Lea 

The Boys

Frank

It’s a well known fact that Monday mornings blow ass.

Ask any person on the planet. Housewives, kids, businessmen, I bet you even homeless people hate Monday mornings. And really, you’d think Monday’s would be pretty awesome. That idea of starting all over again should be refreshing, instead, it’s really just a giant pain in the ass.

And that pain becomes massive when you walk into work and find out you have a meeting with the big boss man.

See, for someone who is at least semi-important, a meeting with the big boss probably wouldn’t matter. I, however, consider myself lucky when my access pass isn’t declined at the door. I’m about as low on the totem pole as it gets around here.

Needless to say, me being called into a meeting is a sure sign that something has gone horribly wrong.

“Hello Lea.” James Ross smiles at me as I step into his office and I nod in response.

Oh yes, I am going to be that painfully awkward girl who has no idea what to say to the editor in chief. Like there’s any other way this would play out.

“I know you’re wondering why I called you in this morning, so I’ll get right to the point.” He clears his throat and begins shuffling through the papers on his desk. “You’re being sent on an assignment. Jive records got in touch with us a few months back, and they’d like someone to go out with Nsync, and keep a daily online journal for the fans. Interview the guys, talk about the shows, yada, yada, yada.”

Holy freaking crap.

“And… and you…. You wanted me?”

This is by far the best news anyone has, or probably will ever receive. Just when I thought I was a completely insignificant member of the Rolling Stone staff, I’m being offered my very own assignment.

It’s official… I am awesome.

“Well…no.” He frowns. “I’m going to be honest with you Lea… nobody else wanted this crap ass job and I wanted to turn it down, but that Johnny Wright is a persistent bastard and he wouldn’t hear it. Someone mentioned that you’d gone to see them a couple years ago, so you’re kind of the last resort here.”

I should probably be upset that I’m being put down. And maybe when the sheer awesomeness of going on tour with Nsync wears off, I will be. But for now, I’m just going to bask in the glory of it all.

Let me guess… you probably thought I was some ultra hip chick and not at all into boy bands, right?

Wrong.

As a matter of fact, I love them. And I still totally have my New Kids On The Block bed sheets from when I was a kid. Come to think of it… I should probably pack those.

So yes, I am proof positive that you can still be hip and like boy bands. But then again, saying that you’re hip makes you kind of un-hip, doesn’t it? Alright… just forget the part where I said I was hip, ok?

“You’ve been here almost a year…. You know our writers take themselves too seriously to want to tour with a boy band. And you… well… even I’m not entirely sure what your function here is, but… I figure… how hard can this be, right?”

“I’m actually… well… I’m an intern. I don’t even get paid sir.”

“Oh for Christ sake…” He mutters and shakes his head. “Alright… as of this moment, you’re a junior writer. I’ll work out your salary with Mr. Wright. Provided that you’re accepting the job, of course.”

“Are you kidding me? Who would turn this down?” I laugh and shake my head.

“Every other writer here.” He rolls his eyes before sliding a contract in front of me. “Sign at the bottom. You report for duty in one month.”

Hell to the yes!

I practically skip out of Mr. Ross’ office and to the bathroom, where I fully intend on letting my inner 12 year old girl celebrate. I check the stalls and once I’m sure that I’m absolutely alone, I go into complete freak out mode.

Dancing, squealing, jumping up and down. You get the picture.

Just as I begin a fantastic round of the cabbage patch, the door swings open and I do my very best to contain my excitement by fiddling with my hair.

Oh you crazy Rolling Stone senior writers… you have no idea what you passed on. But, it’s working out in my favor, so obviously… I win.

I will not scream when I meet them.

I will not scream when I meet them.

I will not…. Oh who the hell am I kidding? I’m totally going to scream when I meet them. I mean, it’s not like they’ll be all surprised or anything. I’m sure girls scream at them all the time. It’s proof of adoration or something, right?

