Three.

Richard's father was already home when he got there and dumped his bag and car keys on the table. "Hey, Dad." He wandered into the kitchen, where his father was dumping vegetables into a pot. "What's up?"

"Making vegetable soup. You like that, right?"

"Uh... Not really, no. But I'll eat it."

"Right. You don't like cooking. See, I remember some things."

"Way to go, Dad." Richard reached up to take off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose for a second, then put them back. He kept thinking he should get contacts, but it didn't seem worth the effort.

John Greensmith was the sort usually described as a solid person—tall, broad shouldered, and slightly rugged. His son had gotten most of his looks from his mother, so Richard was more pretty than handsome or rugged. But most of Richard's personality came form his father, which, John mused occasionally, was probably why Richard had chosen to live with him, and not his mother, after the divorce.

"So, uh... How was school?"

"Boring."

There was a pause. "Uh... Okay. Classes going all right, though?"

"Yeah."

They both kind of stood in the kitchen for a minute.

"So... How's your case going, Dad?" Richard hazarded.

"Not too bad. It's slow going building a case for someone who's obviously guilty, but we're getting there."

"Cool."

Another silence.

"I could probably make this stew instead of soup," his father offered.

"Uh, okay." He bit his lip a little, then added, "Hey, Dad, I have a... question."

"Okay, shoot." His dad began to look for spices in an ancient, dusty spice rack.

"Umm... What would you think if I said I'd been... Offered an audition?"

"I dunno. Have you?"

"Yeah."

"Audition for what?"

"Umm... A musical group."

"Aren't you in one of those?"

"Well, yeah, but... This would be, uh... A bit more high profile."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Like... Like a band."

"You don't play anything."

Rich sighed. "A boyband, Dad."

His Dad looked up from the soup-turned-stew. "Oh. Well, that's different."

"Yeah, uh... Just, I was thinking of maybe actually doing it."

"Hmm." His dad paused, turned the burner down to simmer, put a top over the pot and sat down at the table. Rich sat down across from him. The conversation had moved from a casual thing to a serious discussion. "Tell me more about it."

"Well, uh... It's... The same guy who put together the Uptown Boyz wants to see if he can do it again and... Really corner the market. They thought I might be good because I sing and... Well, I've got a recognizable name. Or at least, I used to."

"Well, what do you think about it?" John asked.

Rich shrugged.

"I just seem to remember you saying you didn't want to be involved in that business anymore, when your show was canceled. You... Did have a pretty rough time for awhile there."

"I know, I didn't want it anymore, but I was only thirteen then. I've... grown up."

"You're only eighteen."

"Yeah. But... I don't know, I just sort of miss it."

"What, precisely, do you miss?"

"I just miss... I miss the crowd. I miss performing for people who actually want to see me."

"I seem to recall you had problems with the crowds, Rich."

There wasn't a lot Rich could say to that, because it was true. He loved the crowds. He loved performing. He loved being loved, and would be lying if he said that he didn't. But, on the other hand, the last year he'd been with his show they'd spent a lot of time touring and doing live performances, and with each performance he'd ended up with an anxiety attack. It had taken them half an hour a night to coax him onto the stage and, invariably, he had to take a break in each show to throw up and sit until he stopped shaking. That was why his show had been canceled: he was the star, but he couldn't perform.

"I.. I, uh... I think I've gotten past that."

His father raised an eyebrow. "Sherman told me that you still throw up before you go on stage."

"Yeah, but I go on stage now."

"For a crowd of maybe two hundred people. What if it was larger—thousands?"

Rich winced. "Thousands?" he repeated. His father waited. "Well, uh... I don't know. I mean, I want this. I really think I do want to get back in the game, I've been thinking about it a lot lately. And I just... I want to prove to myself that I can do it. I'm a performer, I've been performing since I was four, I'm sure if I just try I can get past my... My thing... and get back to doing what I love. I'm sure I can."

His father sighed. "Then I won't try to stop you, Rich. But you know you'll have to discuss this with your mother."

Rich groaned. "I know. But if I take the audition you won't be angry or anything?"

"As long as you're doing it because you want to, I'll support you. If you're going to call your mom, you should get that over with."

"Wish me luck."

His father smiled. "Oh, I wouldn't worry; you want to get back in the business. She'll be thrilled."

"That's why I'm worried."

I can do this, Rich told himself. He had Sherman on speed dial if he needed to talk to someone to get his confidence up, he had his mother there to do the talking (whether he wanted her to or not) and his song prepared. They were just waiting for the manager to usher them in.

