crowd because we're open strictly midday to midnight.Tonight though it's a bit quieter. Men in identical grey business suits take up one table near the stage, passing around a phone and laughing at something on the screen. They're talking very loudly. It doesn't sound like English.Near the front counter a bunch of girls around my own age are clustered around a giant mocha bowl. I don't recognize them, so they probably don't go to school with me. They're all whispering and giggling, glancing over at the counter, where Jade is whipping up espressos. All of them, except for one. A girl with curly black hair sits quietly amongst her friends, staring down sadly at her phone. She's wearing a T-shirt with "Felix Lockhart Forever" printed on it, above a group shot of the whole band. She must have missed out on Fable tickets. She looks like she's about to burst into tears. I know the feeling.The rest of the patrons are a mishmash group of twenty-somethings, local artists, writers, a few tourists.It's a good crowd.I push away thoughts of missing the concert, and I mentally banish the butterflies I get every single time before I play. It's not exactly a bad feeling – just a fluttery anticipation.The stage is softly lit, with red velvet curtains draped behind to form a backdrop. There's a single stool and a mic stand. Jade gives me the thumbs up as I walk onto the stage.Mic check done, ready to go.I sit down and begin to play.I start off with one of gran's songs. It was the first song I learned to play on guitar, so it's the first song I play every Friday.A hush goes through the tables after the first few chords.My aim isn't to distract people from their conversations, but that's usually what happens. As I start singing, I look up from my guitar at the audience. I can see the usual expressions.The group of school girls is now turned totally towards me, Jade forgotten. The businessmen have stopped their lively debate and are staring.I know that I have a talent, and I'm proud of it. Gran made sure of that.Having a beautiful voice isn't enough, she'd say. In order to be a star you also need that extra something. An extraordinary gift. You, my sweetheart, have it. Don't waste it. A gift like that needs to be shared.When I play like this, and I see people's jaws drop, or their eyes go wide, I know I was right to listen to my gran.I've had people ask me after my set if I was lip syncing, because they couldn't believe that the voice they were hearing was coming from a teenaged girl. One guy actually wanted to look at the back of the stage for speakers. True story.Ever since I was little, I only really feel like myself when I'm singing. Everything slips away, as the music takes over and I'm pulled into the bubbling melody. Soft, safe, and distant, like being underwater, swaying on the currents.Everything feels ok when I sing.After my third song, I notice a guy sitting all alone at a table in the dark corner under the stairs.I'm not exactly sure what it is about him that captures my attention, but once I've seen him I struggle to look away again.Maybe it's the fact that he has his black hoodie pulled right up over his head, as if he's trying to hide in the shadows. Or the dark shades he's wearing, even though we're indoors and the light is pretty muted. Or maybe it's the intensity of his gaze.Even with the sunglasses, I can feel his eyes burning into me.It's the strangest feeling, not being able to see his face clearly, but knowing that he's staring straight at me. Into me, even. It reminds me of something half forgotten I can't place, and I feel my skin prickle with goose bumps.Then it strikes.For just a split second, there's a dull stabbing pain on the left side of my ribcage, right under my scars. The scars I got that day. I fumble for just a moment, but I find the right cords, and I continue singing, praying my voice doesn't waver. In a moment the pain is gone, dwindling into nothingness like an echo.I scan the crowd to see if anyone noticed, but there's no reaction. They're just sitting there, spellbound, oblivious to my momentary freak-out.Good.I quickly look down at my guitar, and I don't look up for the rest of the set.After several songs I'm done.I'm glad that this time there's just some applause, and no one comes up to me to talk while I'm packing up. I'm feeling too freaked out about just happened on stage to deal with people right now – and knowing that I'm missing my favorite band doesn't help much either. The girls will already be in line at the Rose Plaza by now. They must be so excited.I want to go home and cry.Just thinking about it all makes me want to crawl into a hole, so I decide not to go upstairs and say hi to my parents.From the steady stream of people going up the stairs, I can see that Biblio's even busier than usual. Usually I'd be happy to help out, but tonight the last thing I feel like is being roped into waitressing.I know it's selfish, but I just don't feel up to putting on a fake smile all night.ON THE WAY OUT I stop to say goodbye to Jade.Jade looks up from the latte he's making."What are your plans for the rest of the night?" He asks."Home. YouTube. Dinner," I answer. What I don't mention is that by YouTube I mean I'll be lounging around in my pjs crying over Fable music videos. And by dinner I mean pistachio ice cream. Probably a whole tub.With mom and dad working in the kitchens until late every Friday, I basically have free reign. "Sounds fun. That reminds me though..." he leans across the counter, tucking a loose strand of sandy blonde hair behind his ear. "Why didn't you go with your friends to the concert? I thought you loved Fable. Like, a die-hard super fan."There's no sarcasm in his voice.One of the things I admire most about Jade is how he's so accepting, and he actually makes an effort to see from other people's point of view. I doubt he listens to Fable – he told me once that he mostly listens to old retro stuff
