“I’m predicting at least five sold-out venues the day tickets go on sale,” Zeke says. “Maybe even by noon.”

Ethan nods enthusiastically. “That’s awesome.”

“Don’t be surprised when the paparazzi start showing up in your town. Those bastards will hound the crap out of you. But that’s what we want.”

“Man, I am so ready to be hounded, you don’t even know.”

“Oh, I know.”

“You freaking know!” Ethan jams his fist at Zeke. They do exploding pounds.

“We’re going to make you a big star,” Zeke says. “Be ready.”

“I was born ready,” Ethan says in a cocky tone. He’s half joking. The other half is how he is around Zeke. Sometimes there’s this shift in personality people get when they’re around certain other people. They sort of become a slightly different person for a while. Most kids I know are like that. But Ethan’s only like that around Zeke. He becomes more aggressive or something. Zeke brings out Ethan’s hunger for fame in a way he normally doesn’t let anyone else see.

There’s already a huge line outside when we get to Irving Plaza. The band loaded all the equipment through the side door earlier. We could go in the side door, but Ethan thought it would be fun to go in the front. I watch the fans’ expressions as we walk up. A ripple of electricity filters through the crowd as we pass the end of the line.

“Oh my god that’s him!” one girl shrieks.

Everyone starts screaming. Ethan smiles and waves at the crowd. He loves getting to see his fans in person. The line is roped in. Security guards are keeping everyone behind the ropes. One girl sneaks under the rope and runs up to Ethan. She throws her arms around him. She’s squealing so loudly I can’t understand what she’s saying. Ethan lets her take a quick picture with him. Then we duck inside before everyone else attacks him for pictures.

Ethan has his own dressing room. It’s way nicer than the one he shared with the band at The Space. There’s a huge cookie plate, bowls of fruit, bagels, and muffins. Drinks are lined up in a clear mini fridge. The polished black stone dressing table is massive. Round, bright lights frame the mirror. A huge bouquet of flowers sits on the dressing table. Ethan goes over to read the card.

“They’re from my mom,” he says.

Georgia and I are like, “Awww!” We adore how supportive Mrs. Cross is.

“Nice flowers,” Gage adds, peering in from the doorway.

“Hey, man,” Ethan says. “You ready?”

“Getting there.” Gage leans back against the door frame. He stares at the cookie plate.

“Decent spread, huh? Do you guys have like three of everything in your room?”

“Something like that.” Gage smirks at me. Ethan doesn’t notice, digging through his bag. I understand the resentment behind Gage’s smirk. The band’s dressing room is nothing like Ethan’s. Even though it’s for three guys, it’s smaller than this one. There’s no cookie plate or bowls of fruit or muffins. Just a few stale-looking pastries. I saw their dressing room on the way in, but Ethan obviously hasn’t seen it yet.

I try to keep the pity out of my eyes as I look back at Gage. I want him to know I’m sorry he’s not getting the same amount of attention as Ethan. But Ethan has worked really hard for this his whole life. He has the kind of natural talent you’re either born with or you’re not. Although Gage has put a lot of time into songwriting, he’s nowhere near the musician Ethan is. Those were the cards Gage was dealt. Whether he continues to be bitter about Ethan’s success or starts accepting Ethan’s success as a good thing for everyone involved remains to be seen.

Unlike when we had to battle it out with the standing-room-only crowd at The Space, Georgia and I have front row access tonight. The manager escorts us to the front of the crowd. Some girls behind us give us the stink eye. They probably assume we won a contest or something.

“Where’s Marisa?” Georgia asks. Marisa agreed to take pictures tonight for Ethan’s website. She was stoked that I asked her. Not only because she’s a fan of Ethan’s, but because she’s been looking for more ways to get her photos noticed. This could be a huge opportunity for her if Zeke arranges to sell Marisa’s photos online. Maybe she’ll even become Ethan’s official concert photographer.

“She’s on her way.” I text Marisa that we’re in the front row and to let me know if she has any problems getting up here. Ethan put her on the list.

“So what’s happening with Kurt?” I ask. Kurt and Georgia were texting the other day. He didn’t ask her out, though.

“A whole lot of nothing. I haven’t heard from him.”

“At all?”

Georgia shakes her head.

“Do you talk at school?”

