Paper Stars

22

Before - 6 months ago

Manhattan School of Music, Sophomore Year

For a second, everything is frozen. The snowflakes suspend in the cold air, the noises of the square muffle, the massive countdown clock sticks at 11:29. My throat is suddenly bone dry and the drug-ridden coffee in my hands feels ice cold, leeching the warmth from my fingers.

Unrecognizable is a word that comes to mind. The stage makeup - the silver hair and the painted X on his cheek - is gone, which helps explain the absence of a mass of enthralled fans crowding him, begging for pictures or autographs. It's been nearly two years, and I've heard next to nothing from Fletcher Gibbs. His stage parallel FliX, on the other hand, has been plaguing the music industry, in everything from celebrity gossip to grammy nominations and rumors of an upcoming album. I've done my best to avoid the hype, but it hasn't helped that my roommate Andrea is an avid fan.

Now here he is, a dark blue coat zipped to his chin, mittened hands tucked into pockets, and black frames that resemble his glasses from sophomore year resting on his nose. Somehow, in a city of over 8 million people on the biggest night of the year, he managed to find me.

We exchange the typical old-friends-who-ended-on-a-bad-foot greeting, complete with awkward hellos and an uncomfortable hug. I ask how he's been doing, as if I haven't noticed the media coverage of the expansion of his career. He humbly recounts the past year and a half of his music, while I take discrete sips of my coffee and try to calm the trembling in my hands. The conversation drags on as we trade strained small talk, like two actors reading from a poorly written script. For the viewers watching, it'd be difficult to believe that we'd ever been friends.

"So did you come here with anybody?" Flet eventually asks.

I gesture towards the mass of people crowding Times Square in the distance. "My jazz band and my roommate." Andrea has probably noticed by absence by now, judging from the consistent vibrations of my phone in my purse.

He nods in a somewhat mocking manner. "Ah, and you abandoned them for the company of an uncomfortable bench."

"Yeah? Where's your entourage of adoring groupies? The fangirls and whatnot?"

Flet snorts, a smile hinting at the corners of his mouth. "They couldn't make it."

I roll my eyes. "Sure, sure, that's why you're wearing a - " I nod at his glasses. " - Clark Kent disguise. Are you hiding from them?"

"The FliXinators? Of course not."

I almost choke on my coffee. "The FliXinators? They actually call themselves that? With dignity?"

"They've got t - shirts and everything. Besides, you're hardly one to talk. Who's that one drummer you were obsessed with - " He snaps his fingers, trying to recall the name. "Bernie somebody? Billy Richard? You had posters of him all over your room, a bunch of shirts with his face on it, he was pretty much the only music you listened to in middle school?"

"Buddy Rich - " I correct. " - who happens to be a jazz phenomenon that I am still very much obsessed with. You, on the other hand - "

"What's that supposed to mean?" He feigns offense, a smile on his face.

"Come on, do you really think that you could ever compare to Buddy Rich? The Buddy Rich? That's cocky, even for you."

"Okay, okay," Flet waves his hands in the air. "I get that I'll never be some big jazz phenomenon like Bernie Richard - "

"Buddy Rich," I correct again.

" - but you at least have to like some of my music." He waits, eyebrows raised.