American Girl On Saturn (7 page)

“Oh, sorry,” he says. “Did you want that spot?”

No one else can see the sneaky smile wrapped across his face, and I’m so, so thankful. It’s a dead giveaway that there’s at least a flirtationship going on here. He probably hears my heart. Maybe he’ll write a song to its beat, and it’ll be Spaceships Around Saturn’s next big single.

I reach back diagonally and place my hand on the red circle above Milo’s. He has the advantage, and he knows it. I hope Mom and Godfrey remain indoors until this round of Twister is over. This position isn’t quite so PG13. Oh God, I’d completely collapse on the plastic and die if Mom walked outside and saw me practically pinned underneath Milo.
It’s not my fault, Mom. It was right hand on red!

Emery shouts out that the next spin is hers, but Benji’s announcement makes this porno-position even worse.

“Emery broke the spinner! Hold what you’ve got!” he yells.

My ‘right hand on red’ does its best to hold up my bodyweight, which would be much easier if I weren’t distracted by the beautiful boy with caramel eyes. He’s too close for comfort – so close that I can hear the swishes of his T-shirt each time he moves.

Somewhere off in the universe, outside of Milo Grayson, Aralie yells at Emery for flicking the arrow into the grass. Benji tells us to ‘hold on’ again, and Tate says finding the spinner is going to be impossible.

Noah laughs. He’s the only one laughing. I guess the joke’s on me.

Milo clears his throat.

“Would you like some entertainment? I can sing for you,” he offers. He glances over at Noah. “Hey Winters, pick a song!”

Noah’s eyes shrink as he goes through his mental playlist. His face lights up with one of Emery’s hyena smiles.

“‘Boyfriend’ by Bieber,” Noah suggests. “You know, our Canadian brother and all.”

I wish I had a tattoo gun rather than Sharpies. I’d take those needles and ram them into Noah’s skin until he was an inky pulp from Saturn.

And there’s absolutely nothing I can do because Milo is about to say hello to falsetto in three…two…

Milo’s fingers find their way into my ribcage.

“No!” I collapse onto the multi-colored dots in a fit of fangirl giggles.

“Sweet spot?” he asks. He smiles over me, completely victorious.

I push him back. “You cheated!”

“Milo wins!” Noah shouts out. “I really thought you had it, too, Chloe. I can’t believe you just crumbled like that.”

“He cheated,” I repeat.

Milo shakes his head in protest. Noah has the audacity to agree with him. And thanks to Emery’s lost spinner in the grass, the plastic is my only other witness.

Noah saunters over to us like a rapper trying to pull off a classic swagger.

“Good job, Milo,” he says. “You know how clumsy girls can be. I knew you’d take her down.”

I
peel myself off of the plastic, grab my flip flops, and head back toward the house. I’ve had enough exhilaration and angst for one afternoon. The video premiere was enough. Porno-Posed-Twister with Milo was too much. But I can’t escape Spaceships Around Saturn even if I try.

Milo and Noah come up behind me like a black hole engulfing a shooting star.

“Whoa, where are you going?” Noah asks. “I need you to work some Sharpie magic for me.”

I spin around by the pool. The blue water glistens behind him.

“Why don’t you ask your Canadian brother to help you out? I’ll even lend you the Sharpies, traitor,” I say.

Noah attempts a jaw-dropped shocked expression, but his dimples pierce through and make it impossible for him to look appalled. He moves closer to me.

“If you wouldn’t keep secrets from me then I would’ve backed you up,” he says through his teeth. “I need to be in the loop.”

An evil thought crosses my mind, and I instantly do what I can
to erase it. But it’s sort of like typing an English essay. You type a line. You think it sucks. You slowly backspace. Then you realize it helps meet that three-and-a-half-pages criteria, so you keep it. This evil thought is too good for the backspace button.

“You want in the loop?” I ask.

He nods rapidly and his smile bounces up and down.

“Okay,” I say. “Spell
‘loop’ backward, and you’ll totally be in it.”

