The suite was decorated in a cream-white and a dark, navy blue color. The carpet was soft and squishy and spotless, and the curtains were striped to match the thin strip of border that edged the white walled room.

One man, shorter than the others, with dark hair tipped fire engine red, was curled into a chair. He was sketching; the pencil was moving almost frantically across the clean page of the notebook resting on his lap. Occasionally he would hold up the notepad and show the drawing to the other three men sitting in the room.

"This?" he’d ask as he took the pad back down to his lap and altered a line or a word, "Or this?"

He wouldn’t stop asking until all of the other men had given their opinion.

Another man was stretched out on the couch. His long, dark but highlighted hair was held away from his face by the headband of his headphones. His lanky legs were propped up on the cushioned arm at the other end of the couch and the laptop rested on the rise of his thighs. His wrists were bent at an odd angle as he tapped away at the keys and played with tracks on his computerized music program of choice. He hummed a tuneless song quietly, just under his breath, making the notes come together in his head.

The third man danced by the window of the room. He counted out the steps: one and two and turn and thrust. His bandanna--the only thing that used to keep his mass of curls out of his eyes--slipped as he moved, and he stopped after every song to readjust it.

"J." Chris gave Justin a heavy stare. "Do-rags don’t work unless there’s something to hold back. You don’t have no hair, yo."

Justin raised his middle finger and scratched the tip of his nose.

The fourth man watched the TV. He laughed every few minutes and slapped at the flesh of his knee.

"Oh, that’s funny," he’d say. He’d smile and the laughter would bubble up, again.

Suddenly, breaking the monotony of the afternoon, the door to the suite banged open. The movement was hard enough so that the door hit the wall on the right side of the doorframe, leaving a small dent in the plaster, before it slammed shut again behind the man who had stepped into the room.

"Motherfucker," Lance said. His face was pale; his lips tight and a dusky pale pink.

Justin stopped dancing mid-thrust and had to balance himself quickly, regaining his center of gravity.

JC pulled his headphones off and stared at Lance.

Joey muted the TV.

Chris, startled, drew a line across his latest sketch.

A tear dripped down Lance’s cheek. He blinked and another tear followed the first.

"Motherfucker." More quietly this time.

"What is it?" Joey asked cautiously.

Lance shook his head. He crossed his arms over his chest and hugged himself. Papers the other guys hadn’t noticed Lance was holding fell from his hand in a rustling of leaves. He slowly folded to the ground, still holding himself.

"It’s bad?" Justin asked.

Lance nodded.

"How bad?" Chris asked. His eyes narrowed.

"Bad." Lance’s voice was muffled, spoken into his solid knees. He continued crying and all the other guys could do was stare.

JC stood up from the couch, carefully setting his laptop on the empty cushion beside him, and walked across the room. He picked up one of the fallen sheets of paper, noticed the scrawled FreeLance at the top and stared at the columns of numbers.

"I don’t understand." He looked down at Lance.

"Tommy," Lance said. He swallowed convulsively. "The numbers don’t add up. Money’s missing." He gestured helplessly.

"Motherfucker," JC said.

Then the room was silent.

The airport was cluttered with noise: constant announcements over the intercom ("Will Lucy Perez please report to a white courtesy telephone? Lucy Perez, please report to a white courtesy telephone."), children screaming, and families saying goodbye.

"God, I hate the airport," Joey said. He looked around the building and stepped forward suddenly as someone bumped into him.

Lance nodded his agreement. "I hate flying more, though."

Joey moved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Bah. Been there and done that way too many times."

"And I have to do it again," Lance said. He looked over at the gate his flight was leaving from. "And then again at the end of the week."

"I envy you so much, Lansten," Joey said. "Let me count the ways. One--" He raised his right hand and spread all of his fingers out. With his left hand he pretended to tic fingers off.

Lance glared at Joey.

"Final boarding call for Flight 2178 to Jackson, Mississippi." The electronic voice cut through the surrounding conversations. "Final boarding call for Flight 2178 to Jackson, Mississippi."

"You better go," Joey said. "Don’t want to make Mama Bass mad now, do we?"

Lance shook his head. He punched Joey lightly on the arm and proceeded to walk towards the gate.

"Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!" Joey called after him.

Lance raised his middle finger, showing it over his left shoulder, and didn’t turn around. Behind him he could hear Joey laughing.

The ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign flicked off with a bling and Lance slowly uncurled his fingers from around the airplane armrests. He took a shaky breath and looked at the people all around him standing up, stretching, and unlatching the doors of the overhead compartments.

"Well," the old woman (with almost blue hair) next to him said, "we survived."

"That we did, ma’am," Lance said, his drawl pronounced. He stood up and began to pull his own bag down. He paused. "May I get your bag for you?"

