We'll Never Tell a Soul

Dripping in sweat, I filed off of the stage with the other guys, my shirt tossed carelessly on my shoulder. I'd taken it off somewhere through the set and I didn't particularly care to put it back on. I grabbed a water bottle and took a few long sips, barely sitting down for a second before Flyzik was ushering us up and forward to socialize with those crazy bitches we call fans.

Rather than be ogled in the most uncomfortable way, I decided to put my shirt back on. I was tempted to ditch – I'd been feeling sick all day – but I knew Matt would be outrageously pissed if I did. Sighing with contempt, I made my way to the meet-and-greet area, rolling my eyes are girls screamed out for Alex's dick.

Normally, I'd be living it up, you know that's the best part, knowing you made the fans happy. But I was just too lousy feeling to truly care. Alex seemed to be able to tell because he patted my shoulder, mumbling something along the lines of 'just get it over with'. I sighed again, nodding.

Girl after girl, running up, exclaiming how much she loved the band, taking a picture, asking for an autograph, then running off with her friends. The crowd was dwindling down and when just a handful of people were left a timid looking child approached me.

Or at least I thought it was a child. She seemed to be here alone and there was no way someone would let a little kid come here without any parental supervision, right?

She was tiny – really tiny – hardly five foot, and wore dark brown glasses, with thick rectangular frames that had rounded corners. She had a short blonde bob that was longer in the front than it was in the back and had so many layers to it, I wondered how long the haircut would have taken. She had snakebites that her tongue kept flicking over and I could see multiple tattoos covering her skin. She was not the normal girl coming to our shows. She was dressed casually, another anomaly. Most girls showed up dressed like sluts, doing their very best to try to get in our pants. She had on a soft pink Millionaires tee shirt, proclaiming their motto of “DGAF 'til we die” on the front in pretty cursive writing with white and pink Nike running shorts and a pair of strange looking tennis shoes. I say strange looking because the top part looked like running shoes, but the sides hugged close to her feet and the soles looked very thin, meaning they couldn't possibly be for running. She clutched a black JAGK hoodie in her arms, and carried a silver sharpie in one hand.

“Hi,” She said quietly, politely holding out her sharpie free hand for me to shake, tilting her head up so that she could look at me. I playfully rolled my eyes at her and pulled her into a hug, making her blush. When my arms dropped back to their sides she pulled off her glasses, cleaning them to keep her face down and eyes off me.

“Hey there, kiddo,”

“Whoa, whoa there. None of that 'kiddo' crap,” She chastised me, looking up, her glasses still in her hands. I was positively awestruck by the complex beauty that we call irises. Hers were so many different colors. The edges closest to her pupil were a striking, bright and vivid green, while the outter edge near the white of her eye was a soft blue. The middle was a blend between the two colors with little yellow dots sprinkled in a ring around her eye.

“Why don't you wear contacts? Your eyes are beautiful, but you can hardly see them with those glasses on,” The words had spilled from my mouth before I could contemplate the consequences. Damn being sick.

The little blond blushed furiously and handed me the hoodie and sharpie. “It's for my friend, Adrienne. Her and her boyfriend were supposed to come for the concert, but she broke her ankle and she's on crutches. They gave me and my brother the tickets. So could you sign it to her please?”

“Sure,” I wrote out a little message on the hoodie:

Once your ankle gets better, you get your ass straight to another concert. I wanna see your beautiful fucking face, got it, Adrienne? XOXO Jack

I always liked to make it personal rather than just a generic response. I love my fans, and I don't see how some bands can just treat them like shit. I handed the hoodie and sharpie back to her and smiled. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” I hesitated, but then continued on. “So, how old are you? I know that you got kinda pissed when I called you 'kiddo', but seriously, you don't look old enough to be here by yourself. There are creepy ass pedos out there, y'know.”

She laughed a bit, finally putting her glasses back on, reading what I'd written on the hoodie, I think.

“I'm sixteen,” She answered, still staring down at the hoodie. “To be honest, I'd never really listened to your music before tonight. It was amazing.”

“Well, I'm glad you had a good time,” I responded sincerely. I adored hearing that the fans had a great time. That was our goal after all, wasn't it? She appeared to still be analyzing the writing on the hoodie and I was just about to comment on it when she beat me to it.

“You know handwriting says a lot about a person, even if they don't know it. Small letters reflect the quiet ones, introspective, detail oriented. The same with letters slanting to the left, introspection and emotional control. All the letters connecting reflect a highly cautious person. I'd say that you, Jack, have a lot you're not telling about yourself.”

She turned to go, but I caught her arm. “I'm sorry, but I don't think I caught your name.”

“Chandler,” She stated quietly, lightly biting down on her bottom lip.

“But that's a boys name.”

“I guess my parents were trying to let me know they were hoping for something else.”

With that she turned and she walked away, leaving me rather puzzled. My mind couldn't seem to wrap around the tiny girl with the boy name. Probably not a good thing considering the fact that she'd just told me she was sixteen and I knew very well that I was twenty-three.