K Szpara: We're Here, We're Here

“You shouldn’t do this,” I say, pressed into the corner of Jasper’s impossibly small bunk. There’s no room for us to lie side by side, only him on top of me. His hands in my hair and up my shirt, pressed against my scalp and my back. He has so much to lose still.

I dig my finger into his chest and hold his eyes, so he knows. When he unfastens my fly, he knows. When he slides his hand down my pants, he knows, and when his name vibrates silently through my throat, he goddamn well knows—we are not supposed to be doing this. He could lose his voice, for this. I could lose mine forever. It hurts like someone is scooping out my chest, but not doing this would hurt more.

We collapse. My pants half down, Jasper’s shirt half up. The door to the back lounge clicks open and I hear Aiden’s and Zeke’s feet pad along the carpet. The metallic swish of their curtains sliding. Whispers and hushed laughter.

“Are you going to tell them?” Jasper traces my jaw with his finger.

Looking into his eyes, all I can think is, god I am so gay, but I say, “I don’t know.” And I don’t know if Jas understood me, so I pull his phone out of his back pocket and open his texts to me and type, <>The electronic light illuminates our soft cave. “Like you do,” I say to myself.

I won’t tell Jasper, but I’m terrified he’ll forget about this. That Jeff will give me my voice back and we’ll keep on going, like always. Singing the words they write for us. Hitting the marks.

“I can talk to them with you, if you want,” Jasper says. “So you don’t have to go through that alone.”

<> I type.

“Ty.” He sounds incredulous. “What do you think this is, a solo act? We’re a team. Pull your pants back—ow, fuck!” He bangs his head on the low ceiling of his bunk and rubs it while straightening his shirt. I watch him duck under the curtain and stand up in the hall, while I tug my pants on and fasten them. Run a hand through my hair. Pull myself together long enough to push the curtain aside and join them.

Aiden’s sipping a craft beer he can only buy in his hometown. Zeke’s holding his Nintendo DSx. They let their hands fall by their sides, give me their attention. I bite my lip and glance at Jasper. If he wants to share this burden, now’s his chance.

“The label can turn off our voices,” Jasper says, point blank.

They stare at us.

“What does that mean,” Aiden asks, “‘turn off’ our voices?”

“It means the vocal implant the label fitted us with can be more than tuned. They can literally shut us up if we don’t play along with their images of us.” Jasper and Aiden both look at his beer. “You’re not supposed to drink in public, are you?”

“No,” he whispers. “Not me or Ty.”

He’s right. We weren’t handed rulebooks and it’s not in our contracts. These are the rules we’ve learned by working with Jeff. By the tour riders suggested for each of us, the wardrobes we’re given, the interview questions we’re asked.

“What do you think would happen if Zeke went back on his meds? If he was able to focus for more than five seconds. Sit still. Fucking think . If I decided I wanted to learn guitar—you think Jeff would let me play acoustic?”

“I’d never even considered playing or writing before Jeff suggested it,” Aiden says. “I do like it, but…” He looks at Zeke. “You should be able to go back on your meds, if you want. You don’t always have to be on . And Ty should be able to kiss guys, if that’s who he is. I mean, we all know that’s who you are.” A little laugh escapes him.

Jasper smiles and raises his hand. “Hi, um, my name’s Jasper. I don’t actually like the color black as much as you’d think. Sometimes I write lyrics that I’ll never show anyone—”

“What?” Aiden playfully smacks his arm. “You can show me! I want to—”

“—and I’m bisexual.”

“I’m straight,” Zeke says, raising his hand. “I’ve asked Jeff about going back on my meds multiple times and no one ever asked me if I wanted to write songs!” His look of offense sends us into full on, face-hurting laughter.

I poke my finger into my chest and shout, “I’m gay! And I have a big fucking crush on Jasper!” No one can hear me, but they all laugh, anyway—with me, not at me. Our arms are around one another again, all of us.

Aiden raises his hand. “I-I’m…” A deep crease settles into his forehead. “I don’t even think I’m a ‘boy’ all the time. I’m afraid to tell Jeff. We’re a boyband. That’s the basic requirement. I don’t want to be kicked out.”

“It’s okay, man—or not-man.” Zeke rubs Aiden’s shoulder. “Neither do I.”

I shake my head and say, “Me neither.”

“Fuck ’em,” Jasper says. “If they kick us all out, we can be our own band.”

“Not if they take our voices, like they did Ty’s,” Zeke says.

They all stare at me, the reminder of how fragile our band is. The moment when we were our full selves, gone. Our voices at stake.

“Hey, Ty.” Jeff’s head and torso appear where he leans into the bus. This isn’t his space, but he inserts himself, anyway.

I don’t respond, obviously. I can’t speak and don’t give Jeff the satisfaction of watching me try. I don’t even remove my headphones, though I do hit pause.

“Shayna from wardrobe asked me to bring that over.” He nods at a garment bag hanging from a cabinet knob. “You do want to perform, right?”

The question catches me so off guard—the yearning to sing, again—that I say, “Yes,” then dig my nails into my palm when I remember I vowed not to “speak.” I nod, trying not to look too eager. But I can’t help it. I fucking miss it. I miss the lights, the energy, the crowd, the guys. I miss the feeling of sound ripping through me like a bullet.

Jeff pats my back. “Good boy.”

I literally bite my tongue.

“I’ll leave you to it.” He nods at the garment bag. “Call’s in fifteen minutes. I’ll meet you and the guys at your marks beneath the stage. Got it?”

I nod.

Jeff nods, then leaves.

I should sit it out. Protest. Show the label they don’t own me, but they do. And I want to perform so badly—need to. I close my eyes and take several deep breaths. Forget this is Jeff’s doing. Remember why I’m here: for the music, for the guys, for the fans. For me.

We soar as the platforms we stand on rise. Born from the ground into the spotlight. I hold my mic to my lips and unleash the melody: “Don’t stand still / gotta keep running.” I feel the sound in my throat. Hear my voice harmonizing with the others’. But something is wrong.

“How y’all doing tonight?” Jasper asks the crowd, holding his mic out to pick up the swell of their response. A wave of screams. “I don’t know, guys, I don’t think they’re awake yet.” He winks at me.

I bring my mic up and say, “They sound a bit sleepy to me, Jas,” but no sound comes out. My heart ticks like a bomb waiting to explode in my chest. Confusion seizes my face.

Jasper’s smile falters. He tilts his head. Says, “I asked how y’all are doing, tonight.” Except he doesn’t watch the audience for their response, he watches me.

I put the mic to my lips again and say, “I think they’re awake, now.” And no one hears me. I snap my fingers into the mic.