"Mom, you didn't have to come," Rich said, hoping that talking would alleviate some of his nerves. He was starting to feel it coming on, that feeling in the pit of his stomach, the taste of bile in the back of his throat. He took a deep breath and locked it down. It was just an audition. He'd done hundreds of them.

"Of course I did, dear."

"It was a five hour flight and this is just an audition. It's not a big deal, I've done it before..." He tried to make himself believe that. Just an audition, he'd done it before. No big deal. Yeah, right.

"It's your first audition in eight years, don't be silly! You must be a nervous wreck, I'm so nervous for you."

"You're not helping, Mom," he said through clenched teeth. Right. Eight years; the last thing he'd auditioned for was his show, which ran for three years, and then he'd walked out on the world of showbizz for five years.

"Richard, you've never done an audition without me, you need me here."

"I really don't."

"Richard!"

"Sorry." So the whole 'talking' plan had backfired; now he felt more nervous, and guilty on top of it. So he didn't say anything else, and neither did she, and eventually the door opened and a very rotund man motioned them in.

The man held out his hand and introduced himself as, "Theodore Weisel."

Rich started to reach for the hand, but his mother beat him to it. "Virginia Alcott, and this is my son—and my client—Richard."

Rich was finally allowed to shake hands with his potential manager. Weisel's hand was sweaty, but Rich resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his pants after. That would have been impolite, after all.

Rule number one of auditions was to be polite. His mother had taught him that from the time he was old enough to walk. He shot Weisel his best smile.

"This is just a formality, of course," Weisel assured them. "Mr. Pulitzer is thrilled you wanted to take him up on the offer."

Richard opened his mouth to answer, but his mother jumped on it. These were practically pre-scripted lines, after all. "Well, Richard is just thrilled that you thought of him, after all of these years..."

"Well, let's just hope he's still got it."

Richard tried to swallow the lump in his throat and tried to not run for the trash basket to throw up. He wasn't going to, not this time. It was just an audition and it was clear that they wanted him; all he had to do was warble through a song and he'd be signed. He could handle that.

So why did he feel like he was shaking?

Because he was shaking. He took a deep breath and smiled again. "No problem. Can I take a minute to warm up?" And his voice didn't even shake. He was a good actor, after all.

"Be my guest, there's an empty room just down the hall."

"Thanks, I'll be back in just a minute." He excused himself from the room quickly and as soon as he was safely in the hallway, leaning against the wall and took deep breaths, shaking, and reached for his phone, hit the speed dial. "Sherman?"

"Rich?"

"I'm at my audition and I'm gonna puke and I'm supposed to be warming up but I can't stop shaking."

"Oh. Well, that bites."

"Yeah, thanks."

"Have you warmed up yet?"

"I can't! I'm having a panic attack here. I need help. God, I can't do this, I—"

"Rich, quiet now."

Richard fell quiet. He and Sherman had been through this countless times in the last few years, because Sherman was one of the only people who could get him on stage when he was having an attack.

"Okay, first thing is your lyrics. Do you know the words?"

"Yeah." His voice cracked.

"Recite them for me."

Deep breaths. He could do this. This was what he always did before he performed, and with Sherman now speaking in his calm, instructor voice in his ear, the need to throw up was slowly lessening.

So he began to talk his way through the song; after much consideration, his mother had informed him he'd be singing Yesterday by the Beatles. It was a slow, sad song and right in his vocal range, and the sort of romantic thing that boybands were always performing.

He finished talking his way through it. He knew the words by heart.

"Good. No problem, right?"

"Right."

"Okay, now match my note." Sherman hummed the opening note of the song. Rich followed suit and slipped from humming into singing, worked on making it a clear, polished tone. Sherman switched notes. Richard followed.

They didn't go through the whole song, just the opening. Richard took a deep breath.

"You need to go on?"

"No, I... I'm fine."

"I know you are. Call me when you're done, okay?"

"Okay."

"Break a leg, kid."

"Thanks, Sherm. Talk to you soon."

Richard hung up and took another breath, threw his smile back on, and walked back into the office. "All ready," he proclaimed cheerfully. So Weisel asked him to start, and he stood with good posture, projected like he would on stage, and sang.

As nervous as he was, he sounded good. He always sounded good when he finally started. And it seemed like only seconds later that he was holding the final note, let it fade off into quiet and stood statue still until it faded away.

He hadn't even noticed his mother mouthing the words along with the song. But neither had Weisel, who nodded, satisfied.

"You've still got it, honey!" his mother proclaimed, as he sat down next to her.

He smiled back. He didn't trust himself to talk, because he was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he'd throw up. But the worst part was over, and knowing his mother, all he had to do was sit and let her talk.

