:: Echoes :: Shine ~Remember when you were young, You shone like the sun.~ “Momma’s little diamond. Come here, baby boy.” The first words you remember hearing. A mere shadow now. A shimmer of a voice that still called you every other day. Your momma. She still asks you how you’re feeling--if you’re getting enough sleep. She wants to know how Britney is. If you’re eating enough, and if you got that last care package she sent with the multi-vitamins ‘because Dr. Kicho swears by them, baby, and he says you’re still growing, not quite a man’. The words reverberate in your head as Britney shoves some guava juice into your hand. You smile because that’s what you do, and when she’s not looking, you dump it into the nearest house plant. “I’m fine mom,” you say evenly, but it’s a lie as you look around the enormous mansion that you now co-own. “I know,” she says with a sigh. “But you’re my baby boy. Always will be.” You hang up and wander up the open staircase to your room, the one you keep for yourself. The media sees what they want to see anyway, so proclaiming that you and Britney are indeed *not* sleeping together is a moot point. You have your own things, your own room, your own space. Because you’re not a kid anymore. Only you still have the fame you always had. The brand bestowed upon you when you entered the world. That little diamond birthmark that settled along the angle of your hip. The one Lance loved to kiss and Britney insisted would make a great tattoo. It was your coat of arms--a blotch put there without your consent. Without your okay. A diamond that sparkled like the blue in your eyes. The symbol of celebrity. ~Shine on you crazy diamond. Now there's a look in your eyes, Like black holes in the sky. Shine on you crazy diamond.~ “I think I’m going to do that Bob Hope thing,” you tell Lance over the phone. He’s wandering the country, as usual, and you’re lonely. You need a break from all the hoopla surrounding you. “Golf? Jesus, I know it’s a hobby Justin, but you’d be on television. They’ll rip you apart.” So much for support, you think sourly as you finger a framed photograph of the two of you. He’s on your lap with his arms wrapped around your waist and you close your eyes, swearing that you can feel him. When you open your eyes, it’s Britney in front of you, dressed in work out clothes with a banana yogurt in her hands. She offers you a spoonful but you wave her away, longing for privacy so Lance can tell you what he really means. He means to say “I love you Justin, and I’m afraid of the way the press will man-handle your passion. I don’t want to see your face splattered over ESPN while the announcers make fun of you.” “AJ’s playing,” you say, as if it makes a difference. Britney covers her mouth and giggles at that before disappearing out of the room. “If it’ll make you happy,” Lance sighs. You’re not at all comforted by the sigh, but you let it go and whisper “I love you” before hanging up. You feel blank now--incomplete--almost ungrateful because everyone says how lucky you are. And aren’t you? A best friend you live with. A lover you work with. A momma who cares and siblings who adore you. Friends that you get to see all the time. Famous people who admire you. You have no reason to be unhappy. Or so you tell yourself. ~You were caught on the crossfire Of childhood and stardom, Blown on the steel breeze. Come on you target for faraway laughter, Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!~ “Justin! Over here!” You appeared in that Elton John video and damn it to hell if you didn’t feel like him, being grabbed and pawed at. The disguise hid you in appearance only. Everything else imitated your life. The media was already laughing at you, at the fact such a pop-slash-top-forty-slash-teen idol had been asked to take such a prestigious place in history. Playing a ‘god’ that most of them worshipped. Pretending to be Elton John. They assumed, naturally, that you were doing it for the attention. They criticized without knowing. Laughed at every step you took. Every song you sang. Every move you made. “Quiet on set please!” You heaved a sigh and sat in the chair, ready for the first shot. Staring at yourself in the mirror as actors fussed over your phony hair, poking at Elton. Just like they poke at you normally. Maybe you can see that child inside though. That glimmer of a kid who wanted this so badly. A diamond in the rough with bright blue eyes and crazy hair that you hated. A little bit of talent for singing, a little less for acting. But all the desire in the world to be a performer, no matter what kind. A momma who helped you along.  