Kiss & Tell - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Adib Khorram lives in Kansas City, Missouri. When he isn't writing, you can probably find him trying to get his hundred-yard freestyle under a minute, learning to do a Lutz jump, or steeping a cup of oolong. His debut novel, Darius the Great Is Not Okay, earned several awards, including the William C. Morris Debut Award, the Asian/Pacific American Award for Young Adult Literature, and a Boston Globe-Horn Book Honor. He is also the author of Darius the Great Deserves Better and the picture book Seven Special Somethings: A Nowruz Story.

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1

Vancouver, BC March 25, 2022

I can hear them out there: the buzz of excitement, the occasional whistle or shout. The electric anticipation, humming against my skin, as 36,000 people wait for us to take the stage.

I used to feel this way before games, too, and that was only a few hundred people at best: parents and grandparents, friends if they’re not too busy, siblings if they’re not pissed off that day.

But this is the home game to end all home games. This is BC Place. We’ve never played a stadium before.

Owen’s bouncing on his feet in front of me, rolling his mic back and forth between his hands. I can’t see the rest of the guys in the dim blue backstage light, but I’m sure they’re just as anxious.

The vibration of the audience makes its usual preshow shift, like they can tell we’re about to start. Shaz, our stage manager, says something into her radio. The brim of her cap casts her face in shadow.

The preshow video starts, a bass drum beating out a low heartbeat. Slow-motion video of us laughing, singing, goofing off fills the screens on stage, not that we can see them from back here. The audience goes wild, clapping and screaming so loud I can’t hear anything else. I pop my in-ear monitors in, make sure they’re snug. At the front of the line, Shaz taps Ashton on the shoulder, and we take our places in darkness. Haze condenses against my eyelashes and I blink the moisture away.

Drumsticks click. The guitars kick in, and then the keyboards, for the first chords of “Heartbreak Fever.” The audience cheers even louder.

I find my mark, a little spot of glow tape, and glance offstage out of habit. Last time we played a show at home, Aidan was watching from the wings, cheering me on. Not this time.

I stare out into the audience. A constellation of mobile phones and exit signs twinkle through the dark.

I get that urge to vom, but it’s swallowed by adrenaline as a spotlight picks up Ashton at center stage. He shakes his hair off his face as the crowd screams. He waves, struts downstage, brings his mic to his mouth and sings.

He ain’t got no game

Just a dimple in his chin,

A twinkle in his eye,

A gentle laugh, and then

Stage right, another spotlight picks up Ethan, who gives a cheesy grin. He’s trying out a new hairstyle, sort of swoopy, and the stage lights turn his inky black hair almost blue.

He whispers “Are you listening?

I wanna see you smile.”

He promises a dance but then

He leaves with no goodbye

Ian’s next, with his shy smile, hand over his heart; across the stage, Owen jumps as his light finds him, and they sing in harmony.

Oh

I can’t shake this feeling,

I just can’t believe, no,

I’ve just got to sweat it out,

This heartbreak fever—

The bridge hits, and my body crackles with electricity. This feeling, at least, is familiar. It’s the same thing I used to feel at the starting buzzer, when I knew the puck was mine.

It’s euphoria. There’s no other word for it.

The spotlight blinds me as I lift my mic and sing.

I’m still floating as the last chord of “Poutine” rings and the lights cut to black. The crowd is still screaming, crying, even throwing a few flowers toward the stage as the lights come up for our last bow, but the barricade is far enough back they can’t actually reach us.

No underwear this time, which is a relief, because gross.

We wave and smile and exit stage right, duck between two pieces of scenery (a stylized Lions Gate Bridge and a huge maple leaf, which both double as video walls) and head to our dressing rooms. We’ve only got five minutes before the meet and greet.

Ahead of me, Ashton spins around to walk backward. He’s breathing hard. We all are.

“That was awesome!” His canines show when he smiles, and I can’t stop myself from grinning back. “Do you think every night’s going to be like this?”

Next to me, Owen says, “I hope so.”

Ashton smiles wider and turns around, nearly skipping to his dressing room door.

Ethan grabs my shoulders from behind, almost hanging off me, as he laughs in my ear. “It’s only gonna get better.” He gives me a shake and turns toward his own dressing room.

Mine is the last one on the right. I duck inside and peel my black T-shirt off, wipe my chest and armpits with the towels on the little table, and put on some fresh deodorant. I tug at the waistband of my jeans to try to get some airflow down there, because I have terrible swampass, and my underwear’s giving me a wedgie.

I pull on an identical dry T-shirt, pop in a couple breath mints, and try to salvage my sweat-soaked hair as best I can. It’s not as bad as helmet hair, but then again, I wasn’t getting photographed after games.

I wash my hands, take a deep breath, and step back out into the hallway. Ashton’s already done and waiting, leaning against his door. His eyes brighten, blue turned nearly gray in the fluorescent lights. He looks so much like Aidan, it makes me ache.

We broke up over a month ago. When is it going to stop hurting?

“Hunter?”

“Yeah?” I fix my face and put my smile back on. “Tonight was great, eh?”

“It was fucking amazing.”

Ashton says it like we’ve never done a concert before.

Then again, this is the biggest by far. Last tour we were in theaters and smaller arenas, not stadiums.

Not BC Place.

“It was pretty fucking cool,” I agree. “Come on. Let’s go meet your adoring fans.”

“You mean yours!”

“Ours, then.” I smack his shoulder and lead him into the hall toward the Reception Suite.

The meet and greet is packed. Ashton’s line is the longest (like usual), but the rest of us have pretty respectable lines too. For some reason, my line has a weirdly high proportion of moms.

I don’t know why moms like the gay boy so much.

Some of the people in line are crying as they meet me. I thank them for coming, sign their posters, pose for pictures.

“I came out because of you,” one kid says.

“You’re such a good role model,” their mom says.

“I’m sorry about Aidan.”

“Your music got me through some tough times.”

“I want to be like you when I grow up.”

“Do you think you and Aidan are going to get back together?”

“Is it okay if I hug you?”

There’s a crew shooting footage for our documentary, and one of the camera guys is hovering over my shoulder. I think his name is Brett. All the camera guys so far have had the same full beards and worn the same black Henleys and black cargo pants, so it’s hard to tell.

When the shelter kids come through, I drop my fake smile and put on my real one.

It’s really overwhelming sometimes, to be honest, meeting people my age who got kicked out of their homes, disowned, hurt by the people that are supposed to love them the most. And it makes me feel kind of shitty, too, because I’m a rich white gay cis boy and so many of them are poor and brown and trans.

I thought they’d be sad. I thought they’d be mad at the world for the way it never cares enough for queer kids unless they look like me. But...