Fangirl (3 page)

From the outside, it appeared that even though he wouldn't even turn seventeen for another four months, Peter was already living his dream:

•
Five of the top ten most downloaded songs in the last year

• Star of a hit cable TV show loosely based on his life and career

• Two Grammys (Best New Artist and Song of the Year)

• A house on the sand in L.A.'s posh Manhattan Beach

• A Porsche convertible for his sixteenth birthday

On top of all this, hundreds of girls (most of them super-cute) had been hanging outside his hotel every night, at every stop, hoping to get a picture or get video with their idol that they could post on Facebook and be the envy of all their friends. This is all to say that Peter Maxx was living the teenage dream. Or so it appeared.

The day before his Bakersfield show, Peter woke up and began another hamster-wheel day:

6:00
A.M.
Wake-up call at downtown L.A.'s Marriott hotel

6:15
A.M.
Breakfast delivery: grande iced mocha latte and a fruit plate and shot of wheatgrass

6:30–8:00
A.M.
Phone calls with radio stations. Stations will dial in and time for fan connection

8:00–11:00
A.M.
Private home-school tutor session

11:00
A.M.
–12:00
P.M.
Workout in the hotel gym/meditate

12:00–1:00
P.M.
Vocal exercises

1:00–2:00
P.M.
Lunch, band/crew meeting

2:00–3:00
P.M.
Media interviews, promotional appearance for charity at L.A. Live

3:00–5:00
P.M.
Rest/meditate at hotel

5:00
P.M.
Limo departs hotel to Staples Center

5:30–6:45
P.M.
Makeup, wardrobe, vocal exercises

6:45–7:00
P.M.
Soundcheck

7:00–7:15
P.M.
Meet-and-greet with fans

8:00–10:00
P.M.
Concert

12:00
A.M.
Veg out watching late-night TV, surf Web, Facebook, etc.

A towel around his neck soaking up sweat, Peter and his bodyguard, Big Jim, hopped into the limo at the Staples Center underground loading dock after the show. As his black SUV rolled slowly up the ramp to the downtown L.A. street, where hundreds of fans had gathered, they began screaming. SCREAMING!

Through the tinted glass, the “rabids” (as Big Jim called them) couldn't see Peter, but he could see them. He saw adorable eight-year-old girls in concert tees that draped down to their knees; teen superfans in barely-there dresses, short-shorts, and push-up bras; overly excited moms wearing way too much makeup (and occasionally too much Botox); dads cutely holding hands of their wide-eyed little daughters. Some lined the sidewalk holding signs—
I
'
M MAXX
'
D OUT
! . . .
MARRY ME, PETER
? . . .
WE
'
VE WAITED A LIFETIME.

Peter's cheeks began to curve upward with a smile. Then, suddenly his face froze.

He spotted a woman who had to be in her forties waving a cardboard sign on which she had scrawled,
PETER, CAN I BE YOUR MOM
?
Tears glistened in his eyes as he craned his neck while the SUV drove by the lady, but Peter wasn't a crier. Instead, he squeezed the tears back, put on his sunglasses, and hoped Big Jim wouldn't notice.

“You okay there, superstar?” Big Jim asked Peter in a drawl that lazily stretched out his words in only the way that Southerners do.

The two sat quietly for a minute as the SUV rolled beyond the bedlam. “Hey, buddy,” Big Jim said. “I know it's not always easy bein' you. I see how hard you work every day. You can feel down. It's cool.”

“Thanks, Jimbo. You da man.”

In recent weeks, Peter had been feeling more like a rock 'n' roll robot than a rock 'n' roll star. Morning radio calls at 6:00 a.m. Nonstop promotional appearances. The doctor said it was a nagging, borderline case of laryngitis. Mean-spirited bloggers and haters, one of whom felt compelled to scrawl “G-A-Y” over every picture he ran of Peter. He had gone five months without a single day off from work. On top of that, there was the pressure of being
the
Peter Maxx, or, as
Rolling Stone
had recently dubbed him on its cover the month before, “Peter Perfect.” He had been practicing his daily meditation to manage the stress, but the hectic schedule had exhausted him.

Yet nagging him was the belief, etched into his brain by his father, that pop stars with perfect teeth, perfect looks, adoring fans worldwide, and all the money in the world just weren't supposed to feel sad, they weren't supposed to get emotional
while riding in limos before sold-out shows. “Let me guess what you're thinkin',” Big Jim ventured as he steered up to the hotel entrance.

“Okay, Criss Angel,” Peter replied, staring out the window. “Go ahead. Read my mind.”

“Well, first of all,” Big Jim said with a sigh that seemed to blow straight from his sizeable Buddha belly. “I'd reckon you probably be missin' your momma.”

Bobby Maxx was twenty-five years old when he was about to break out. He had cut a demo tape of songs he'd written himself and given it to his Nashville neighbor, a recording engineer who knew someone, who knew someone, who knew someone at a few record labels. He was working at a Jiffy Lube, changing oil filters by day. At night, he'd work on his music in his garage and, if lucky enough to get a gig, play some of the local bars. He had written hundreds of songs in his life, but on that demo tape was the only song that would matter. It was the song that would take Bobby Ray from being an average oil-change technician to a country pop icon. That song was “Laurel.”

