Chapter 2

Kyle

Tristan walks in sporting a translucent white shirt. And just in case you missed the point, the top two buttons are undone with a pendant resting just above the third. No excuse not to appreciate his sculpted chest. He’s come a long way since we started that YouTube channel together. From tween idol to A-list celebrity; there’s no denying he’s a superstar. Even here— without his entourage and cameras and fans—Tristan shines brightly, and I feel myself slipping further into the background.

He pauses to let us bask in his presence, or maybe he’s looking for something. I can’t tell, he’s wearing sunglasses.

Behind him is Marjorie, our producer/manager/den mother. Not many women climb as high up the music industry ladder as she has. She’s everything an artist could dream of in a supporter and protector (in the tough-love sort of way). I’d tell any singer Marjorie’s offered a contract to that she’ll encourage them at every stage, fight like hell for their career, and make a kickass godmother to any future children. And if anyone (especially a young woman), asked me about interning under her, I’d tell them to walk away. Quickly. Because part of what makes Marjorie so good at her job is how ruthless she’s willing to get.

I see a slice of Mina peeking through the door before Marjorie shuts it on her.

“Kyle!” Tristan waves. “Oscar, and…”

“Dave,” says Dave.

“Dave!” Tristan’s enthusiasm is—as always—cranked up to eleven. Dave’s smiling ear to ear. Whatever thoughts he might still be nursing about KO-ing the heartthrob of Never Boy Land melt into the ether. Tristan looks around the room, perhaps to see if there’s anyone else he should warmly greet. Instead, he asks, “Is this where we’re performing?”

“Yes,” says Dave. “It’s all brand new. Just finished the remodel upgrade last week.” That explains the fresh paint and new-car-interior smells of the studio. “Besides the state of the art headsets, you’ll each get one of these motion-capture spaces. Plenty of room to do your dance.” Dave jumps in and does a meme-worthy recreation of one of our signature hand, kick, hip-swivel moves. “See how we’ve graded the incline? It will give a gentle reminder when you’re at the edge of the perimeter space. And these flat screens will show both what you’re seeing and your overall location, so your assigned spotter will keep you in the right location in the game space.”

Tristan frowns. “I know you guys worked really hard on setting all of this up, but I’m worried about visibility.”

“Bro, we’ll be wearing headsets. We won’t be seeing any of this,” says Oscar.

“But it’s so dark.” Dave looks stricken by Tristan’s pronouncement. Marjorie’s brow furrows. Oscar gives me a confused concerned look; silently asking me to step in as the Tristan Whisperer. Fine.

“Tristan,” I say, “take off your sunglasses.”

He does and looks around with unabashed wonder. “My bad. This place is awesome.”

Dave leans in and sotto voce asks: “Is he on something?“

“Nope,” I assure him. I’ve known Tris since we were six. He’s always been this way.

Dave takes Tristan over to get him fitted with a headset. He’s got the digital caliper out but seems unnerved by Tristan’s perfect flowing golden locks (as if he might be breaking some contract by touching them).

Marjorie sidles up to me. “Good to see you here, Kyle. All chipper and on top of things?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because of what happened yesterday at rehearsal.” She’s referring to me learning the steps for the wrong dance and Oscar having to take me aside to help me put together the combos. It was embarrassing, but I thought I’d handled it okay.

“Sorry about that. I’ll be more prepared next time.”

“No, no. You’ve only been back a month. I’m impressed by how much you’ve retained,” Marjorie reassures me. “And you’ve kept in shape, better than most college graduates.” I notice the microsecond eye-twitch in the direction of Dave’s stomach.

Option one, take the compliment and keep struggling to read the tea leaves. Option two, honesty. I go with two.

“I’m a work in progress. Oscar’s been reviewing dance steps and choreography with me, and Tristan’s letting me use his gym and personal trainer. I’m still slow with my timing, but I’ll have it down by showtime next week.” As supporting evidence for my commitment, I throw in some science, “I’ve been re-watching our old performances. I read in an article that doing so activates mirror neurons that can help with muscle memory.”

“That’s my Kyle, smart as paint.”