I follow Johnny through the lot and do my best to keep up with his entirely too quick pace. And yes, I’m talking about Johnny Wright. He’s showing me around and I’m pretty sure we’re getting to be really good buds. No big deal or anything.

“Every morning before the shows, Angie, the tour manager, will drop off your access pass and itinerary. It’ll basically be the same as the guys’ schedule.”

I really wish he’d slow down. I’m pretty sure there are all sorts of interesting things going on around here and I’d like to see at least a few of them. The man has to be hopped up on speed. No one besides the road runner moves this damn fast.

“Outside the arenas at every show, fan club members are going to have tents set up. They’ll be holding contests, handing out stickers, posters, that sort of thing. There’s also going to be a comment and question box. Fans will be able to write down their questions and put them in the boxes. It’s going to be your responsibility to pick up the boxes. Then, on travel days, you can go through the boxes, pick the best questions and use them when you interview the boys. And you know… since you’ll be on the bus with them, it may not be a bad idea to have them pick out a few questions themselves.”

Boxes, questions, interviews.

I am all over this. Provided I don’t forget a box in some random ass city in Nebraska and you know, totally screw this whole thing up.

“There’s one more thing, and I know this isn’t in your job description, but it would be an enormous favor to me, but I’ll warn you… everyone else has failed miserably.”

Oh yeah, I’m doing uber important favors for Johnny Wright. Told you, we’re tight.

“I need you to keep Trace Ayala away from underage girls and liquor. I don’t care if you have to lock the little bastard in a bathroom somewhere. Just make it happen.”

Boxes, questions, interviews and keep someone named Trace away from jailbait and alcohol. I can totally handle this.

I think it’s safe to say that I’m like… master of the Nsync universe.

Well… not really, but you know what I mean. People here are going to depend on me in a big way. And I’m going to have all access passes to every single show. Really, the only downside to all of this is that every teenage girl on the planet is probably going to have a hit put out on me. But even that doesn’t change how undeniably awesome all of this is.

I’m pretty sure this is God’s way of saying, ‘Lea, you are a kick ass human being, and your reward is to tour the country with pretty dancing boys’

And to that I say, ‘Thanks God. You’re pretty kick ass too.’

And then we’d probably play dodge ball or something. Because I really feel like God would be a big fan of dodge ball. But anyway… I’m getting off topic. And probably sound like I’m stoned. So… back to the important stuff.

“Now, Lea… I need you to listen very carefully.” Johnny stops abruptly and I come within a spilt second of running into him. “And I’m telling you these things for your own safety. One… you are spending the next several months in a very cramped space, with five men in their 20’s. You will see and hear things that will disturb you like nothing else ever has, or ever will. But you need to ignore it. Two… the fans can be a bit… overwhelming. Do not go anywhere without security. And three…” He starts to ramble about how I shouldn’t carry a purse and I can’t help but tune him out.

I feel like I’m being prepared for some epic stealth mission and not gonna lie, it’s pretty freaking cool. I can totally get used to this being important stuff.

“Your bags have been loaded onto the bus and I think that’s about it, unless you have any questions?”

Oh I have lots of questions. Like, when exactly will it be appropriate for me to profess my undying love for Lance Bass, and then whisk him away to Spain so we can get married?

Why Spain, you ask? I don’t know, it just sounds neat. Who wouldn’t want to marry Lance Bass in Spain, seriously?

“Umm… I think I’m good.” I nod slowly. “Oh! Who’s Trace Ayala?”

“An ever enlarging pain in my ass. I’m sure you’ll feel the same exact way, roughly ten seconds after you meet him. Now, you better get going. The busses should be leaving shortly. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call. Have fun Lea.” He shoots me a weary smile before heading off toward the crowd of reporters waiting behind the fences.

I’m about to walk onto Nsync’s tour bus. Where I’ll technically be living for the next four months. It is oh so very good to be me at the moment.