Got word today

A little man's on the way

One thing's for sure

Things'll never be the same. . . .

He wrote it the same day that he learned that his girlfriend, Laurel, was four months pregnant.

With an open heart

We lie by the lake

Reflections of us

And the life we'll make. . . .

Bobby knew what was the right thing to do. He would have to marry his high school sweetheart; he would have to grow up fast, even though he was just twenty-five and barely had two nickels to his name.

Don't know how it'll work

You and me, we created life

Laurel, honey, now be my wife. . . .

By the end of the year, Bobby and Laurel were married and Hill Country Records signed Bobby on the spot after hearing his demo tape. Six months later, it became the number-one most played song on country radio, and Bobby, just like that, was a household name. His hit enjoyed more radio plays than Reba, Garth, and Brooks & Dunn combined. Then the song was remixed for Top-40 radio by a pair of pop producers, who replaced the steel guitar with an electric, and the countrified rim shots with power pop snare beats. The week that pop remix was released it went number one and stayed there for a record eighteen weeks. Bobby and his wife and son had themselves a crossover hit, the gold standard for pop music.

But by the time Peter was four years old, Bobby's follow-up album flopped. The handsome Tennessee cowboy instantly went from a boy wonder to a one-hit wonder. The world tour that his management had planned to launch on the heels of the
album's release was scrapped. As suddenly as he had risen to the top, he fell. Hard.

Just before his flop, the young couple had rented a house in Laurel Canyon, a woodsy neighborhood atop the Hollywood Hills, with winding S-curve streets. Laurel never liked driving them and, no matter how hard Bobby tried, she didn't like very much about L.A. , except, that is, the year-round summer-like weather.

One Saturday afternoon, she kissed Bobby and Peter goodbye and went for a drive down the hill to get some groceries. As always, she pumped up the volume and blasted the radio. As always, she had a smile on her face. As always, she was gorgeous—her blond locks flowing in the breeze as she rolled down the hill. But this trip would not have the usual happy ending of returning home to her two guys.

COUNTRY STAR'S WIFE DIES IN CAR ACCIDENT

With the help of Peter's grandparents back in Nashville, Bobby would have to raise Peter as a single parent. The industry buzz was that Laurel's death had delivered a creative blow to Bobby. Then came the rumor he couldn't shake: that he had a drinking problem. Like a lot of celebrity gossip, there was a kernel of truth to the tabloid reports. His career never recovered, and Bobby Maxx become another piece of roadkill on the music biz highway.

Thirteen years after his wife's death, Bobby, now working full-time as his son's manager, viewed Peter's success as good karma coming back to his family for all the grief they had endured. But for Peter, this intense desire of his dad to redress past wrongs all meant one thing for him: pressure. To make his dad happy. To not disappoint his loyal fans. Even after all his success. Even while being adored by—and raking in—millions. Even in Bakersfield.

“Mom, I'm ready!”

“Here ya go.” Josie's mom held out the keys to her Honda Civic.

“Very funny.”

“What?” her mom asked.

“Um, I can't drive for like two years, duh.”

“Oh, that's right!” She spanked her forehead with her palm. “I absolutely forgot, because you do look twenty with all that makeup on.”

Josie rolled her eyes. “Mom, you could be, like, the new Chelsea Handler. Seriously, you are that funny.”

“Nice kicks, LeBron,” Connor, a self-appointed fashion king, chimed in with a devilish chuckle from his throne that was the couch.

“Hardy-har-har,” Josie replied, before blowing her brother an air kiss.

A half hour later, her mom dropped off Josie downtown at the Rabobank Arena.

Josie hadn't taken two steps out of her mom's car when Ashley ran at her with arms wide open and screeched, “Besterz!!!!”

The perfumed pair jumped and hugged as they bounced up
and down, their signature BFF greeting. They called it “jugging.”

Josie even had written a rap about it that they sang when feeling especially goofy.

We be tight

Peas in a pod, we got might

Need no huggin'

'Cuz we be juggin'

Woop, woop!

Juggin'

Woop, woop!

With every “woop,” they raised the roof with their hands over their heads, inviting a sea of curious stares from other fans on the sidewalk.

Less than two hours later, thumping drums and bass buzzed Josie's body from head to toe, vibrations so loud she couldn't hear herself think. Not that there was a whole lot of actual brain activity going on.

More than anything, Josie was feeling
emo.
Then again, make that
hormonal
over the singer about to come onstage, a guy who had written songs speaking directly to her heart, that communicated a truth so deep and touching that Josie had trouble conjuring a word to adequately describe the thoughts and feelings his songs ignited in her. Rapturous? Too religious. Tasty? Too culinary. Sexy? Not even. What she felt for Peter even had to be better than sex. Or so she assumed.