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  Jeff opens the app on his phone while we warm up. While we run through scales and diction exercises and harmonies. While we breathe in—two, three—out—two, three. While four voices unite to become one, each a band in a rainbow of sound. While Jeff adjusts the timbre of my voice.

  It didn’t always sound like this. That’s part of why I auditioned for Back 2 Back—for the vocal implant. A chance to sing like I used to before my vocal chords thickened. I wanted my range back, wanted the soaring feeling of a note held against the swell of harmony.

  I clear my throat.

  “Sounds good, boys.” Jeff pockets his phone. “Have a great show.” He waves over his shoulder and heads up to the sound booth.

  As much as I love being in a band, I love being in a boyband even more. You’re not supposed to. Boyband members are male, but no one considers them masculine—not when their audience is comprised of teenage girls. Heaven forbid girls’ tastes be given any weight. When I was one, my favorite band was a group of baby-faced cis boys whom my classmates misgendered just so they could call me a lesbian for liking them. Figures, they were my trans masculinity goals and now here I am:

  Beside a piano, backstage at Madison Square Garden, arms around three other guys as we huddle up before the show. I breathe in the spice of deodorant, freshly washed cotton, sweat, and hint of coffee. Feel the heat of their damp armpits against my shoulder blades. The beat of their hearts.

  “All right, lovers, let’s go.” Zeke waggles his eyebrows, eliciting laughter as we pile our hands on one another’s, twine our fingers. Sing ourselves off.

  “We’re all together again, we’re here, we’re here. We’re all together again, we’re here, we’re here!” Our joined hands bounce up and down to the rhythm as we sing the old campfire song in a circle no one else can penetrate. “Who knows when we’ll be all together again? Singing all together again! We’re here, we’re here!”

  We whoop and cheer. Adrenaline punches through my body as we race to take our positions below the stage. The opening notes of “Keep Running” rumble through the stage above, though they play clearly in our monitors. I close my eyes, letting them vibrate through my body.

  “Tyler.”

  A stagehand holds out a microphone with a strip of blue tape wrapped around the handle. Mine is always blue. Jasper’s green. Aiden’s yellow. And Zeke’s red.

  I take the offered mic, nod my thanks, and glance sideways at Jasper. He winks at me. Smirks. My heart flutters like a teenaged girl’s. It’s the same heart I’ve always had and it still flutters for musicians like Jasper. The edgy ones.

  He exudes masculine energy through eyeliner, tight black jeans, and nail polish. I straighten my own jean jacket, a light blue denim over a thick white tee shirt. Khaki joggers. Clean white sneakers. I only wore them for the first time two shows ago. Still have the blisters to prove it.

  “All right, B2B.” The stagehand’s voice is in our ears. “You’re up in five, four, three, two—”

  I don’t hear her say “one.” I’m already in the music. A loaded bullet in a sparking chamber. When the trigger is pulled, we shoot up into an arena of sound. The electricity of the band—of a live-wire guitar and surging drums. The wall of cheering and screaming, words indistinguishable but the sentiment the same:

  This music is a part of me. It hurts when I don’t listen and even more when I do. I’m here because this concert hall is my church. This melody is my body and these lyrics are my blood.

  I feel the ache in my chest and know I feel the same.

  Then, I’m raising my mic and our voices join the chorus of noise and we’re off. Euphoria settles under my skin, carrying me between songs. We don’t officially dance—we’re too cool for that—but we’re so close. We’re mocking dance: jumping to the beat, bouncing around the massive stage. Zeke runs past with the melody on his lips and a can of Silly String in his hand.

  When it’s empty, he chucks it aside and slaps my ass, cackling. I’m not mad and the fans love it when he screws around. Even the label encourages it. I pick up the bridge, startled but laughing. My voice doesn’t break or crack. With Jeff’s control, it doesn’t falter—it lifts without effort. I close my eyes, hold my free hand up and, for a second, I’d swear I’m singing four notes at the same time, harmonizing with myself, conducting sound like a lightning rod.

  I wonder, with the implant, if I could.

  But then I see the others closing in, hear their voices joining mine. Aiden flips his long brown hair out of his eyes while he picks at his acoustic, notes like the patter of raindrops on hot pavement.

  Jasper walks towards me like he’s in West Side Story, crouched down, snapping his fingers, singing to me—only me. He grabs my mic and our voices blend impossibly into one.

  “When I kiss you / it’s like ooh-wee-ooh.”

  “I can’t describe / your ahh-la-la-la.”

  “Some night when / the moon is high”

  “We’ll ay-ay-ay-ay / ’til it’s light.”

  “When I kiss you, baby.” Then Jasper is looking at me the way he’s looked at a hundred girls and his hand is in my hair, sliding down my neck, and my face is burning, and the next thing I know I start to for-real kiss him. On stage. While Zeke sings, “ooh-wee-ooh,” and Aiden strums his guitar, and the crowd is so loud, I can’t even hear my ear monitors.

  Slowly, the sound mellows, the lights drop, and spotlights illuminate our final song. No one looks at me differently. Zeke ruffles my hair like I’m his kid brother. Aiden leans over his guitar to sing backup into my mic. Jasper takes my hand for our bows.