"Why, thank you." The old woman nearly cooed. "That would be very nice."

Lance smiled.

The Jackson International Airport air was harsh and disinfected. It stung Lance’s nose, throat, eyes. He blinked, eyeing the flat blue walls and the modern architecture that had been attempt at making the building look appealing.

"James!" It was a familiar voice--not the voice he was expecting, but familiar none the less.

Lance turned around and smiled at his mother. The smaller woman was walking quickly towards him. His adams apple bobbed as he pushed his fingers through his too bleached hair.

"Mom," he said. "What are you doing here? I was expecting Stacy."

"Like I wouldn’t leave school early to come pick up my son whom I haven’t seen in six months." Diane wrapped her arms around Lance and planted a firm kiss on his cheek. "You know me better than that, James."

Lance pulled away. Then he smiled.

"It is so good to have you home," Diane said. She spun the steering wheel and cornered the car into their driveway; the driveway that led up to the perfect white house with brown trim and an immaculate yard.

"It’s good to be back," Lance said. "Been gone too long."

"Well, when you’re off cavorting in Europe and seeing places we never thought you’d get to see, I guess we really shouldn’t complain." Diane gave the wheel a final spin.

"I’ll always think of this as home, Mama," Lance said. "You know that."

Diane nodded. "I moved all of your father’s stuff out of your room this morning. He just likes to take it over, I swear. I told him that you were going to be coming home today and that it needed to be out, and he still left it all there."

Lance smiled wanly.

"Oh, and Lisa called today, too. Did you tell her you were comin’ home?"

Lance shook his head, but he looked more alert at the mention of the name of the director of the Mississippi Showstoppers.

"Well, she knew somehow. She said that you were welcome to drop by the studio at anytime while you were here. She said that all the kids there really wanted to see you. Not that you probably know too many of them anymore, but--"

"Okay, Mama," Lance said. "I’ll go say hi tomorrow, if I don’t have anything else planned?"

Diane shook her head. "Would I plan your schedule for you?"

"Of course not," Lance said quickly. "I just didn’t, you know, know."

The stage looked exactly like Lance remembered it. The curtains were the same heavy, burgundy velvet dust traps that they had always been. The floor was still made of the too shiny boards.

He had a flash of dejavú as the performers came out, practicing their entrances onto the stage. The song was different, but it was the same atmosphere. Two years before, he had been one of the guys in pinstripe suits and brimmed hats, tapping a cane in time with the beat of the peppy show tune.

Lance sank, slowly, into one of the seats at the back of the theater. He watched with rapt attention as the girls tapped on stage, singing: lips a bright red, eyes shiny even from where he was sitting.

One girl tapped forward to the front of the stage. Lance remembered her. She’d joined the group a few months before he had left. She had been twelve and still anxious about getting up on stage. 

To his sixteen years, she had been a little girl and he’d barely given her a second glance. Now if only he could remember--

Meredith. That was her name.

She opened her mouth--Lance could see the white of her teeth from the back row--and sang.

Lance blinked. He bent his elbow, resting it firmly on the armrest, and propped his chin up on his knuckles. 

"Oh my god."

Lance remembered the girl in front of him now.  Elizabeth. She gushed, had always gushed, and would probably gush for the rest of her life. Lance cringed at that thought.

"You’re like so famous now," Elizabeth said. She lay a hand on Lance’s arm. "And now you’re standing in front of me." She squealed.

"I’m not famous," Lance said. He shook his head and plastered a grin on his face. "Who over here has even heard of ‘N SYNC?"

"I have," Elizabeth said. She looked around the theater area. "We all have. You’re, like, the most famous graduate we have."

"Nah." Lance shrugged. Then he pointed at his hair. "I’m just the dork who dunked his head in a bucket of bleach."

Elizabeth laughed too hard, showing too much emotion.

Lance swiveled his head, trying to find someone else he could talk to. He saw Meredith walking up the aisle.

"Meredith?" Lance asked.

Meredith turned curiously. She blinked.

"James." Her smile was genuine, but hesitant.

"You sounded good up there," Lance said. "When I last saw you, you were this tall." He held out his hand to a level somewhere in the middle of his chest.

"Thanks," Meredith said. She shrugged and her dusty-brown hair bounced. "When I last saw you, you had brown hair."

"Yeah, well." Lance blushed. "They seem to think I look better this way."

"Uh-huh." Meredith shook her head.

Lance saw Elizabeth opening her mouth, so he spoke again quickly. "I was serious when I said you sounded good. Have you ever thought about pursuing it?"

Meredith shook her head and raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Me? This is just for fun, James. You know that. It never goes anywhere."

"I’m somewhere," Lance said.

"Except you." Meredith corrected herself quickly.

"You should think about it," Lance said. He grabbed her hand and pulled a pen out of his pocket. With sloppy strokes he scrawled his number on her hand. "Give me a call if you change your mind."