I climb the stairs carefully, praying like hell that I don’t fall and bust my face open. Wouldn’t that be a lovely way to start this adventure? But then again… if I did bust my face open, Lance Bass could come to my rescue and I can get a head start on that taking him to Spain thing. So I still come out on top.

I didn’t really have any expectations for the bus, expect maybe complete and total greatness. But, sadly… I just feel like I walked into a very large mobile home.

Long black leather couches line each side of a very small walkway. At the end of each couch, is a small booth, with benches big enough to sit three people on each side. A tiny refrigerator and stove are behind the booths, while cabinets are built into the walls.

A heavy red curtain separates the middle of the bus from the front. Beyond the curtain, three incredibly small bunks are stacked on top of each other on either side.

Great. I’m going to spend the next four months sleeping in a coffin. The awesome factor here just dropped about 30 points.

I pass the bunks quietly and stop in front of a wooden door. Ok… secret tour bus room, you’ve helped gain back approximately five awesome points.

I reach for the doorknob, but stop when I hear voices in the secret room.

“So, she’s like… alternating between crying and screaming, right? And I’m like… just standing there, trying not to laugh. I didn’t know if I was supposed to give her a tissue or put a gag in her mouth. And you know, her wearing a T-shirt with my giant face on it didn’t help at all. Like, what makes them think that does them any favors? Am I supposed to be like, ‘oh yes… I’d like to reproduce with you, because you managed to find a shirt with the biggest picture of my face on it. And then our kids can wear shirts with my face on them, and hell.. Why don’t I just wear one too while I’m at it?’ Where the hell do these chicks come from man?”

“You know…. I think I prefer the ones that write my name on their forehead. I feel like there’s a little extra edge of crazy in that. I can respect that sort of insanity.”

“Bottom line is, they’re all god damn lunatics.”

You know… I’m beginning to think wearing my Nsync shirt here today probably wasn’t the wisest decision I’ve ever made. And I am going to change. Immediately.

I duck into the ridiculously small bathroom, rummage the first decent shirt I can find out of my bag and throw it on, making damn sure the Nsync shirt is at the very bottom of my backpack. I may have to torch the thing at some point. Or just find a very, very nifty hiding spot.

I sincerely hope they won’t be offended by the New Kids On The Block sheets though. Cause those aren’t going anywhere, except on the mattress of my bunk, and that’s that.

I step out of the bathroom and smack into something, or someone rather, much shorter than myself.

“Oh…oh…oh crap… I’m sorry!”

“Chill. I’m pretty sure I’m going to live.” He laughs and rolls his eyes. “Website girl, right?”

I have a nickname. Not a very good one, but it’s a nickname none the less, and it was obviously given to me by a member of Nsync. I’m oddly ok with this.

And hey look… I’m not screaming! Good things are happening here people!

“Umm… yeah. Lea.”

“Chris.” He nods and glances around quickly. “Did anybody give you a tour or anything?”

“Not really. But, it’s totally fine… I can’t really see myself getting lost in here.” I laugh…. And oh crap… I definitely just snorted.

“Umm… yeah. Well… the guys are all in the backroom. We’re probably leaving here soon. So… good to meet you.” He nods again and heads for the front of the bus, yelling for someone named “Frankie Baby.”

One beyond awkward encounter down, four more to go. Rather than embarrass myself further, I take a seat on the couch and wait. If we’re leaving soon, I can only assume the other four will be filing off the bus to say goodbye to their friends and families. That way, I won’t interrupt whatever they’re doing in the secret room and prove what a complete awkward freak I am.

“Alright assholes…. Everybody up front, right fucking now.”

Oh Jesus Christ…

A very tiny, very angry looking man boards the bus quickly, and I’m 99 percent sure he’s here to rob us. And when he opens my bag to take my money, he’s going to find my Nsync shirts and my cd’s and my super awesome adventure will come to an end before it’s even started.

Damnit.

