Moonlight

We all know the drill. If Dad calls about going out for ice cream, it’s code for ‘something is seriously wrong.’ If he says he wants vanilla, it’s not something personal. If he wants Moo-llennium Crunch, prepare for the worst.

I’m actually relieved that Dad calls Chloe in a crisis. It’s not that I can’t handle it. I’m probably better at crisis-management than either of them. It’s just that I can’t hold my tongue when Dad calls and uses the ice cream line. Chloe always goes right along with it, but I have this burning urge to say, But Dad, what about strawberry? Blue raspberry? Or maybe mint chocolate-chip?

Of course, no one would find it funny but me because they take this ice cream thing with the utmost seriousness. It’s been his secret code for years because he’s so afraid someone will tap his cell phone when drama goes down. Mom swears by it, and so does Chloe, so I’m the odd bird out.

Chloe tells Dad that we just dropped Paige off at her house, which is a relief in itself. She may be Chloe’s BFF, but the girl pushes my nerves to the very edge with her over-the-top fake reactions that could give Taylor Swift a run for her money. Sitting through two hours of bad CGI werewolves with her was a nightmare. By the end of her swooning, I wanted to offer myself up as a sacrificial lamb to the animated mutant wolves just to put me out of my misery.

What’s the verdict? Preparing for a funeral or a natural disaster? I ask once Chloe has returned her phone to the cup holder.

Dad said vanilla, she replies. He said to drive safely, so he wasn’t in a super panic.

So, vanilla disasters, I say, swiping the screen of my cell phone. Let’s see what kind of headlines CNN is running.

Chloe’s car lights up in a mild shade of blue from my phone. Vanilla disasters are usually emergencies that won’t affect us – like shootings in other states or hurricanes on the coastlines. But when Dad says Moo-llennium Crunch, that means it’s high alert, like a terrorist on the loose or a death in the family. Vanilla is always better. I still think we need an in-between. I vote strawberry.

Okay, check this out. Circus Elephant Shot in Drive By Shooting, I read, scrolling for another headline. You know PETA is all over that.

I swipe to the next big story. Hmm. They’ve upped the reward for any tips that may lead to finding that dude’s body that was stolen from the morgue.

I can’t deny that I’m incredibly fascinated by this story. I’ve secretly been stalking the articles about it for the last month. How does a corpse just disappear from a morgue? And why? I literally daydream about the whys and hows and who-did-it storylines. It’s like one of those murder documentaries that Dad watches. I’m always trying to piece the clues together and think like the criminal. But of course, I’m not all that great at it because I’m as dumbfounded as the FBI on this one.

Just as my thoughts drift off to the beautiful boy who died too soon, I see it. I blink a few times to make sure I’m reading this correctly.

Oh my God, I say. I bury my phone into my chest and throw my head back laughing. Shots Fired at Spaceships Around Saturn’s NYC Show!

I know, I know. I shouldn’t laugh. But that damn boy band is going to be the death of me. Our little sister Emery is obsessed with them. I grasp what a fandom is, and I understand what it’s like to be a super fan, but Emery is a five-year-old demon spawn from Saturn. When she sees their photo on a magazine cover, her eyes turn into black holes sucking in every planet that crosses her path. Then her teeth jump out of her mouth like fangs, waiting to latch onto her prey and suck their veins dry. Her level of Saturnite is one all of its own. The teenage girls who love the boys of Spaceships Around Saturn are no match for Emery, and honestly, if I was one of them, I wouldn’t want to cross her path.

Chloe doesn’t share in my amusement. Her eyes go all sad, like a doe whose mother has just been poached.

Don’t give me that look, I snap at her. They’re all fine. Even Benji Bikini. I deserve a laugh after sitting through two and a half hours of werewolf lust and listening to your annoying best friend through it all.

I thought the Benji Bikini mention would at least get a smile out of her. I called Benji Baccarini by the wrong name for the first year after SAS made it big, mainly just to annoy Emery. However, the nickname doesn’t make Chloe smile tonight.

