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"Ma, I’m fine. You should honestly start worrying when Idocontact you,” I assure her. My phone is nowhere within my reach when fans are around. I don’t need someone snatching it out of my hand and selling it for over thousands of dollars on some black market. It’s the one thing that luckily stays mine.
“How long will it take for you to get home?” she asks.
“About thirty minutes. But the second I get home, I’m going to sleep. The only thing keeping me awake are the traffic lights,” I tell her. I look down at the time on the car’s dashboard. It'sfive p.m. but I don’t care. My eyes are trying their best to stay open, and they’re doing great. I’m used to this. But the second I get home, I know they’re going to shut down with the rest of my body.
“Okay. Update me, goddamn it. I swear it’s not that hard,” she demands.
I laugh softly. Mom gets scared easily when it comes to me. She doesn’t care where I am, or what I’m doing, as long as she can ensure I’m safe. She really has got to stop worrying so much.“Okay, I will. Bye.” I end the call, putting my phone aside. I use one of my hands to move my curls up and away from my face. Thirty minutes. I can handle thirty minutes of not falling asleep. At least, I hope.
Parking at home is probably the most complicated thing ever. I drive around the house to the back, park in the garage and close the garage door, ensuring the lock is plugged in enough,then enter the house. But it’s worth it. The last thing I need is fans at my doorstep.
I open the front door to find Ellie, my younger sister, standing at the entrance. The place looks like it’s been tidied, the two couches on the side not as messy as usual, and the coffee table in the middle not overflowing.You’ve got to be kidding me.I sigh as her face comes into focus. She’s always been the one who looks more like our mom, with her brown hair and oval face shape. The only difference is she got hazel eyes, while mine are green—one of the little things I inherited from our mother’s physical appearance. I love Ellie, but I know that the second I see her at the door, she’s going to ask for something.
“Ellie, you look paralyzed. Just tell me what you need this time?” I ask her in a weak voice, sliding my shoes on the rack’s right side, and hanging the keys on the mini key hook.
“I have homework. It’s a project. I need help assembling it,” she asks. A project. Is she telling me this now?
“How last minute are you?” I mutter. She continues to stare at me, leaving me to answer myself. I groan, walking to the gray couch on the right side and throwing myself on it. I have no energy to deal with anything.
A deeper woman’s voice fills the silence.“Ellie, leave your sister alone. She’s tired. She’s been out for a long time. She’ll see if she can help you out later,” my mom tells her. Thank God. Someone did it for me.“Plus, she has a meeting in an hour,” she continues. My eyes shoot open.A what? No. I raise my head slightly.
“No, you’re kidding,” I moan.
“Oliver called. Said it was urgent.”Why Oliver, why are you like this? Why can’t you be a decent manager?I throw my head back on the couch, shutting my eyes again. Never mind, that’s unfair to him.
My emotions toward Oliver are interchanging. I personally like him, and he knows how to work with me. That isn’t something you find in any music manager, considering my age. But at times like this, I resent him. Does he not feel pity for my wellbeing?
“Vi, I’m sorry. I tried to tell him to change it, but he said it was important, and that they couldn’t do tomorrow. I don’t think he knows you’ve been out.” Her fingers stroke the length of my face, sending a warm wave through my body.
I don’t reply, too tired to even say anything. I just lie there, knowing my mom is sitting in front of me.
“Look, how about you rest for thirty minutes, then you can get up and go. You’re already dressed and ready anyway. Okay?” she suggests, her voice soothing. Ugh. I don’t want to go. But I have to, so I nod weakly. “I swear I’ll make sure tomorrow isn’t as tiring,” she says. I know it won’t be. Because I’ll kill myself before going out and not readying myself for another fan crowd appearance.
An hour later, I’m at the office, staring at the coffee machine dripping the black substance into my almost-full cup, as Oliver sits on the other side of the table. He’s a man who looks exactly his age—twenty-seven—with short dark brown hair and a tall figure. He’s wearing a suit, per usual.
A coffee machine is a must in my office, then comes a desk. And two chairs. And a small shelf. And drawers. But most importantly, a coffee machine. I sit on my chair, which is different to the one Oliver is sitting in. Though I do most of my work at home, I enjoy being comfortable doing it here. So, I requested one of those comfy pillowed chairs on wheels, but I got it in gray to fit the gray and light purple theme of the room. I place my coffee cup on the white desk separating Oliver and I, after taking a small sip.
“Any time today,” Oliver complains, his elbow on the table as his head rests on his hand.
“You don’t bring me here after a tiring day and expect me to be 100 percent with you. Especially without coffee,” I tell him. He rolls his eyes, sitting up straight.
“Can I start?” he asks, fixing his suit tightly around him. I rub my eyes before looking back at him. He’s serious with me most of the time, as expected of a manager, but he tries to break the mood every now and then. He gets that I’m younger, and that I might work differently than others.
Most managers wouldn’t have taken such a young person, they think we’re immature—which honestly isn’t too far from the truth. After the video went viral, Lorenzo and I were mostly who controlled everything, still looking for someone to help me manager. Oliver was the first, and only one, to contact me. This is an investment to him, if he helps me out from now, it’s going to be good for him in the future. With me, and with other potential clients. I really hope it does end up good for him, he deserves it.
“Yes, you can start.”
“Great. First and foremost, I’m going to ask you a simple question. Why did you yell at the fans?” he asks, his voice rising slightly with annoyance. Oh, great, we’re starting with that.
I sigh, staring him in the eye. He obviously doesn’t accept that and waits for a proper answer. “Come on, Oliver. It was getting irritating, and soon enough they were going to climb on top of me. It was a reflexive reaction, and I didn’t do anything afterward,” I explain.
His mouth turns downward.“Val, you can’t just yell at them because they’re annoying. Fans are irritating sometimes, it’s what they’re defined as. You have to learn to deal with them,” he tells me, hitting the side of his hand on the table. A soft thudstartles me back to full consciousness. I shut both of my eyes for a second, recollecting myself.I know.
“I try. But there’s a limit to what I can handle. I told you, it’s a reflex. I don’t like people pushing me around. Most importantly, I don’t like getting trampled by people every time I want to go grab a drink or take a walk. Can’t they go crowd another celebrity? Maybe one who’s actually out to see their fans,” I say. I need a break; can they not give me that?
“Val, I know you don’t like it when they’re always around you, but you don’t have much of a choice. We have these rules for a reason, and that’s your reputation. I know singing is something special to you, and I’m trying to help you keep it. If they’re violating your privacy, don’t answer their questions, or if you need to, try to find a way in which you can answer broadly, but don’t yell at them.” He requests, calming his voice. He’s behaving more pleasantly now. Why? Now I can’t argue.
“Oliver, you’re my manager, I know that. But you’re also like a friend. And from a friend to a friend, I’m telling you they are around me twenty-four seven. I can’t do anything. I have a life to live. I’m not even eighteen. I can’t vote yet, but I have to work with them around me all the time. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate them. I know I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them, but I also need some space. It’s relentless, all the questions they keep asking me, like, ‘are you dating someone?’ How can I be dating someone when I don’t even have time for friends? I havenofriends.” I complain, mocking the fans' words and hoping Oliver takes pity on me.