I wait half a second for the word to click in his brain before I push him with all my energy into the cold water behind him. A splash of H2O floods the poolside concrete and splatters over my feet as Noah bobs to the surface. I rush to the patio door before he has a chance to climb out and throw me in.

But Milo blocks my escape.

“Are you free tonight?” he asks.

“As free as I can be on a lockdown,” I reply.

He slides the patio door open and motions me inside.

“I’ll hold Noah back,” he says. “As long as you promise to meet me out here at midnight.”

The numbers on my phone jump from 11:59 PM to 12:00 AM. Midnight. I silence my cell phone, slip it under my pillow, and glance down the hallway before tiptoeing out of my room. I hurry down the stairs, through the kitchen, and catch my breath before I walk over to the patio door.

This whole “late night with Milo” thing was much easier when I was sitting at the table and he just showed up. Now I actually have to stand without my knees shaking. I have to walk toward him without tripping. I should’ve gotten here early, but I hated to look eager.

He looks up from the poolside lounge chair when I slide the glass door open. He stands and walks toward me but stops halfway and picks up Emery’s firefly jar. He examines the lid with its poked holes.

“Little Saturnite’s, I’m assuming?” he asks, shaking the empty jar.

Seriously? He asked me outside at midnight to talk about Emery’s jar for catching glowing bugs? Just because he’s famous and gorgeous and can sing amazingly well doesn’t mean I want to sit outside with him on a hot summer night and talk about bugs with him.

“Yeah,” I say
, instead of lashing out over bug talk. “She likes to catch as many fireflies as she can on her way across. Then she gets in her tent, zips it up so it’s pitch black, and watches them glow.”

“Her way across where?” he asks.

“Our property,” I say. “Her tent is out near the treehouse. It’s a long walk. I think it’s outside of your boundaries, though. You guys aren’t supposed to venture off.”

He smiles. “Well,
I’m feeling rebellious. Plus, it’ll give us plenty of time to talk. C’mon.”

He reaches out his hand, and I stand here like an idiot because I don’t even know what to do. The butterflies in my stomach engage in a boxing match with each other. What if I reach out and he jerks his hand back and laughs at me for thinking he actually liked me?

“Okay, never mind then,” he says. He pulls his arm back to his own body. “Will you at least still walk with me?”

Yep. I’m officially an idiot. All I can think about are the millions of girls who would kill – literally murder – to be in my place right now. And what do I do? Reject the boy with the caramel eyes.

I can’t even speak, so I just nod and motion toward the yard. He walks a few steps ahead of me, jar in hand, and I rack the depths of my mind for something to say.

He taps his fingers on the lid then unscrews it.

“Are you gonna help me catch fireflies or am I going to have to do the bug thing alone?” he asks.

“I can
handle fireflies,” I say.

Fireflies
are nothing compared to the butterflies I’m feeling.

We walk a few feet across the yard, and the moonlight glints off the side of his face. I wonder if he knows he’s as beautiful as he is. I’m sure he does. He’s told every single day that he’s perfect and gorgeous and amazing. Maybe he’s going through withdrawals
from not having fans throw themselves at him. Maybe he needs me for an ego boost. Maybe I’m his confirmation while he’s here. Ugh, that sucks. I so don’t want to be a confirmation.

A spark of yellow glows ahead of us, and Milo
sprints in its direction. My flip flops aren’t much protection against the wet grass. It feels slimy against my skin.

“Got him,” Milo says. He twists the lid back onto the jar and hands it to me. “I’ll catch them if you can handle the lid.”

The little bug glows. It’s like holding a star or catching lightning in a bottle. I hold the jar against the night sky and watch the firefly flicker on and off.

“Let’s play twenty questions,” Milo says.

He doesn’t look at me, though. He stares off into the distance, probably gauging how fast he’ll need to run to catch up to that sparkling mass of fireflies across the yard.

“That could get dangerous,” I say.

Twenty questions is on the level of truth or dare. There are some things I’m just too scared to answer. And really, there are some questions I’m too scared to learn the answer to.