“Beats being the quiet one.”

I get a knowing smile from that. Back at the start of our careers when we were finalizing the band lineup, Marjorie cornered me and confided that she wasn’t sure where I fit.

“I’m fine with being a backup singer,” I remember responding. It was the natural position for me; the others could out-sing and out-dance me. Well, maybe not Tristan. But with his face and charisma, it was obvious the strategy was to put him front and center.

“I’m talking about offstage.” Marjorie was big into “offstage.” Half of rehearsals were her lecturing about what was expected of us. It’s where the Marjorie Banks’ Laws of Boy Bands came from. “It’s not like you couldn’t handle the role of the cute one, or the responsible one, or even the bad boy, you’ve got the snark for it. But Micah, Oscar, and Cole all fit those better. Diego tells me we should make you the quiet one.”

“Seems like a leftover can’t-think-of-anything-else role. Doesn’t Diego know any other one-dimensional stereotypes?”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“See? Snarky.” Marjorie laughed. She liked it when we cleverly dissed her ex-husband business partner. “You kids are so smart these days.”

She was acting all casual. It didn’t stop my mind from racing. Five members was standard for a boy band. But what if they didn’t need me, or maybe they were looking for someone with genuine talent?

“How about you make me the nerd? All teen tv shows have a nerd in the cast.”

How much did that desperate tween impulse cement my identity and set me on my life trajectory? I used to study on the bus, and I kept enrolling in high school classes and when the others just took proficiency exams. And then there was majoring in physics. If Tris hadn’t called me about getting the band back together, I’d likely be picking out grad schools now.

Still, there are worse tropes to be saddled with.

The door buzzes and Mina walks in with two of them: Micah Cardigan—the baby all grown up—and Cole Silva—fresh from rehab.

“Sorry for being a bit late,” says Micah. He got his growth spurt after the band broke up— so now I’m the shortest—but he’s still rocking the cute china doll look: delicate features, alabaster skin, and gentle red curls. And boyish freckles, can’t ignore those freckles.

“Funny how your ‘a bit late’ is always fifteen minutes past any meeting time,” says Cole. His hoodie, which covers his buzz cut and tattoos, also shadows his dark skin and trimmed facial hair. All that pops are his piercing ice blue eyes.

They’re opposites in more than just looks. Micah grew up affluent and overscheduled; his entire childhood was optimized to nurture his budding musical talents. Cole bounced around relatives’ apartments and foster homes in New Jersey and made use of the benign neglect to develop his hip hop and beatboxing skills. I’m not sure if it’s their different backgrounds (or just their personalities) but they’ve never really gotten along. And time apart has not improved their interactions.

“Better fashionably late than being erratic and unreliable,” Micah snipes.

“Fashionable? I don’t think that shirt could get any more preppy,” says Cole.

They’re each their own brand of snowflake. Micah is a musical genius, but he’s also temperamental and (because he is the youngest) kind of bratty. Meanwhile, we’re all concerned that Cole could fall off the wagon—again—but his tough guy exterior makes it hard to gauge what’s really going on with him.

“You’re both here now,” Marjorie says before the sniping erupts into a full argument. “Mina and Dave will get you set up.” They walk over to Dave who looks awkwardly between them trying to figure out who’s got priority.

I say to Marjorie: “If you’re worrying about someone not taking the comeback seriously, how about those two?”

“Micah and Cole are good. They need this chance for their careers and livelihood. But most of all, they need it for their identities.” Before I can chime in that I, too, am a nobody without Never Boy Land, Marjorie continues: “If this doesn’t work, you’ve got a degree from an Ivy League university. With good grades too, according to Tristan.”

So, she thinks I’m slumming it in a boy band. I’m tempted to tell her that I could have gotten easy hookups and plenty of recreational drugs with a lot less work backpacking across Europe this summer, but no one wins a fight with Marjorie Banks. Instead I point out: “Tristan doesn’t have anything to gain from the comeback tour either.”

“I’ve given this talk to him. He says he wants to be back with you guys.”