  Everything is okay. I don’t know why I thought it wouldn’t be. Zeke calls us “lovers” all the time, Aiden’s cried on stage before, and Jasper flirts with anyone with a pulse. I can kiss him. It doesn’t mean anything to the fans. Only to me.

  * * *

  “You wanted to see me?” I’m still rubbing a towel through my sweaty hair, when I duck into the makeshift office the venue’s provided for Jeff. “I got your text.”

  “Hey, Tyler. Have a seat.” He gestures to an upholstered chair on the opposite side of his desk. It’s fat, polished wood that belongs in a penthouse office, not a room with a paper sign taped on the front. But his workspace needs are outlined in our tour rider alongside ours. I can’t blame him for wanting to feel comfortable.

  Jeff is as awkward as you’d expect an executive-type who chases twenty-somethings around music venues, all day, to be. Like an out-of-touch dad who’s too busy to be home for your birthday, but still pays for the party. And he is sort of like our dad—none of us has been home for more than a few days at a time, in years. Not since we auditioned. Not si
nce Jeff called us all into a conference room, still strangers, and said, “I want to bring back the boyband.”

  I sit and slouch, crossing my legs casually, the way I’ve seen Jasper do. It looks better on him, I decide, and shuffle until I’m sitting up straight. Jeff lays his phone face up on the desk, amidst two stacks of papers and a computer monitor that could’ve come from outer space, in comparison to the heavy desk.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  He taps lazily at his phone. He does that enough that we’re never surprised or offended when he’s working and talking to us at the same time. But this feels different. Like it’s for show. Like he wants me to watch what he’s doing.

  “I want to review some interview protocols with you. Nothing big, just a couple notes from the label.”

  “Okay.” I lean forward until I can see the app on his phone. The one he uses to adjust our vocal implants.

  “About what happened on stage tonight.”

  “Okay?”

  He rubs his hand over his evening stubble. “We want you to carefully consider how you answer questions about the incident.”

  “Incident?”

  “The kiss.”

  “Oh, that.” I laugh. If I act like it didn’t mean anything, it won’t. “The fans loved it.”

  “They did. That they did.” He disappears into his phone again, switching to a news app that streams video of the “incident” and photo on which someone has scribbled pink hearts with a stylus. I try to catch the website, but Jeff scrolls quickly before turning off his phone and looking right at me. “But is that really the image you want to cultivate?”

  Is that a trick question? “Yes?”

  “Let me re-phrase.” Jeff flattens his palms against one another and points his fingertips at me. “That’s not the image the label is hoping you’ll cultivate.”

  “Zeke literally spanked me, on stage.” I’m smiling but Jeff isn’t. For the first time, I’m nervous.

  “He’s a goofy guy,” Jeff says. “It was a joke.”

  My smile goes stale. “Am I not funny?”

  “You are, of course. You’re all good-humored guys. That’s why the fans love you. You’re easy going, approachable, you make them laugh.”

  “But?”

  “But you’re the one they always come back to, Tyler. The one they want singing ‘When I Kiss You’ to them. Whose last name they write on their binders. Who’s plastered on their bedroom walls. You’re the face of Back 2 Back. You’re…”

  I know the word he’s looking for. “Wholesome.”

  “Exactly!” Jeff nearly leaps out of his leather chair. “When I envisioned the band, I didn’t know who would comprise it, what your personalities would be, what you would look or sound like. But I knew I needed you. And I chose you over a thousand potential heart throbs because you’re smart and business savvy. And I trust that you can carry out my vision for the band. You can do that, right?”

  I nod, pulling my knees up onto the chair.

  “That’s good.” He smooths his tie. “If anyone asks about the incident, how about saying that it was Jasper’s idea. He’s got that bad boy thing going on.” Jeff tries to mimic Jasper’s smirk, but it looks creepy when he does it. “Anyway, I’ll let you get to the bus, celebrate with the guys. I think we understand each other.” He holds out his hand to me.

  I’m on autopilot when I take it.

  “Good man.” He pats me on the back and ushers me out, shutting the door behind me.

  I stand in the cold hallway, staring at the painted cinderblock walls. I can still feel the imprint of Jeff’s hand on the back of my right shoulder. His assurance. And yet, I feel so unsure.

  * * *

  It’s almost 4:00 a.m. when I give up trying to sleep and wander into the back room on the bus. A reading lamp shines in the corner where Jasper sits sideways on the couch, wearing sweats and a clean black shirt. His sleeves rolled up, notebook in hand, pencil between teeth.

  “Sorry, I—”

  “It’s okay.” Jasper tucks the pencil into his beanie. “Stay.”

  I walk over to the other end of the couch and slide onto the warm leather, pulling the bottom of his blanket up over my knees. “What’re you working on?”

  He shrugs. “Had some lyrics in my head that I couldn’t get out. Nothing special.”

  I’ve never seen Jasper write before—that’s Aiden’s thing. He’ll sit right there, too, curled up in a blanket and hoodie and spend hours writing and re-writing, pick his guitar up off the floor, play a few chords, hum, set it down, then write again. Zeke and I can play video games right beside him—nothing. None of us even try to get his attention while he’s in the zone.