“Okay, we’ll go Emery-style and make our own rules,” he says. “We don’t ask questions we wouldn’t be willing to answer ourselves, and if at any point we feel awkward about a question, we don’t have to answer it. Fair enough?”

It’s like my own Twitter Q&A with Milo Grayson. Who cares if I’m an idiot? Right now, I’m the luckiest girl in the universe.

“Fair enough,” I say. “You go first.”

“Question
numero uno,” Milo says as we walk toward the string of trees that line our property. “In your honest opinion, who is the best looking guy in Spaceships Around Saturn?”

I feel like Aralie the instant I put my hand on my hip. Milo glances over at me and bursts into laughter.
He shakes his head.

“I knew you wouldn’t go for that. Let me try again,” he says.

The silly smile never leaves his face. The moon acts as his spotlight, making sure the world sees his smile. He completely lights up the dark night.

“Favorite song of all time?” he asks.

“‘Bleeding Butterflies’ by Sebastian’s Shadow,” I answer.

I feel like I’m bleeding butterflies these days. Sebastian’s Shadow was onto something. Maybe they could see into the future and knew that Spaceships Around Saturn would form and become famous, and every girl in the entire universe from Earth to Saturn would bleed butterflies any time one of the SAS boys was in the vicinity.

“You’re a Shadow fan? Isaac Torrey is the
reason
I learned to play guitar,” he says.

Oh my God.
He is a fan of my favorite band in the entire world. No one around here listens to Sebastian’s Shadow. Well, none of my friends do anyway. Sebastian’s Shadow is too screamy, too dark, too emo, too whatever for my friends. No one that I know appreciates awesome guitar riffs or deep, symbolic lyrics, but Milo Grayson does!

“I love them,” I say, almost too fast. “They’ve been my favorite band for the last three years. I saw them last year, and they were amazing live. And they’re the nicest people ever.”

Milo nods much too quickly.

“I met them backstage at an awards show
,” he says. “I completely got all star-struck and froze and could barely talk to Isaac. He’s so underrated. He’s a musical genius.”

I can’t imagine Milo ever being star
-struck. He’s more famous than Isaac Torrey could ever imagine being. I smile at the thought of Milo being tongue-tied and starry-eyed.

“I have a picture of me with Isaac,” I say. “It was at the meet and greet before their show. My ex-boyfriend accused me of cheating on him when I posted it on Facebook. It was the greatest compliment ever.”

“Well maybe I need to take you with me to the next event where I may cross paths with Sebastian’s Shadow. You can introduce me and help me get the words out,” Milo says.

Hopefully that spotlight of a moon isn’t casting down on me. I’m the one who’s tongue-
tied and starry-eyed now. Thankfully Milo is more concerned with catching fireflies.

“Your turn,” Milo says.

Every Saturnite out there probably knows the answer, and Emery could tell me over breakfast, but I ask him anyway.

“The
bromance with Tate – what gives? You seem closer to Noah,” I say.

He laughs and nods.

“I am closer to Noah,” he admits. “But when we first got signed, for some reason I ended up next to Tate in most of our promo pictures, and because my arm was usually around him, the fans ran with it.”

“
Ohhhh, so Noah
is
more of your type then?” I can’t help myself.

“Hey now,” Milo says. “You didn’t want to tell me your type, so I can’t possibly feel comfortable telling you mine.”

Thirteen fireflies and too many questions later, my butterflies have settled. He’s told me about his family, growing up in Canada, and that his favorite color is blue. He prefers Italian dressing over Ranch, and his favorite parts of being in a boyband are the brotherhood, the whole ‘living your dream’ bit, and the fans. The worst parts? No privacy, no sleep, and the fans. If my brain didn’t remind me every three seconds that he’s famous and perfect and on Emery’s bedroom wall, he could totally pass for a super cool, regular human boy.

He unzips the flimsy door to Emery’s tent while I hold the sparkling jar.

“Ladies first,” he says, motioning me to go inside.