The door to the secret room opens and four men, various ages and heights, all amble up the small walkway. And because I am secretly still 13 years old, all I can do is sit here with my mouth hanging open.

Justin.

Joey.

Jc.

Lance.

Chris.

Yep… the gang’s all here.

“Alright… you little pricks listen up, and listen good.” The tiny angry man begins and I get the feeling I’m the only one who’s mildly terrified of what he’s about to do to us. “We ain’t having any funny business this go round, understood? No whoopee cushions, no fake snakes, no smoke bombs. Not on my bus. And so help me god, if you little fuckers replace my cigarettes with birthday candles again, I will drive this bus off a cliff with all of ya’s in it. And there ain’t anybody in the world who’ll blame me. “

“Umm… Frank… that vein in your forehead is popping out again…”

“Off. A. Fucking. Cliff.” Frank repeats before stomping to the front of the bus and taking his seat behind the wheel.

I’m going to die at some point within the next four months, I just know it.

I stare at the screen in front of me and blink several times.

Nope. Still blurry as hell.

As excited as I am to be doing this, I’m quickly realizing that it’s a terrible, terrible idea. I’m just the girl who delivered the mail and made coffee. Under no circumstances should I be here. Call me crazy, but I have a sneaking suspicion this would be much easier for someone who’s, you know… an actual writer. Instead, they’re stuck with me, in all my awkward glory.

And believe me, I’m not complaining by any means. I’m just terrified of screwing the whole thing up.

Let’s face facts here, if I embarrass Rolling Stone magazine, chances are good I’ll end up living in a cardboard box in some seedy alley somewhere, and I’ll have to share breadcrumbs with rats. I’d even bet you that my only social interaction would be with said rats.

Oh god… I’d be the crazy rat lady. People would come from miles around to watch me talk to my rats. Mark my words… it could totally go down like that. All because I didn’t know how to write about Nsync.

And then, in a perfect example of irony, I’d be offered countless book deals, to explain how Nsync ruined my once promising life, and I wouldn’t even be able to write the damn book.

“Most people sleep at three am, ya know.”

“This is true. However, most people do not have online journal entries due…. Three hours ago.”

You know… something tells me being a smartass will get me nowhere, but… it’s three in the morning, I’m cranky and have no clue what I’m doing. Oh… and the very attractive boy band member trying to talk to me really isn’t helping what so ever.

“What… you mean those things have a deadline?” He chuckles and shakes his head slowly. “I had no idea.”

“Well Jc Chasez… now you do.”

“You know you can call me Jc, right? Or Josh. You don’t have to use my full name.”

Yeah… this is not going well.

We’ve been on the road for roughly seven hours, and I think it’s safe to say that my attempts at being one of the cool kids are failing miserably. Big shock there, I know.

As pathetic as it surely makes me sound, I had this idea in my head that the men of Nsync would be going out of their way to bond with me. Honestly, if things were going according to my delusional little plan, we’d all be participating in a giant sing-a-long right about now. Instead, the guys have been sleeping or playing video games while I’ve done nothing but screw around on the internet.

This whole tour thing better start living up to my expectations of greatness soon, otherwise I’m probably going to be bored shitless for the next four months.

“Or ya know… if umm… if that’s what makes you feel comfortable, then by all means…” He mumbles. I didn’t think it was humanly possible, but I do believe the awkwardness in this exchange just multiplied by at least a hundred.

“Sorry… I’m just… way out of my element here.”

“First big assignment, huh?”

“Umm… you could say that.”

“Ah… so you’re probably super nervous and have a shit ton of pressure on you, right?”

“Fairly accurate.”

“Just wing it. Don’t put so much thought into it. Just write about what a bunch of freaks we are, and you’ll be good. Trust me.”

“You two wanna stop yakking back there? Some people are trying to drive a god damn bus here, and have no desire to hear how miserable your perfect fuckin lives make ya.” Frank calls out and I cringe.

He may be small, but he’s scary.

