Best for Last

I’d always said that I didn’t want to be famous. I’d always said that I wouldn’t let it get to me, and, to a degree, I didn’t. When my fame unexpectedly peaked, I was eighteen and preparing for tour. My three best friends were my band mates and we were accompanied by five other extraordinary boys who will always hold a special place in my heart.

Instead of being a musician, I wanted to be a student. I’d gotten into an undergraduate program at Harvard after 9 long years of private Austrian education, 9 months of American public school, and 3 years of on and off homeschooling. I’d met the boy I wanted to eventually marry and had enough money to retire by the time I was 16.

But there was a problem with my perfect life: a contract. A series of papers with my signature on them were the only things between me and Harvard. Because of this contract, I theoretically had to do everything that Disney and Hollywood Records told me for five years: what to wear, what to sing—they even tried to get me to date certain people, but I wouldn’t listen; I had no reason to. I pushed the limits and they let me because I never had a television show and they were afraid that, God forbid, I would speak ill of them. So I wore what I wanted to. I sang and talked about sex as soon as I turned seventeen. I dated a boy on Broadway and not an upcoming actor. My friends were jealous—they’d all been actresses at one point and had to have their music monitored because they were idols. I was lucky, they said. They had to wear what they wanted and have sex and date in secret.

It wasn’t until my last ever tour that I actually came close to missing the life I’d known since I was 14. When I met those five extraordinary boys, something inside of me changed. We clicked instantly and they helped me realize that it was okay to open up to the world. With them, I found the courage to break away from everything I’d known and become the woman I was born to be. They say that you should always save the best for last, and, thanks to the company that ultimately destroyed my adolescence and forced me to tour, I did.

We found out about the tour during a heat wave in mid-May, all of us dreading the idea of another summer in Los Angeles. I was sitting cross-legged on the couch in my dad and stepmother’s living room with my three closest friends, staring longingly at the pool in the backyard. We all wore shorts that stuck to our sweaty legs and tank tops that absorbed occasional beads of sweat. The air conditioning was broken and wouldn’t be fixed for another two days, but we were still in high spirits.

Charles seemed to be oblivious to the heat, as he sat across from us in a three-piece business suit with the same stern expression on his face that he always wore. “Ladies,” he said coolly. “As you know, you’re no longer the biggest teen stars in the music industry.”

“I wouldn’t really call us ‘teens,’ Charlie, old pal,” I said—he hated when we called him that. “Seventy-five percent of us are going to be twenty within the next six months.” I played with the corner of a throw pillow that I had previously placed in my lap, just so Charles didn’t get an eyeful. “And anyway, that’s not true—Demi and Selena are doing well. They just released albums.”

“Nearly a year ago,” Charles said, tight lipped. “And what have you and Miley done?”

Miley and I had been MIA for the past few years, but it wasn’t something either of us particularly minded: she wanted to focus on being a real person and I wanted to focus on school. I was going to college that fall and a huge amount of publicity was the last thing I needed. Recording three albums in five years was perfectly fine with me, even if my own manager didn’t think so.

Charles was smug with our silence. He moved on. “I’ve planned a tour for you,” he said suddenly, “With a new European boy band, One Something. They want to popularize the boys here, and the gods up at Disney want to milk each of you for every penny you’re worth, especially when Jordan’s contract comes up in September.” It was true that we were once Disney’s biggest moneymakers—possibly the highest grossing humans they’d ever seen—but we were all entering adulthood and wanted to be taken seriously. “They think that this will give you the publicity you need.”

“One Direction,” Selena said. We all looked at her, wondering what she meant. She shrugged, “The band. They were on this British reality show and Justin performed. One of them even looks like him, I heard.”

He continued, ignoring her as he usually did when one of us spoke—he always sounded infinitely bored when he talked to us, like he was the star and we were his entourage. “Your tour starts at the beginning of July. They boys are all very attractive, you shouldn’t fuss.”

We fussed anyway. July was only about six weeks away and none of us were prepared; usually they gave us a two- to three-months notice. However, Charles had a solution: “We’re in the process of having your most popular songs rearranged to be performed as a quartet—your new band name is the Forget-Me-Nots, appropriately. You will start choreography and recording tomorrow morning. Here is your schedule…” he passed out copies of a calendar with handwritten meetings on it. I saw events such as the dates in which our songs would be rereleased as a band instead of solo artists, and the days of photo shoots and choreography lessons.