FOR A GOOD TEN seconds, all I can do is stare. This can't be happening.Finally I feel my lips move. "Felix... Lockhart?""In the flesh," he says.I take in the familiar features, looking for some difference which would prove he's just some lookalike having a laugh.I take in the beautiful, perfect face, vampire-pale skin, high cheekbones framed by dark hair. It's his eyes however that banish any doubts – they're recognizable anywhere.Intense hazel green with a ring of brown around the pupil, with a few gold flecks near the rim. Cold and cat-like, predatory even – but somehow too beautiful to be real. I've always wondered if they're actually contacts, but up close I can see his eyes are perfectly clear.No contacts. No Photoshop."They're real," I murmur. "Wow"."What's real?" He asks.I just stare.Felix Lockhart is here, standing right in front of me. The real deal, totally legit. Living, breathing, not just in the mag
INSIDE, THE LIMO IS cool and softly lit. I slide across the leather seat until I'm sitting opposite Felix.There's a cold, fluttery feeling in the pit of my stomach.Felix places the guitar case on the floor between us. He stretches back, crossing his long legs out in front of him at the ankle.I notice he's wearing the same outfit (a dark top, black jeans and navy blue converse sneakers) he was wearing in one of Lyall's Instagram updates from earlier in the day.It's all just so surreal.I look down at my own outfit and realize we're wearing practically the same thing. I didn't change after school, so I'm still in my skinny jeans, converse and a red hoodie.I'd give anything to be wearing a pretty dress right now. Or some killer lipstick or even just eyeliner. I can see Jamie's logic in wearing makeup 24/7 now.But there's no way when I was rushing to get dressed this morning I could have known I'd be going to the concert, escorted by none other t
AS WE PULL INTO the stadium parking lot, I realize that the screaming is coming from a huge crowd of girls hanging around outside.Zee, Grace, Jamie and everyone else who has a ticket will be inside by now.These are the fans who didn't get concert tickets in time.Most of them are standing around waving signs that read "FABLE FOREVER" OR "ENFABLER4LIFE", singing, screaming, showing their support even though they won't get to see the actual show.When Fable first started getting popular, their fans were mostly teenaged girls. The press were quick to label them as a boy band, even though they play their own instruments, and their sound is closer to rock than pop. As they started winning awards and earning respect, the press changed their tune. They were the band that "brought rock back". The cherry on top was when David Bowie, dressed head-to-toe in his Jareth costume from Labyrinth, joined the boys onstage during a performance of Déjà Vu at Central
"THIS WAY," TODD SAYS, walking down the corridor at a fast pace.As I follow the security guard past several sets of frosted glass doors, I remember Beth boasting that her dad got her a suite.If she was telling the truth, it means she and the other Bs are probably somewhere nearby on the same level of the arena.I might even run into them.Oh hell no.Although even if that were to happen, it’s no big deal. Nothing could ruin my good mood. This is shaping up to be officially the most amazeballs night EVER, and it’s only going to get better. I still can't believe I'm going to meet the rest of the band after the show.I'm not too nervous about meeting Lyall or Elliot, because everyone knows that Lyall's a total sweetie and Elliot's super nice. Ben has a bit of a "hothead" image going on but he's really fun, and Alastair is... Alastaire.I have no clue what I'm going to say to them.Todd finally stops in front of a brightly lit room w
THE MOMENT THAT KITTY leaves the suite, the three angels swoop down on me.I shrink back from the cloying semi-circle of bleached blonde hair, fake tan and too-sweet perfume.They look a few years older than me, possibly seniors at another school.I was so worried about running into the Three Bs, and instead I've ended up with another (possibly worse) trio of angels.Unfortunately it's not as coincidental as one might think.Alastaire's fans always seem to travel in packs. All Enfablers are like a big family, a sisterhood that spans the globe – but the angels take it to the extreme.Angels stick together with one goal in mind. Their sole aim is to get chosen. To get noticed by their idol, and to have the honor of being one of the special angels that "Alastaire takes up to heaven" after each concert.That's what the rumors online say, and it looks like there might be some truth to them.The girl in the sparkly gold top is smiling
I TAKE A SEAT AS far away from the angels as possible, at the far end of the row.The view really is incredible, and I sit for a while just looking down at the crowd. Somewhere in the mass of bodies, Grace, Zee and Jamie are singing, dancing, probably crying (tears of joy, of course).I'd love to spot them, but I know the chances are slim.As I think of my friends, it dawns on me that since getting into the limo with Felix, I haven't messaged them even once. They have no idea that I'm even at the concert.I try calling Zee first. Her phone rings for ages, and eventually I get through to her voice mail. When she doesn't pick up I try Jamie, with no luck.It must be so noisy on the floor that they aren't hearing their ringtones.Calling Grace isn't an option – she doesn't even have a phone.Her parents think that cell phones equal sexting, which equals underage sex, which equals teen pregnancy, dropping out of school and a life turning tricks o
KITTY COMES BACK BEFORE the end of the show, this time holding a sparkly silver purse instead of a clipboard.She's changed out of the playsuit and is wearing an elegant black cocktail dress with a plunging neckline.If only I'd put on a pretty dress today. FML."This way, ladies," she says gesturing out the door.The Alastair's Angels push in front of me as we walk to the door.Kitty leads us through a labyrinth of corridors and elevators, all the way to the backstage area on the ground floor.We're ushered into a small, brightly lit dressing room, with several leather sofas and racks of clothes.The walls are covered in mirrors, and the angels quickly whip out their makeup.We haven't been in the room more than ten seconds before they're inspecting their reflections, puckering their lips and adding that all-important final coat of lip gloss.I don't have any makeup or even a hairbrush with me, and there's no way in hell I'd ask