  “What about you?” His question startles me more than it should.

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  But Jasper stares at me, his left eyebrow slowly rising.

  “What? I couldn’t!” I whisper, eyes darting towards the door.

  I can’t tell him I was thinking about the rush of kissing him in front of all those people. The heat of the lights, of his body, his mouth. I’ve never done that before—kissed a man in public since I’ve been one, too. It was just as terrifying as I thought it would be. And I want to do it again.

  “Okay, Ty, um…” Jasper leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I know that kiss wasn’t a joke.” He dares to meet my eyes, but I can’t. I look away before all the blood in my body can rush to my face; it already is. “I’m guessing that’s why you’re still awake.”

  I stand, looking at my feet. “Think I’m going to head back to—”

  Jasper takes my hand. Stops me. “I know it’s awkward to talk about.”

  “It’s not awkward.” I look him dead in the eye and remember what Jeff said—how I’m supposed to talk about “the incident.” “Because it was a joke. Sorry for making you uncomfortable.”

  He laughs. Laughs. I curl my fingers into fists, even though he’s still holding on, pulling me towards him. How fucking dare he do this when I’m trying.

  “You didn’t make me uncomfortable, Tyler. You’re one of my best friends—you’re like my brother.” He pauses and I watch him think through the implications. “Whom I’d make out with, apparently. That’s weird. Sorry.”

  I give in and laugh with him. My ears cool, or they’re so hot they’ve gone numb. “Glad I’m not the only weirdo.” I sit back down. Closer.

  “Oh, I’m definitely weird, too. And I think Aiden might be weird? But it’s rude to ask, so I’m totally reading into his lyrics.”

  We laugh again. My heart’s still beating fast, so I place a hand over it and take a deep breath.

  “It’s okay to be weird.” Jasper takes both my hands in his. We can’t be this close again. I’m going to want to kiss him and we’re not on stage.

  That’s the unwritten contract we have with each other and our fans. We’re freer when we perform. We can do things there we’d never do at an appearance or say on an interview. To some extent, it’s an act. We all know it. We can only dance if we’re mocking dancing, only touch and kiss if we’re mocking affection.

  Jasper squeezes my hands. “But you can’t—”

  “I know.” It hurts more than I thought it would, when he starts to say what Jeff already did. “We can’t…” Kiss each other on stage. “… do weird stuff during our concerts.”

  “Well…”

  “Well?” That wasn’t the response I expected.

  “Tyler.” He sighs, then leans forward and kisses me for the second time. Lips chapped, smelling like pine trees and hops. He kisses me a third time—I’m counting, because I know we only have so many. My mother used to say the garage door only had so many ups and downs, because my cousins and I would play with the remote and she didn’t want us to break it. Same with the car windows. The computer only had so many startups and shutdowns. And Jasper and I only have so many kisses.

  He catches my bottom lip between his teeth when he pulls away, biting. I gasp and grab on to h
is shirt.

  “You can’t do weird stuff on stage. Because you’re the boy next door,” he says. “The heartthrob. Always single, always straight, always—”

  “Wholesome,” I say to Jasper like I did to Jeff. “I get it. Zeke can grab my ass because he’s a joker and you can kiss guys because you’re the rule-breaker.” I scoff. “You’d think being trans would disqualify me—it’s not a secret.” I get asked about it during interviews all the time. “As long as I’m romantically available to our fan base, that’s what matters.” I pull my hand free of his and stand. “It’s not like any of them are going to fuck me, anyway, so it doesn’t matter what’s actually in my pants as long as the possibility exists.”

  Jasper looks from his empty hand to me. “Never underestimate the power of a respectable weirdo.”

  * * *

  I don’t kiss Jasper, tonight, when we sing the song—I don’t even stand near him. My mark is moved to the other side of the stage, near Aiden. It’s that way for the whole show—I find words pushing themselves out of me as if I’m not even singing them, but rather they’re playing from inside me, my body an elaborate music box. And my voice sounds different, tonight. Slightly fuller, deeper. It’s thick in my throat. It feels good, like hefting a weight easily over my head. Like I always imagined my voice would sound.

  Nothing else feels right, though. Aiden hands his guitar to a stagehand, for the last song, puts his arm around my shoulder, and draws the others towards us for a ballad. The screaming stops. My ears ring with silence.

  I look at Jasper, raise the microphone to my lips and, when I sing, it’s to him—for him. “I want you as you are / don’t ever change for me / when I give you my love / I give it unconditionally.”

  A wave of applause crashes over us as we finish. Aiden takes my hand, raises it over our heads. We bow. I stare out into the shining abyss. Surrender myself to the noise. Find my frequency. Dissolve into pure sound.

  Aiden pulls me off stage with him. The change in scenery jars me as if awake from a dream. The cool dark tunnels backstage. A slippery water bottle thrust into my hand, a towel draped over my shoulder. The band pats my back as we pass; Aiden puts his arm around my shoulder, guiding me into a room with “Press” taped to the door.