He walked away before Elizabeth could corner him again.

"Do you remember Meredith Edwards?" Lance asked as he poured three glasses of milk. He recapped the jug and rested it on the white tiled counter.

Diane pursed her lips. "Refresh my memory." The sound of the knife chopping carrots was in sharp contrast to her soft voice.

"She only joined a few months before I left," Lance said. "She was twelve."

"Poofy hair?" Diane asked.

Lance nodded. 

"I remember her," Diane said. "She was a cute girl."

"She’s got some talent." Lance took a sip of milk from his glass.

"All you kids had talent," Diane said. "You all were the best in the state."

"No." Lance shook his head. "I mean, like, she’s got real talent. She sang a solo today, and it was just, wow."

"Well, that’ll be good for the group," Diane said.

"I think she could go solo." Lance walked the jug of milk over to the refrigerator and stuck it in. He shut the textured white metal door that still had alphabet magnets covering the whole surface. "She hasn’t even thought about it. How can she not have thought about it? Remember how much I used to talk about performing?"

"Well, what can you do for her?" Diane asked.

"I gave her my number," Lance said. "Told her that if she changed her mind she should give me a call."

"And what could you do?" Diane asked again.

"I know people, mother," Lance said. "I have connections. I could totally help her out."

"Dude," Tommy said. "Look at your hair." He reached out with his left hand and picked at one of Lance’s short spikes.

"I know." Lance batted Tommy’s hand away. "It’s blond."

"It’s not blond, it’s blinding." Tommy laughed. "It’s like you’re emanating light or some shit like that."

"It’s bleach," Lance said.

Tommy narrowed his eyes. "Was it radioactive? ‘Cause, dude, you fucking glow."

Lance punched Tommy in the arm and ducked as Tommy playfully swung back at him. After a few minutes of scuffling, Lance stepped away. "Can’t, you know, risk a bruise or something."

Tommy frowned. "I know you’re just chicken shit, Bass. There’s no need to lie."

"Screw you," Lance said. "I have to be beautiful for the ladies."

"’Cause they’ll look at that hair and want to jump your bones, right?" Tommy jumped on Lance’s back. "The hair’ll scare them away. A bruise or two might make you look more manly."

Lance smiled as he disentangled himself from Tommy’s grip.

"You’re just jealous, dude." He straightened his shirt. "There’s no need to lie."

"Boys!" Diane stood at the bottom step of the house. Her hands rested on her hips. "Dinner’s on!"

Lance and Tommy moved quickly down the stairs, their feet pounding over the carpeted boards.

"James," Diane said. "Meredith called while you boys were gone."

Lance turned to his mother. "Who?"

"Meredith," Tommy said. "You got a girl you haven’t told me about?"

Lance shook his head. "Meredith? Showstopper's Meredith?"

Diane nodded. "She said that she wanted to talk to you about something you guys had talked about earlier. Maybe about the offer you made her?"

"An offer?" Tommy slapped Lance on the flat of his shoulder blade. "Bass, you dog."

Diane glared at them.

"She’s a singer," Lance said. His cheeks were slightly pink. "I thought maybe I could giver her name to a few people or something. Help her with stuff."

Tommy smiled widely. "Is she hot?"

"She’s 14," Lance said.

The smile on Tommy’s face faded. "She’s a kid, man."

"LeAnn Rimes was how old?" Lance asked. "This girl. You’d have to hear her, but she’s got some talent."

Tommy shook his head. "I’ll take your word for it."

The phone was solid between the top of Lance’s shoulder and his ear.

"Meredith, please," he said when an older man answered. He tapped his pen against the bedspread a few times.

"Hello?" 

"Meredith." Lance sat up straight on his bed. "It’s Lance. I mean James."

"Hi." Her voice was tentative.

"I was returning your call," Lance said.

"Oh," Meredith said. She sounded flustered. "Well, I was calling, because. Were you serious about what you said?"

"You mean about whether you have talent?"

"Yeah," Meredith said.

"You have a good voice; I think you’d have a chance." Lance tapped the pen against his bent knee. "Honestly. I could give your name to a few people, and, you know, you could see where it would go from there."

"You wouldn’t be doing it yourself?" Meredith asked. "Doing whatever it is that needed doing? Like, managing, or whatever?"

"I’m not qualified," Lance said quickly. "But, I mean, I could help you. Get you in touch with some really good people. I’d be there with you if you wanted me to and it fit into my schedule."

"Why are you doing this?" Meredith asked.

"I know talent when I see it," Lance said, "and I can’t let talent go to waste."

"Oh," Meredith said. She sighed. "Well, I guess that was what I wanted to know."

"Have you talked to your parents about it?" Lance asked.