That stint on MMC which seemed to seal your destiny. Created this persona that encapsulated you now. This Justin Timberlake. The cameras began to roll and you played the roll--lip synching to Elton John’s song. Feeling every bit the part of a shell he was back then. As you wandered through the video, you couldn’t help but compare lives. Gay and in the closet--yep. Fame--had it. Famous friends--sure. Parties that sank you into drugs and drinking--of course. Media blitzing you day and night--most definitely. Looking at yourself in the striped suit and glasses, you wondered if someday a kid would grow up and play you. Your lips curled out of character and the director yelled cut. “Sorry,” you said, forcing a smile. You held back the urge to beat box because somehow you didn’t think David LaChappelle would laugh. Wayne always laughed. This guy? Not so much. So you restrained and moved back to your mark while everyone reset on you. Scratching your prosthetic nose, it hit you. Suddenly. You had just caused that blip in time. That wrinkle that now needed a retake. You. Too much power, you thought bitterly as the shot was re-taped. Far too much for not yet twenty-one. Later that night while you sat alone in your car, you thought about things--about life--as a falling star zipped across the night sky. You could remember singing when you were little, into a plastic microphone, dreaming of being on the radio. Being on television. Having money to buy a pretty new ring like that one Mrs. Bailey from next door was showing off to your momma. And momma looked at it so wistfully because she had no ring like that. She would tuck you in at night and say prayers with you, stroke your messy curls and whisper into them. “You’re my angel. My diamond. My special gift from God, Justin.” It always made you feel so warm and loved--and you vowed night after night that she would have that ring. And whatever else she wanted. When the shoot was done, you drove along the highways, heading home. Lance’s glasses slid along the dashboard. You smiled and fingered them, remembering the last time he was in your car. Visiting for the weekend. You had locked yourselves in the mansion, while Britney was on tour, and made love for hours. You laughed, remembering how you tried to make him pancakes but they turned out hard and lumpy, more like hockey pucks than food. He’d kissed your nose and hugged you, brushed his lips against your ear and smiled. “I love you because you tried,” he whispered. Somehow you always thought he meant more than just the pancakes. But Lance made you feel warm and loved, too. A constant comfort when the world grew cold and that diamond on your hip stung your flesh, wailing for peace and quiet. ~You reached for the secret too soon, You cried for the moon. Shine on you crazy diamond. Threatened by shadows at night, And exposed in the light. Shine on you crazy diamond.~ “I can’t believe this!” you screamed, jumping onto JC’s back. “We’re gonna do this! Oh my god!” You were young and naive. Not a new soul in the dark, but it was dim enough as your momma signed the papers. As you became one-fifth of N Sync. The *N part to be exact. “It’s crazy,” JC nodded breathlessly. “I know. But we’re gonna do it. We’re gonna do it.” You were so homesick those first few months. A dark pain gnawed at your heart day after day. Everyone called you the baby. Everyone pushed you to grow up. A tug of war played out inside your mind and you struggled. Really struggled. First you weren’t cool enough. Then you were too cool. First no ego, then too much ego. First no girls, then too many girls. “Flirt more!” he said to you, his thick fingers wrapped around the back of your neck. But when you found a cute girl that giggled and wanted to be your girlfriend, he was back with wicked eyes. “No girlfriends, Justin. If you want to fuck, I’ll take care of it. Hire some tart who won’t mess up your life.” Which is what he‘d done. Quietly, the giggling girl was gone, never to be seen again, and a discreet paid escort was snuck into your room. Condoms included. “Who are you?” you wanted to know. You pressed yourself into the corner, petrified. Fear clouded your eyes because she was old. As old as your momma if not older. Her skin was pale and she was laying across your bed half dressed. She spoke no English but when she kissed you, there was no mistaking what was going on. You threw up on her shoes and ripped your shirt off to clean it up. Humiliated. Hurt. She looked at you with callous eyes and tapped her foot. “I’m sorry,” you said over and over again, but your eyes were blurry and your throat ached with a sob that tried to choke out. She tried again, sticking her hand between your legs. You shook so much that she finally let go and swept from the room with a judgmental look. You sobbed when she was gone, and curled up on the floor until Lance came back. “Justin? What the heck?” You fell right into him and he held you while you sniffled. He hauled you into bed that night and curled up beside you, letting your tears dampen his tee shirt. He didn’t seem to mind, even when you blinked up at him with your heart smashed and your body weak from too many expectations. When your lips touched Lance’s, he let you kiss him. Just for a second or two before backing away. Your stomach rolled and you thought he was going to leave your side, push you away and climb back into his own bed. But he smiled at you and sighed, this really deep breathy sigh that made your toes curl. And he spooned against your back, holding you until you drifted into slumber. ~Well you wore out your welcome With random precision, Rode on the steel breeze. Come on you raver, you seer of visions, Come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!