I crawl into the tent, and Milo’s silhouette enters behind me. He sits down across from me before zipping us inside. We fall into darkness minus the little speckles of light in my hand.

“So,” Milo says
from somewhere within the tent. “What’s the deal with Godfrey? I thought butlers wore tuxedos and were unbelievably proper.”

I laugh. Godfrey was here before I was. Sometimes people mistake him for our grandfather, and we just let them think he is. Dad’s parents died when he was young, and Mom’s family lives across the country. We see our grandparents twice a year, tops. Godfrey suits the role better anyway.

“His wife owned a flower shop before I was born,” I explain. “Mom used them religiously, but his wife was diagnosed with cancer and died shortly after. It was really fast. Godfrey lost the shop paying for medical bills, and he was about to lose his house too. Mom and Dad had just gotten married, I was on the way, and Mom gave him the guest house and a job.”

“And he’s been here ever since?” Milo assumes.

I nod, but he can’t see me.

“He’s more of Mom’s personal assistant. Or errand-runner
,” I say. “He has a lot more free time now that Aralie and I can drive ourselves places. But with Dad’s job, he wasn’t always here to help Mom run in different directions, so Godfrey did.”

“Well, it sounds like you have a pretty awesome life here,” he says.

That would be so lame if it wasn’t coming from the mouth of an international superstar.

“Can I quote you on that when lockdown is over?” I ask.

“You can quote me on anything you’d like,” he says.

I hear the smile in this voice, and I’m
grateful for the darkness. Now I can plaster that goofy fangirl grin across my face, and he’ll never know.

We sit in the tent with our glowing jar for another few minutes while he rambles on about song lyrics and stupid marketing tactics they’ve used and all of the awesome places he’s visited. He talks about the time they were kicked out of
(and banned from) a hotel because Benji and Jules decided to go swimming in the outdoor fountain. Then he talks about Noah’s bad tattoo jobs and how Tate collects phone numbers at nearly every show.

“This is so weird,” he finally says, completely ending all talk of his Saturn brothers.

“What’s weird?” I ask.

Now is one of those times I wish we weren’t in a dark tent. I can’t see his face. I bet he’s doing that thing with his mouth – that puckered up sideways kiss thing that he does.

“I never get to have actual conversations with girls,” he says. “Most of them just scream or cry, and the others are too shocked to speak.”

Saturn’s angels are singing! He
’s totally oblivious to my fluttering nerves. My attempts to hide my newly-found Saturnite status have worked.

“I’m pretty good at keeping my cool around famous guys,” I say. “Isaac Torrey will totally back me up on that.”

But Isaac Torrey looks nothing like this beautiful boy. Of course I kept my cool around him. And he’s like thirty…and married. He’s not even on the same planet as Milo.

“
I don’t doubt that,” he says. “What do you say we set these guys free?”

He reaches for the jar, and his skin brushes against mine.

I will not scream like a fangirl. I will not scream like a fangirl.

He grasps the jar and shuffles over to the zipped up doorway. He crawls into the night air and extends his hand to help me out. This time, I take it.

We walk hand-in-hand halfway across the yard until he decides this is the perfect spot to release our jar of stars. He sets my hand free so he can untwist the lid. One by one, the fireflies disband and rejoin the summertime air.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you could draw?” Milo asks as he reseals Emery’s jar.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you could play guitar?” I counter.

“You never asked,” he says.

I smile. “Neither did you.”

He nudges me with his elbow and treks on toward the house. He tosses Emery’s jar back and forth between his hands, and I hope it doesn’t shatter on the patio or the entire household will be outside to see what’s going on.

Luckily he sets the jar right back where he found it and walks to the sliding glass door. Before he opens it, he looks back at me.

“Can you give me some practice ink too?” he asks.

“Hmm,” I say. “Depends. Can you write me a song?”

A smile
spreads across his face, and I know I’m smiling like a total fangirl at my bravery.

“Next time we do this, you bring
your Sharpies. I’ll bring my guitar,” he says.