“Sorry, Frank.” Jc sighs and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about Frank, he’s really not… ok, yeah… he’s terrifying. Anyway… get some sleep.” He smiles as he slides out of the booth and heads back toward his bunk.

This is going to end badly. No doubt about it.

*****************

“You know… I’d like to know how you plan on delivering information about us when you don’t know us.”

I jump at the sound of a voice behind me and turn to face the source. He’s grinning at me, and despite my previous beliefs… his smile is sort of creepy. Like any second now, he’s going to pull out a knife, hack me into a billion pieces. Then he’ll probably put those pieces into one of the giant confetti canons they shoot off at the end of the show.

I’m going to be turned into confetti by a member of Nsync. I guess there are worse ways one could go out.

“I think that’s why I’m supposed to interview you.”

“And what if I choose not to be interviewed?”

“I’m pretty sure you aren’t allowed to do that.”

“Sure I can.” He shrugs and stands up. “Tell you what… I will grant you one interview, but I’m gonna need some incentive.”

“Uhh…”

“I’m not gonna ask ya to help me bury a body or anything. That’s worth at least six interviews.” He smirks and rolls his eyes. “I’ll start off small, I swear.”

“Chris! We got shit to do man! Get your ass up here NOW!” Justin bellows from his spot on the stage and Chris rolls his eyes.

He doesn’t move, but I can clearly see his gaze land on Frank, who’s seated at the edge of the stage, reading the newspaper.

“We’re going to prank Frank.” He nods seriously, his eyes quickly moving back to the stage. “And we’re going to blame it on Justin.”

“Wha-why? I mean… I don’t… I’m…Frank scares me.”

“Don’t be such a wuss kid. Meet me by the bus in 20 minutes.” He ruffles my hair and quickly jogs back toward the stage.

I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.

I’ve had virtually no interaction with Frank, but I’ve already seen the man yell at least a dozen times in the 24 hours since we left Orlando.

He may be small, but he’s loud, and he’s always angry. It’s been my experience that those two things do not blend very well.

Somehow, I don’t think pissing off the bus driver is the best way to begin this adventure, but I’ve also got a feeling I don’t have much choice.

I think I know exactly how gang members feel when they’re initiated.

*******************

It’s been two days since project prank Frank began. I’m not exactly sure what result we were going for, but I feel like the silent treatment probably wasn’t it.

I met Chris by the bus, just as he instructed. He went into the bus alone, while I stood guard. When he came back out, I figured he hadn’t succeeded. Needless to say, I was wrong.

Believe it or not, Frank is apparently quite sentimental. He’s driven for the boys on all three of their major US tours, and it’s safe to say the guys know him pretty well. According to Chris, all through every single tour, Frank had a pair of dog tags hanging from the rearview mirror.

Naturally, anytime someone questioned Frank about the mysterious dog tags, he told them to, and I quote “eat shit and bark at the moon.”

I don’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean, and I didn’t even bother to ask, but apparently it’s the absolute worst thing Frank can say to you. I beg to differ, but what do I know?

Needless to say, Chris’s brilliant idea was to steal the dog tags, and plant them on Justin. Unfortunately for Chris, I’m beginning to think the dog tags don’t really mean all that much to Frank.

Number one, he hasn’t sad a word about their disappearance. Secondly, they obviously aren’t military issued dog tags. One is simply engraved with the name Arnold. The other, is a date- 02/16/90.

Yeah… it makes no sense, and obviously… our prank isn’t going to work out as originally planned.

But, I’m totally fine with this. I got to conspire with Chris Kirkpatrick, and we officially have an inside joke. Life is good.

I’m sure you’re not interested in any of this though. So, I’ll just stick with the stuff that you want to actually hear about.

Today, is a travel day, and rather than hang out and do awesome, top secret boy band stuff with the guys, I’m stuck sorting through the fan box from the first show. I don’t know what the hell Johnny Wright thought I was supposed to get out of this thing, cause so far, I’ve got roughly 63 marriage proposals for Justin. 38 offers to have Joey’s children. 19 naked pictures for Jc. 27 ‘I love you Lance’ notes and 44 dog toys for Chris.

