Free Fan Girl by Marla Miniano

she is here
only for him—not for Ashley or for anyone else. He is staring straight
ahead like he is deathly afraid to look her in the eye, but with his hand
wrapped around hers in that familiar, comforting way, it almost feels like they
are back in college, back when it was much simpler, back when their story was
just beginning.
     

Chapter
12

 
     
    Scott sits across from her at a rickety
outdoor table, one palm cradling his chin, his face concealed by aviator
sunglasses and a dark gray fedora. The café in West Hollywood seems to be an
extremely popular spot for rowdy teenagers in trendy graphic tees and shiny
neon sneakers and deconstructed denim cut-offs. They are all trying to be cool
while trying to look like they aren’t trying, and it is excruciating to watch them.
Summer says, “So what’s up with all the gloom and doom?”
    “What
are you talking about?” he asks. He was faking it; he knew exactly what she was
talking about. She can tell because he used to do this all the time, answering
a question with another question in an attempt to stall for time.
    “That,”
she says, pointing at him with her teaspoon, trying to keep her tone light and
friendly. “You have gloom and doom written all over you. There it is, see? G-L-O-O-M …”
    “Written
all over me,” he says, smiling at her for the first time today. “Got it. I’m
sorry, I just have a lot on my mind.”
    “Such
as?”
    “This album,” he says. “The label execs want me to change
so much of it, I almost want to tell them to go write the songs themselves.
What’s worse is that they want to wrap up soon so I can go to Texas to start
the tour by mid-summer, but I can’t wrap up if they keep delaying the
recording. It’s driving me nuts.”
    In Summer’s head, she is brave enough to tell him, “Then
stop doing this. Look at you; you’re a mess. Let’s get out of here—let’s
move out of LA, to some place quieter, where we can start a brand new life. You
know we’ll be great together this time around. It’s not yet too late to be with
me.” In her head, she is brave enough to tell him that she will do anything and everything to make it work, if he’d only let her.
    But
right here, in this noisy, humid café, surrounded by irritating teenagers
flirting with one another and devouring cookies and cake slices and slurping on
their green tea frappuccinos, all she can say is, “Really?”
    “I
can’t stand all the details,” he says. “What does this song mean, and why did I
use this word, and do I really want to wear another leather jacket for the
cover shoot, and can I please change the title of this song to something more
commercial?”
    “Don’t
you have a manager?” she asks. “Isn’t someone supposed to be defending you?”
    “I
do, but Leon doesn’t want to interfere. He thinks negotiating with the label on
my own will give me a better grasp of who I am as an artist.” Under his breath,
he says, “It will also make me bat-shit crazy, but apparently that’s not an
issue to anyone.”
    “Why
are you having trouble with your songwriting?” she asks. “I’m your biggest fan,
I know all your Violet Reaction lyrics. People sincerely love them. They’re
excellent.”
    “I
didn’t write those,” he says quietly.
    “What do you mean you didn’t write those?” She tries to
lift a forkful of pecan pie to her lips but her hands are shaking and her
fingers feel clammy and slippery. She still has the lyrics of “V-Day” memorized: so maybe on this day/ we can all be lonely
together/ and maybe on this day/ because someone else is lonely/ in exactly the
same way I am/ in exactly the same way you are/ it won’t be as bad/ as it is on
the other 364 ones. The other Violet
Reaction songs that went on to become hits in the Philippines also had earnest,
insightful lyrics—people often used them as Facebook status messages and
constantly quoted them on Twitter.
    “I
mean I didn’t write those ,” he
says, gritting his