“The first show is on the seventh of July,” he said over our protests. We all settled down, somewhat relieved that everything was getting taken care of. “The boys are due to arrive in Los Angeles the afternoon of the sixth and they need a place to stay. Jordan, I told them that they can stay with you.”

My head shot up, “I know I’m the only one that doesn’t live with her parents, but I’m afraid my apartment won’t fit them,” I said warily, “And that probably won’t fly over well with my roommate, no matter how attractive they are.” I had no idea who One Direction was or how many attractive boys the band contained, but I was sure as sunshine not going to let them invade my apartment.

Charles sighed and rolled his eyes, like I had just said something incredibly stupid, which, to him, I had. “They’ll stay here,” he said. “You seem to have plenty of free space.” He gestured around the vast house.

I looked at him like he was crazy, “This is my parent’s house,” I said. “I’m just house-sitting.” My dad just got remarried and he and my new stepmom were on a two month honeymoon in Austria. I was supposed to hang out until they got back in mid-July, and I doubted they wanted to come home to a trashy house.

He just stared at me like he didn’t get it. After a few long seconds I sighed, “Fine, if it’s only for a night.”

“Excellent,” he said. He clapped his hands together and stood up. “Ladies, I will see you tomorrow morning at the Sandbox Recording Studio. Ten-thirty, sharp—bring your best voices.”

He excused himself and we just sat in silence for a few minutes. “Well, this blows,” I finally said, standing up and stretching.

Demi used my empty space on the couch to spread her legs, “Look, no offense because you know I love you guys, but I’m really not looking forward to this.”

We all laughed half-heartedly. We were all soloists who weren’t used to sharing the limelight—the four of us would run into more creative differences with songs we already released than screenwriters did when creating a brand new show. The only thing that Charles could hope for was that we’d be professional and comfortable with any changes, neither of which was guaranteed.

“Tour is fun, at least,” Miley said, “And time flies when you’re having fun, so, before we know it, Jordan’ll be a college girl and telling us stories of her crazy life.”

I laughed loudly, “Are you kidding me? I’m going to Harvard—they come up with complex equations and do them wrong for fun. I don’t think I’ll have any crazy stories to tell.”

But Miley was right: I was looking forward to touring because time flew by quickly. It started in early July and completed at the end of August, just a week before classes started; this would save me a summer of thinking too much about college and give me time to enjoy myself before stress took over.

Demi sighed longingly, “I hope Charles is right and the boys really are cute.” Miley, Selena, and I were all in long-term relationships, and all we wanted was for Demi to find a cute sweet guy to sweep her off her feet. She deserved it, especially after all she went through.

“We’re looking them up online later,” I said, waving her off because it was silly of her to think otherwise.

We all giggled, romanticizing the tour and the boys, even if three of the four of us could only look and not touch.

“Hey,” I said, “When the boys have to stay here, will you guys sleep over?” It was a silly question that I already knew the answer to, but I just wanted to set it in stone before I was left to house attractive boys.

“Of course!” all of them said excitedly. Since we were touring with One Direction, we all assumed/hoped that they were around our age and we had this unspoken thing we did where, depending on the boys, we would tease and arouse them as a joke in order to break the ice. It was harmless fun and the boys involved usually enjoyed it as well.

“Let’s go swimming,” Selena suggested, standing up, “If we’re touring, we better get a base tan going before they spay us.”

I always forgot how much work went into the visual aspect of tour. We didn’t need to worry about getting into shape because we were apparently about to start dance lessons, but Charles was going to expect us to look as flawless as possible come the first show, which meant head-to-toe transformations. I hated the process and I didn’t want the boys to think we were superficial.

It was then that I decided that it didn’t matter. If I didn’t care what Disney thought, I certainly shouldn’t care what attractive boys thought—especially when I had a boyfriend and wasn’t seeking the publicity I was about to receive. All this tour was to me was one last fling before I moved on to adulthood and out of the limelight.