I’d say this box stuff is a bust.

“Alright assholes… we’ll be at the hotel in about five minutes. Get your shit together now. I’m not fighting off those psychotic little girls for long.” Frank’s voice carries throughout the entire bus and I shudder.

He scares me. I can’t help it.

I gather my things and head to the front of the bus, lining up behind the boys. Frank gets off the bus first and begins unloading the bags with the crew members. The assembly line of luggage they have going seems quite efficient, until Frank stops suddenly. He looks around quickly before his eyes finally land on the windows of the bus.

And he’s downright furious.

He says something to the man behind him, before he stomps back onto the bus, a dark green duffel bag in his hand. The door to the bus slams shut behind him and I swallow hard. I don’t know what we’ve done in the last five minutes, but it can’t possibly be good.

“Alright you ghetto fabulous fuckhead… front and center. NOW.” He glares at us, nostrils flaring.

You know how in Disney movies, the villain has that moment where they totally flip their shit, and turn into a dragon? I’m positive that’s exactly what’s about to happen here.

Also… I don’t know who the ghetto fabulous fuckhead is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not me. So that’s something I can be thankful for.

“J… I think that’s you.” Chris mumbles and elbows me in the side. He nods excitedly and it finally dawns on me.

I do believe Frank has just found his dog tags. In Justin’s bag.

“Yeah?” Justin slides past Joey to stand in front of Frank, confusion written all over his face. “Something wrong Frank?”

“Explain.” Frank holds the dog tags directly in front of Justin’s face and Chris stifles a laugh.

“Umm…. Aren’t those your dog tags? The ones that are on the mirror all the time?”

“Don’t have to hit you over the head with a fuckin brick, do I?” Frank mutters and shakes his head. “Why were they in your bag?”

“What?” Justin squeaks, his face turning a bright shade of red. “Frank, man… I swear… I never touched em!”

“Bullshit.” Frank seethes and grabs Justin by the collar of his shirt. “I found them. In. Your. Bag. You think you’re fucking funny? Huh? You think I’m some asshole here for your god damn entertainment? Guess what kid… I’m gonna make the next three months of your life fucking miserable. I’ve put up with more than enough of your bullshit over the years, but this is it.”

“Frank… I swear to fucking god… I never touched them!”

“I’m gonna be watching you, you little prick. And so help me god… you piss me off in the slightest… you will pay dearly for it.” Frank’s face is mere inches from Justin’s, and if I’m not mistaken… Justin Timberlake might actually piss his pants right here and now.

“I didn’t take them! I’m telling you… I don’t know how they got there…somebody… I… somebody set me up man!” Tears are quickly forming in Justin’s eyes and Chris is doing his absolute best not to laugh.

“Oh, so now it’s a god damn conspiracy, eh? You’re a real fuckin comedian kid.” Frank snorts. “You took em. I know ya took em. Be a fuckin man and admit it.” Frank shakes his head and releases Justin. “You know what… I think I prefer you lying. Cause if you admit ya took em, I can’t be held responsible for what I’ll do to your scrawny ass. Get your shit and get in the hotel.”

“Frank… I didn’t take your dog tags!” Justin wails defiantly and as much as I hate to admit it, even I’m having a hard time not laughing.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. And I’m the god damn Queen of England.” Frank snorts and rolls his eyes. “Oh, and I’m calling your mother, Ghetto Fabulous. Be prepared for that one.”

“Frank… you can’t!” Justin cries, tears streaming down his face now. “She’s gonna fuckin kill me!”

“Better her than me,” Frank shrugs and heads off the bus, Justin following him the whole way.

Well…. On the bright side, I’ve finally found the subject for my first journal entry.

How to make Justin Timberlake cry.