“Not really. I saw him in the hall yesterday. He pretended not to see me.”

“Maybe he didn’t.”

“Please. I could feel him pretending not to see me. The way he was laughing with his friends was so obvious.”

“Why don’t you ask him out again?”

“Why doesn’t he ask me out? He knows I’m interested. If he was interested, wouldn’t he at least be talking to me?”

“He just texted you.”

“Three days ago. Which I can’t believe. It feels like three years ago. I’m obsessing over my phone. I can’t stop checking it. I’m on permanent Kurt Alert at school. Waiting for something that isn’t going to happen is excruciating.”

“You don’t know it isn’t going to happen. He probably just needs time.”

“To what? Realize he hates me?”

I put my arm around Georgia. She leans against me. I remember how badly it hurts when you can’t stop thinking about a boy who doesn’t feel the same way.

Roadies are setting up the band’s equipment. Michael Jackson’s Off the Wall is playing, requested by Ethan. I’m so freaking happy for him. A solo show in New York City is another one of his big dreams he made reality. There will be more New York shows after this one. This show sold out in three hours. The big producer guy who signed Ethan is fast-tracking his second album. Ethan has two more songs to write for it. Then they’ll start recording.

I’m about to tell Georgia what Ethan has planned for the lighting effects when a girl behind us goes ballistic.

“This joint is hella dope!” she yells. Then she whoops like such a lunatic her friends have to whoop with her. She leaps up and throws her hands in the air. “Ethan Crooooosss!” she screams. Her friends are chanting. “E-than! E-than! E-than!”

The girl next to me is talking in that loud, authoritative way where you want everyone to hear you because you think you’re the only person in the world who possesses such vital information.

“Ethan started taking guitar lessons when he was six,” she tells her friend. “That’s when he knew he was going to be famous.”

“How could he know that young?” her friend asks.

“He just knew. He said being megafamous was his fate. But not in an obnoxious way where he just wanted to get rich. He wanted to bring his fans a fresh, new sound that they would love as much as he does. Ethan is all about his fans.”

“Totally.” Her friend nods emphatically. “He responds to tons of comments. And he always stops to take pictures.”

“Like when he was coming in. That girl is so lucky.”

“I hate her.”

“I hate her more.”

I wonder how much they would hate me if they knew who I was.

“How awesome is he for coming in the front door like that?” the girl says. “He could have gone around back. It’s like he was saying he’s one of us. Like he’ll never forget where he came from.”

“Ethan Crooooosss!” the girl behind me screams.

“E-than! E-than!” her friends chant.

“Damn,” Georgia says so only I can hear. “Can you believe this is all for your boyfriend?”

No. I really can’t. Everyone here has that giddy-excited-nervous energy you feel before shows. I can hear it in the way their voices are trembling. Where you can’t think or talk about anything else while you’re waiting for the show to start. Where you can hardly breathe you’re so overloaded. Where you have to talk loudly about each and every little thing you’ve heard about the artist as if you are the authority. As if you’re the one who discovered him and you have complete ownership over his music. Because you’re surrounded by a bunch of wild fans who might think they’re as obsessed as you are. But there’s no possible way they can be. There’s no way anyone else can understand how much his music means to you. How his music is the soundtrack of your life. I can’t believe the giddy-excited-nervous energy is for my boyfriend.

“They’re playing Michael Jackson because he’s one of Ethan’s biggest influences,” the girl next to me tells her friend.

“I know. So are The Beatles.”

“I heard he got signed for his next album, but not with Red Bedroom.”

“It’s with some really big label.”

“Do you know which one?”

“No one’s posted anything about it.”

“Maybe it was just announced.”

They frantically check their devices.

“Sterling!” Marisa lunges up to me, pushing her way through the girls behind us. I can feel the stink eye burning into the back of my head. “Can you believe how crowded it is?”

Marisa and I still hang out sometimes. We’re just not as close as we used to be. I’m not really sure why we grew apart. We kind of branched off into our own separate worlds after tenth grade. But we’ll always be friends.

“I know!” I yell back. “This is awesome!”

Marisa and Georgia say hey. Then Marisa takes out her professional Nikon camera. Her photography skills are ridiculous. I’m so happy she’s documenting Ethan’s show. His fans are going to love these photos.