Seriously, Chloe, it was a joke, I emphasize. Emery’s boy band is fine. They have the best security money can buy. You know that. You’ve seen their DVD as many times as I have. Their bodyguards are beasts.

I know, she says. I’m just ready to get home and find out what’s up. Dad gets me all freaked out when he calls like that.

We’re almost home, I say. We’ll find out soon enough. It’s probably nothing important. If it was, it wouldn’t be vanilla.

Five minutes later, when Chloe pulls into our wrap-around driveway, things look far from vanilla. In fact, this is the opposite of vanilla. What would that be? Chocolate? No. Chocolate is perfection. Black SUVs and secret service cars are not perfection.

I’m actually a little concerned. We’ve never been flooded with government officials during any other vanilla disaster. Okay, maybe we have, but it wasn’t this extreme. The specks of worry float around in Chloe’s eyes as she surveys the scene, like she’s taking it apart in her head and deciphering what every car and every movement could possibly mean. I don’t want her to know I’m a little scared. So I shut my feelings down, lock them in the black box that I call my heart, and put on the tough girl facade that I feel safe hiding behind.

My money’s on the elephant, I say. What do you think?

By the lack of PETA vehicles, I’m going to go with the kid from the morgue, she replies.

Chloe locks her car, and I follow her to the front door. Maybe I should go in first, but she’s determined to find out what the hell is going on, and I’m not going to stop her because I want to know too.

Our living room buzzes as if someone’s plugged lightning bolts into the electrical sockets. There’s a literal hum of all the voices and cell phones and footsteps. Was there a prison break? A landmark bombed? How can this be vanilla when our entire house is buzzing like a bumblebee jacked up on an energy drink?

Aralie, Chloe, Dad’s voice booms over the humming. I need you girls to come with me.

We dart through the crowd of black uniforms and find solace in the dining room. Dad motions for us to sit at the table across from Mom. Godfrey, our former butler who is more like our grandfather and not even a butler anymore, stands behind her. All three of them look so serious right now, and it’s alarming.

Dad begins with how they haven’t talked to Emery about it yet because he doesn’t want to upset her. He really doesn’t have to say anything else. Emery won’t care about the elephant or the corpse. There’s only one thing on Emery’s mind – Spaceships Around Saturn.

Because this happened on American soil, it is our responsibility to see that justice is brought forward, and we feel obligated to protect them at all costs, Dad says.

I can’t wrap my brain around the words that I know Dad is speaking. I can’t hear them – or maybe I just don’t want to. His mouth moves, and Mom nods along with the same sad eyes that Chloe gave me in the car, but none of this makes any sense.

Dad falls silent when Emery runs into the kitchen, clutching her fuzzy purple Spaceships Around Saturn pillow. Her eyes glaze over with that hysterical fangirl stare. She’s clown-like, with a demonic grin. She screams something at Chloe about needing Sharpies, but it’s still too much to absorb. Mom scoops Emery up before she can unleash any more fangirl craze. Godfrey follows them, leaving Chloe and me alone with Dad.

Here’s the deal, Dad says, finally breaking free of that government official tone and speaking like a dad again. We don’t exactly have a plan of action for situations like this. There was a media frenzy, and our number one priority was the safety of those boys. So in the midst of it all, someone suggested hiding them out while we follow leads, and I volunteered to let them stay here.

Here? As in our house? Has his lost his freaking mind?

Ohhh God. I groan the words, partially out of annoyance and partially because I want Dad to realize how disastrous this is. I thought you said this was a vanilla disaster. It’s feeling pretty Moo-llennium Crunch to me. You think Emery will actually keep her mouth shut when Benji Bikini is in our house? The world will know in three minutes with her mouth.

Baccarini, Dad corrects me, holding his hand up to stop me from any further protest. Please be respectful while they’re here, Aralie. None of those silly nicknames. Emery will be silent because we’re going to be on lockdown. The Saturn boys and, well, you girls.