~ You never got to see him anymore. Lance. He was a busy man with a new look and  more ventures than you could keep up with. Sometimes you were still in awe of him. Even after all the shit you’d put each other through. You wore out your welcome in his arms many times. You were whoring yourself out it seemed. Not just you, *N Sync as a whole, but your face seemed to lead the pack. Lunchboxes and sneakers. Lip balm and blankets. Bobble heads and Chili’s commercials. No one could escape your blue eyes...or your celebrity. Even you hated to turn on the television, fearful that your face would prance across it. It made you sick to your stomach, but everytime Johnny called with a new idea, you found yourself following the course and signing on the dotted line. “It could all end tomorrow,” Lance always said, “So we kind of have to do all this stupid shit now.” Lately you liked listening to Lance--when he was around. The rumble of his voice and the new dance of scruff across his jaw line. He was smart, you thought, so much smarter than you. Powerful in this sneaky way. You admired him so much it hurt. “Does he tell you when to take a shit?” Chris snorted at the studio one day in January. It had almost caused a fight with Joey stepping between you. “Fuck off, Chris,” you said, but Lance had been standing in the doorway with hurt green eyes and reddened cheeks. You could see it in his eyes. Sorrow and embarrassment. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and you could see him struggle not to run. “We ready to ... uh .. finish the song and ..” He tripped over his words and you shot Chris a filthy look. “Chris is being a dick,” you said, rubbing his back when everyone had left and the song was done. “No, Justin, maybe I do talk too much,” he whispered, folding his hands between his knees. “Maybe they see what we don’t. Maybe you need to do this on your own.” His eyes met yours and they were tormented a little. Like maybe there had been rumors going around about how you always listened to him and never made you your own mind anymore. Like maybe you sheltered yourself from it a little too well. The panic raced around inside of you, unsure what Lance was driving at. Afraid that he meant to leave you after so much time. You searched his eyes for explanation, but he was lost in his own decision. “Lance, that’s shit,” you said with a trembling voice. “We’ve always been a team. They don’t understand.” “Maybe they do,” he batted back, turning his face toward the floor. “Maybe you lean too much on me. Maybe I take advantage of that. Maybe you‘re the lead in this team, and I‘m meant to play backup.” There was no beat of your heart and no meaning in your life as Lance’s words pushed into you. He was going to leave you. Break up with you because of Chris’ thoughtless comment. “Maybe you’re the only one who sees the real me,” you whispered. “Maybe you’re the only one I can really count on to be honest with me. To protect with sincerity and not want a piece of my soul in return.” He looked at you in that instant and you could see his eyes shimmering like glass. It made your heart beg to beat again because Lance was not the emotional one. You were the emotional one, prone to crying and disappearing when emotionally distraught. Lance was the one who took bullets and kept on moving without so much as a trip to the hospital. “You really think that?” he asked. “I know that,” you said. “Since the night HE sent that woman in to be with me. Since that night, Lance. You always took care of me.” “Maybe I didn’t want to,” he said quietly, leaning back. “Maybe I had to. Maybe there was no choice for either of us.” Your pulse was gone again, swimming somewhere outside of your body. He wanted to leave. It was in his eyes. “You had to love me?” you questioned. “Lance? You had to love me?” Hysteria was starting to enter your world. A high pitched squeak that didn’t sound like your voice. “As in you really didn’t *want* to love me?” “Not what I said,” he replied, shaking his head. “Jesus, Justin, don’t put words into my mouth. It’s not fair!” “Not fair?” You jumped up and paced with your arms flailing because you didn’t know what else to do. The one shred you held onto so tightly was threatening to leave, fade to black and push you harder into solitary celebrity. The diamond on your hip tingled and ached and you rubbed at it idly. Lance wanted to leave you. “Just for a while, Justin,” he said softly, pushing to his feet. He tried to hold you but you shoved him back. Hard. Hard enough that he fell backward into the wall. “Fuck you!” you screamed through tears that sprang suddenly. “I hate you!” Inside, your body gave up and you flew out of the studio to your car. Numbness framed you like a twisted picture ready for hanging. You didn’t remember driving. Or finding your way to the beach. You didn’t remember taking off your clothes or stepping into the ocean. Nor did you recall the frigid January ocean trying to swallow you up. Because when all was said and done, your eyes glittered like diamonds in the faint glow of the moon’s rays. Your flesh abused and your soul picked over again and again. Your celebrity eating you alive. :: Act II :: :: Echoes ::