"No," Meredith said. "I don’t think they’d really--"

"Talk to your parents," Lance said. "Let me give you my cell-phone number, so you can call me in Orlando or wherever we are, okay? All you can do is try, you know?"

The sky was a royal blue dotted with millions of white specks. The trees were scraggly black shapes against the horizon. The moon was a white circle, larger than Lance had ever seen it before.

His legs swung aimlessly, dangling from his sitting position on the edge of the hatchback of the truck bed.

"You will come to my show, right?" He turned to Tommy. "When we come to Jackson, you’ll be there."

Tommy shrugged, before he smiled at Lance. "You think I’d miss the opportunity to see you make a fool of yourself on stage?"

"You’ll have to meet the guys," Lance said. "I think you’d like them a lot. Joey, probably. You guys would get along really well."

"Well, I feel like I know them already," Tommy said. "You’d think you’d be able to shut up about them for a few hours out of the day, but it seems as if even that is too much to ask."

"Heck, Tom," Lance said. "I live on top of them all year round. You talk about all the people at your college that I don’t know."

Tommy shook his head. "Touché, Bass."

"I’ll get you good seats," Lance said. "And whomever else you want to bring, too, I guess. I mean, it’s Janet, too, so you should be able to find someone to come with you."

"I’ll be there," Tommy said.

Lance nodded.

"You anxious to get back?" Tommy popped the tab on a can of Coke.

"Yeah. It’s like, I thought I’d be glad to get away from them because they’re always there, but at the same time, they’re always there."

"I don’t think I could do that." Tommy kicked his feet and tapped something metal hanging out of the back of the truck.

"You get used to it," Lance said. "They’re my brothers. Love ‘em, trust ‘em, know everything about ‘em."

"And they know everything about you?" Tommy asked.

"Yeah." Lance pulled his legs up and rested his chin in the ‘v’ of his knees.

"I’d hate that," Tommy said. "I need to keep some secrets to keep my sanity."

"I don’t have secrets," Lance said.

"Everyone has secrets," Tommy said. He paused, then smirked. "Maybe you should get some."

"Maybe," Lance said slowly.

"It seems like you just got here," Diane said. Her lips were tight and she looked as if she might cry. She blinked a few times.

"I know, Mama," Lance said. "I’ll be back through sometime in the next year, though."

"Oh," Diane said. "Sometime in the next year." Her tone was just on the not side of biting.

"At least I’m not on the other side of the ocean," Lance said. He tried to smile. He hugged his mother to him. "And I might be able to come visit again. I’m sure we’ll get some vacation, or something, again. And Christmas. They can’t keep me away for Christmas."

"I may just have to come visit you," Diane said. "Maybe I’ll take some vacation days."

"I’d like that," Lance said. "I’d like that a lot."

Diane gave him a delicate push in the direction of the boarding gate.

"Go get on your plane, James."

"I’ll talk to you soon, Mama," Lance said. He shifted his backpack on his right shoulder.

"Be good," Diane said. She sounded as if she’d started crying already.

"I always am." Lance smiled at his mother reassuringly. "I’m always good." Without a backward glance he boarded the plane.

Chris stared at the balance sheet in front of him. "I don’t understand," he said. "Tommy’s been taking FreeLance money?"

Lance blinked; his eyes were wide. He looked small in the hotel armchair. "Yeah."

Chris turned towards the window of the suite and then spun back to his original position. "Sort of like Lou did to us?"

Lance shook his head. He swallowed heavily. "No. Lou’s was contractual. Tommy’s just been taking money, making loopholes and stuff."

"What are you going to do?" Justin asked.

"I don’t know," Lance said. He leaned back in the chair and immediately leaned forward again. "He’s been my best friend since I was five."

"God, man." Joey stood up and walked across the room. He sat down on the arm of Lance’s chair and rubbed small, gentle circles over the bumps at the top of Lance’s spine. 

Lance swiped at the wetness beneath his eyes. "How do I confront him on this? How do I go up to him and say, ‘Man, I know you’ve been taking the money.’"

"Tell him that," Chris said. "See what he says. Maybe he’ll give it all back."

Lance blinked, slowly, the expression on his face changing from one of undeniable pain, to something unreadable. "I don’t think he has the financial capability to give it all back."

"How much?" Justin asked. "I mean, FreeLance isn’t worth that much, is it? And Happy Place?"

"I thought we were up to five million a year for FreeLance," Lance said. The look of anguish was back. "And then Happy Place, well, it’s been doing better in the last year. A lot better." He sighed. "From what I can tell he’s taken close to, but maybe over, 500 thousand over the last couple of years. But you all know Tommy. Do you think he has 500 thousand just stashed away?"

The rest of the guys shook their heads.

Lance nodded. His expression was serious, but bordering on unreadable. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."