I really don’t know which is worse – that we’re going to have to hide a boy band or that my dad actually just corrected Benji Baccarini’s name. How in the hell does he expect us to accommodate five super divas? It’s hard enough having Chloe, Emery, and me under one roof, and really, Emery is the only one who is high-maintenance.

We’re average people, or as average as you can be with your dad works with the secret service. We come across as average people, anyway. Everyone knows that Dad has a government job and makes big money, but we’re not millionaires with seven cars and a basketball court in our backyard. Sure, we have a pool, and our family vacations are pretty extravagant, but that doesn’t mean I’ve traded in my black nail polish or band tees for stiletto heels and diamond jewelry. We don’t come from planet Saturn.

It shouldn’t take very long, Dad says, forcing me to check-in with reality again. A week, maybe two. We already have a few leads, and we’ve got a huge team of people working around the clock to catch the person or persons responsible.

Oh, there he goes. Right back into government language. It was nice to see Dad for a glimpse of a second, though. He’ll be Secret Service Agent Scott Branson from here on out.

I know you girls had a lot of plans for the summer, and hopefully we can resolve this matter quickly enough that you won’t have to cancel too many things, he says, trapped somewhere between agent mode and dad mode. But as long as they’re here on lockdown, it will place our family on somewhat of a lockdown as well.

I shake my head. Wait a minute. Define lockdown. Why do our lives have to change? Can’t you just put them in witness protection or something?

Honestly, Benji Baccarini wouldn’t last in witness protection. They’d make him dye that surfer blonde hair, and he’d have to cover up his tattoos. And then it still wouldn’t matter. Even girls like me, who are anti-boy band and prefer punk rock, know who Benji Baccarini is.

Witness protection would keep them in society under aliases, Dad explains. We really need them to fall off the map. This will be their safe house until the situation is under control. But that means they can’t be seen, and you girls can’t really afford to leave any more than absolutely necessary. The less you’re exposed to the public, the less chance of the secret slipping. They’ll be on a complete lockdown, where our family will be on a semi-lockdown. I’ll explain all of the rules once they arrive.

Well, there goes Lauren’s massive pool party she throws every summer. Cancun is no longer an option. Music festivals? I’m not even going to look at the lineups. I’d possibly murder a boy band if they stood in the way of my chances to see Mutilated Arteries perform this summer.

So that’s it? I ask, wishing Chloe would say something rather than stare at the walls like they’re closing in around us. We’re basically in prison with a boy band for the summer.

Aralie, Dad pleads. I’m going to do all I can to end this as quickly as possible. Then you can resume your summer, and the band can resume their tour. I just need your full cooperation. Their lives could be at stake.

I sigh. Fiiiiiiine, I groan again. Bring on lockdown.

I still can’t believe this, I mumble as I sit on the couch with Chloe and Emery. Does Dad really think this will stay a secret? They’re the most famous boy band in the world. They can’t just disappear.

Emery snuggles her SAS pillow, making kissy faces at the photo of the boys sewn onto the purple fabric. Chloe shakes her head, and I’m pretty sure she’s feeling exactly what I am in this moment. I mean, I don’t care about Spaceships Around Saturn, and I’m not looking to impress them, but Emery hugging people’s faces to her chest right now? Not exactly the first thing you want anyone to see when they walk into your house – especially since it’s their faces.

We remain on our couch while strangers invade our home. Some are government officials. Some are SAS staff. A lady in a black dress hurries around in a panic, tightening her grip on the piece of paper in her hand. She watches Dad, as if waiting for permission to proceed. She must work for the band. When Dad nods to her, she punches some numbers into her cell phone, introduces herself as the band’s public relations rep, and then gives a press statement.

Tonight, shots were fired at the boys’ show in New York City. The boys of Spaceships Around Saturn were immediately removed from the location and taken to a safe house until further notice. The United States government responded quickly to the threat and has eliminated the possibility of further danger. Shows for Boston, Washington D.C., and Nashville will be rescheduled for a later date. More reschedulings or cancellations may follow as the situation progresses. Right now, our number one priority is the safety of Spaceships Around Saturn and their many fans who attend their shows each night. We will be closely in contact with government officials throughout this investigation. Thank you.