“I want that too.” I look across the room to where Micah and Cole are now wearing the headsets. Oscar’s taking a photo of them. Tristan’s behind, photobombing them with bunny ears. “I want to be a part of Never Boy Land.”

Even if I’m standing off to the side and watching.

“Okay then.” Marjorie pats me on the back. “We’ll make it happen.” She clears her throat loudly and the entire room quiets down to pay attention. “It looks like we’re all set here. I’ve got a meeting to straighten out Sky Coyote’s lawyers on a few details.” She looks around purposely and her eyes settle hard on Mina. “You’ll remember to handle the lunch orders, right.” It’s not a question. “Perfect. Text me if there are any issues. We don’t want to fuck this up.” And she’s gone. I sometimes imagine Marjorie as Superman, except if he were an asshole.

Dave and Mina exchange looks but don’t say anything.

“Give her ten seconds,” Cole advises. “If she’s not back by then, she’ll be gone for the rest of the day. Probably.”

These don’t seem to be the soothing words they need, so I suggest, “Hey, before we get started with the VR, should we take those photos?” It has the desired effect of cheering them up, and this also guarantees Marjorie won’t whisk us away before I can make good on my promise to Dave.

“Now you absolutely cannot show these to anyone until the official announcement next week,” says Micah as we all line up.

“Dude, they already signed the NDAs,” says Cole. “They know the drill.” He’s right. Tech companies take PR embargos even more seriously than the entertainment industry. Micah should know that given that his mom is a vice president at one of them.

Dave takes the photo with all of us and Mina; Mina makes sure to stand next to Tristan. Then Mina takes a photo of all of us with Dave; Dave makes sure to stand next to Tristan.

Of course they would. In the last five years, Tristan has put out two solo albums that have gone platinum, starred in a major Hollywood movie, and made People’s Sexiest Man Alive list three times.

And the rest of us? Micah’s released one moderately successful record, and one flop. Cole appeared in a lot of tabloids (not in a good way) before taking a break to spend some quality time in rehab. None of the hip hop or R&B groups Oscar’s worked for have resulted in a full time offer. And me? I’ve got that physics degree from Cornell.

Photos are taken, the good mood is restored. Mina hands us our equiptment and leads us to our assigned spots. Dave pulls out a massive laptop.

“First session is just to get you guys familiar with the space and moving around,” he says. We put on the headsets and make sure we’re holding the controllers in the correct hands. “Later we’ll get you into the body sensor suits for the dance routines. For now, let’s do something fun, like slay a dragon.”

I turn on my headset and see nothing. I wait patiently because techie things take time. Still nothing, not even a startup logo.

“Are any of you guys connected?” I hear Micah ask.

“I’m not seeing anything,” admits Oscar.

“Maybe this is some sort of pregame meditation,” says Tristan. “Namaste.”

“Yeah, something’s not working. Hang on,” says Dave.

“Wasn’t there a problem last week with a non-registered company device?” asks Mina.

“That could be it.”

Mina collects my watch and phone. I’m still in the dark, but I hear her moving amongst the group.

“Oh, this isn’t a smart watch,” says Tristan. “Check out the face.”

“It says it’s 1:45 AM.”

“Yeah, I got to get it fixed. But, like they say, it’s still right twice a day.”

An image of Tris’s bluefaced Omega pops into my mind and I roll my eyes. Only Tristan Ives would wear a broken watch that still costs a semester’s worth of tuition. I make a note to give him a piece of my mind about it later.

There’s a beep as Dave restarts the system. More darkness. After another minute he sends Mina out of the room to track down someone called Todd. Next, he says he’s going to check on something in the server room. I hear a security buzz and a door closing.

No one’s saying anything. With the noise canceling headphones doing their thing, I could squeeze in an impromptu mindfulness session. I’m starting to zone out when white text appears in the display.

“The Realm of Mythreal is in Peril. Dark Forces are Amassing to Disrupt the Balance and Throw the World into Chaos. Only You, Brave Heroes, can Avert Catastrophe. Prepare for Transport.”

I reread the words. Did they change the opening text for the virtual reality version of the game? And Papyrus font, really? The words fade as a bright light fills my vision and I experience some serious vertigo.