The Classix

(OLD) Chapter 27

Note: I'm moving into my dorm room today. Classes start next week. I'm in a new state. Everything is weird and terrifying and exciting and incredibly overwhelming.

PREVIOUSLY ON THE CLASSIX: Lex took that method acting a little too seriously and pushed Emeray off the train platform while filming. It was an odd moment.

emeray

"Wait, explain it to me again."

Cartney Kirk's voice is nearly inaudible. Raised a good six feet above me on a stage built for his tour, he fiddles with a jet black microphone, the static sounds of his fingers on the windscreen booming shrilly through a dozen amplifiers. Dancers stretching their long limbs around him cringe at the noise, but if Cartney notices (or cares) about their discomfort, he gives no indication.

After a few more loud taps, he appears to find the sound he wants. Bringing the microphone to his lips, he looks to me. "So, she pushed you off a platform?"

I wince as the dancers and technicians turn toward me with question, confusion. This wasn't something for them to know––I'd told Cartney about what happened on the Onward Train set back in his dressing room. Nobody had been listening in through the crack in the door, much less through his stage speakers.

"Cartney," I warn.

He meets my scowl with his trademark innocent face––the same one he wears on the cover of his upcoming album, freshly (and near eponymously) titled, You're Impossible. Since the photo released last week, the media has been speculating whether or not his expression, paired with the title, is a reference to how taken aback and self-reflective he was after finding out Kaytee was cheating on him.

Nevertheless, Cartney is well aware of how many times I've seen him concoct this look for the cameras at the drop of a hat at his photoshoot earlier today. He's only putting it on now to mess with me.

"What?" he asks.

"Can we talk about this later?"

"You tell me someone put you in harm and expect me––" He pauses, beating the microphone against his chest like an actor in a soliloquy. Just in case everyone in the stadium wasn't watching us already. "––to dismiss the subject and talk about it later?"

He shakes his head, hopping off the stage and tossing his microphone haphazardly at the nearest staffer. Making a real scene of it, Cartney kneels down at my seat to meet my gaze head on, grabbing my hand.

"Never," he concludes. To the crew, he shouts, "I'll take a break now."

A ripple of grumbles and groans follow his statement. The dancers had just come out to start choreography––two hours late, too, since it took much longer than expected to set up all of Cartney's microphones. But even though they're on a time crunch to get these performances perfected, they comply regardless. After all, it's Cartney's world tour, not theirs. What he says goes.

A bowl of popcorn awaits Cartney back in his dressing room. I can smell it down the hall before we even enter. Making an excited noise, he gravitates toward it immediately, collapsing into the spinning chair by the vanity with the bowl in his lap.

Watching on, I narrow my eyes. "You just played the defensive boyfriend card to get a break, didn't you?"

He looks up from the bowl with his album-cover face. "Hmm?"

"Oh, stop giving me that look, Cartney." When he breaks into a grin, my frown hardens. "Why did you have to bring up Lex?"

"It was a way out of practicing!"