And just like that, she’s gone. Maybe she’s still hoping to make it to the swanky NYC hotel where she was supposed to be staying tonight. I think this was night three of their New York shows. All were sold out. There was probably a huge after-party or celebration tonight, which is where this woman was headed. Sucks for her that someone wanted to end SAS. By the time she makes it back to New York, even on a private jet, she’ll have missed the action.

I try to block out all the foot traffic and noise, but it’s hard to lose yourself in your own thoughts when Emery is singing Benji Baccarini’s name next to you. I pick at the remnants of black nail polish on my thumb until Emery jolts up like a jack-in-a-box and startles me.

Hey Tank! she screams out, waving manically at the Cuban bodyguard who just walked into our foyer.

He waves back to her. It’s a little surreal. I don’t actually watch their DVD when Emery plays it over and over and over, but it’s been in the background enough for me to know that this guy is the head of their security team. I’ve seen him, over and over and over, even if it’s just in the background of my background noise. And here he is. In our house. Waving at my baby sister.

Dad hovers around the window, peeping through the blinds every few seconds. Then he glances over at us. I take this opportunity to ask the one question that no one else has bothered to ask.

When are they supposed to get here? I’m sure Dad will have an answer. He’s too much on top of this not to know.

But he doesn’t have time to say a word about it.

The doorbell rings instead.

Emery jitters around next to me like a Saturn addict who hasn’t had a hit in ages. Now her drug is right in front of her, walking through the foyer and into our living room. I don’t dare look at the child because her energy is vibrating throughout the room. I bet even Mr. Baccarini can feel it over there on the loveseat. I’m surprised Emery hasn’t jumped up and tackled him, but she may be too star-struck to move. That’s a good thing, for the sake of the boys.

They file in, one by one, and I’ll admit, it still hasn’t fully registered with me that this is happening. It feels like a very awkward and intimate meet-and-greet, like they’ll sign Emery’s pillow in a few minutes and take a few photographs before being whisked away to their next big event.

But they’re not leaving after Dad’s rules ceremony. They won’t be getting back into those black cars with the tinted windows. They won’t be heading off to Boston for another day of sound check. When their staff leaves, they won’t.

I often pretend I don’t know one guy from the next – aside from Benji Baccarini – but in all actuality, I know who they are. You can’t live in the Branson household and not know. The tattooed brunette who just walked in and sat next to Benji? Noah Winters, the one who makes zero sense in the band. He’d look much better on a poster next to punk rockers.

That guy who just slammed himself against the wall trying to look like a badass? That would be Jules Rossi, the fakest bad boy in the history of boy band bad boys. I know a bad boy when I see one, and I know this guy is not one. He may dye his hair black and have that eyebrow piercing, but that only draws more attention to his eyebrows, which are a dirty blonde. Their staff should have helped him take care of that. Then again, they may find as much humor in it as I do, so they pretend to be oblivious.

Hi, a guy says, plopping down next to me. Tate Kingsley. Nice to meet you.

He’s part of the band, but damn, he looks twelve. He’s probably my age, maybe a year older even, but he looks like he just stepped out of a junior high classroom. His light brown hair sweeps across his forehead, a little shaggy but mainly just a mess. His eyes light up when he speaks. He must not know about lockdown yet.

Um, hi? I reply. Aralie. Welcome to, um… Our house? Our home?

Welcome to the summer of hell, Tate says, completing the sentence I couldn’t. Then he smiles like he’s abso-freaking-lutely happy to be here.

If I didn’t feel sorry for him at my core, I’d swap seats with Emery, but she comes with an invisible sign that reads ‘Don’t feed the fangirl,’ so shoveling Tate toward her would be illegal.

I glance over at the last guy in the band, Milo Grayson, and just looking at him bores me out of my skull. He’s so clean cut and pretty boy, like someone plucked him out of