Things were going well. His mother talked business for a few minutes and they were discussing the contract, when somehow the topic switched slightly. "Now, unlike other projects we've worked on, Mr. Pulitzer and I would like this band to seem more based in friendship than... Well, than looking like it's a business venture. What we'd really like to see is our talent looking to bring in new faces."

Rich nodded; that was business code for them wanting him to find other band members. He hadn't expected it, but it was definitely an added bonus; if he got along with the people he'd be working with, it would make life much easier. "Well, I'm not sure how many people I know off the top of my head, but—"

"Oh, I know," his mother interrupted. "Doesn't that darling Chris Ivers go to your school now, Richard?"

Rich stared at her in horror for a second, then remembered he was supposed to be professional, and covered quickly. "Well, yes..."

"Well, that's one right there."

Weiesel nodded approvingly. "He was on our list of contacts, had you chosen not to take us up on the offer."

"Yeah, but... That is..."

"Why don't you ask him about it, Richard?"

"It's just that... Chris and I don't actually get along so well."

"That's all right, dear, we can work on that."

"But—"

"He's a name, Richard. A bigger one than you are." Weisel didn't sound exactly menacing when he said it, but it had a distinct end-of-conversation tone about it.

"Okay, then... I'll suggest it to him. If he's interested."

"Of course he's interested," his mother insisted.

"Well, I'll ask him about it, Mom."

"Well, that's settled, then," Weisel declared. "I'll have the contract drawn up according to these terms, you'll talk to Chris and look around for some more people, and we'll meet again soon."

"It's a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Weisel," Richard's mother answered and offered her hand again. They shook, Weisel shook Richard's hand, and he and his mother headed out.

It was settled. He was back in the business.

"Just a sec, Mom, I'll meet you at the car." He gave her a slight smile, and dashed off for the bathroom, where he walked into a stall, locked it behind him, doubled over and threw up.

Chris was being a bitch. Chris was also fully aware of the fact, and didn't care.

Alejandro signed. "Look, it's easy. You want all the variables on one side."

"Why?"

"So you can find out what they are. Look, you've got a minus 4X here, so if you add 4X on this side, and then add it on the other side too, so that the equation is still equal, you can solve for X."

"How can I add it if I don't know what X is?"

"You've done this the last four problems, I know you know how. All you do is add."

"It doesn't make any sense."

"It's not that hard! You add!" Alejandro took a deep breath. "If you'd just try a little harder, I bet you'd get it."

"I try plenty hard. Things just don't work out for me, lately." He glared for a second, then added pointedly, "How're rehearsals going?"

Alejandro blinked once, then said, "Fine. Let's get back to math, please."

"Hm, how about we don't?"

"Well, it's not my grade in trouble, Chris, and if you don't want to work on this, that's fine. So long as you don't mind getting the F."

They spent a long minute trying to stare each other down. "Whatever," Chris finally said. "School's not that important anyway. Not to someone who actually has a life."

"School is important to anyone who cares about his future," Alejandro shot back testily.

"Some of us already have very nice futures planned, thanks."

"Yes, I hear Hollywood Squares is always looking for washed up actors."

Chris's bitchy front started to crumble, but the fact that he was an actor helped him hold it in place. Even though the remark had hit a lot closer to home than he wanted to admit. "At least there would still be people who actually wanted to see me."

Alejandro gave him an almost unreadable look, then snapped his math book shut. "You have the strangest priorities of anyone I've ever met. We've done enough for one day, I have my own work to do. I'm certainly not going to waste time helping with yours if you don't even care."

"Fine, I don't care! I didn't ask for your help, anyway."

Alejandro gave him a vaguely disgusted look, dropped the book in his bag, and walked away. Chris glared after him bitterly.

He knew it was shallow to be angry at the people who had gotten decent parts. And he'd been far nicer to Chris than most of the rest of his schoolmates. But on the other hand, Chris was sick of his schoolmates, and sick of school, and just wanted to get it over with and get back to his real life. Not this inane, allegedly normal life. He'd tried normalcy. He wanted his fame back.

The bell rang and the day was over, thankfully. He had an audition to get to. Not the kind he wanted, not a fame and fortune, back in the public spotlight audition, but it was the group Richard had told him about. He'd done some research and discovered that they were fairly well known, as young male choirs went, and did get a decent amount of local press. It wasn't ideal, but it would do for the time being.

Until he had a chance to get back to real auditions, anyway.

The problem with this audition was that the boys who were already in the group were there. Which, Chris realized, included Richard. But on the other hand, he'd been to dozens of auditions before, and one particularly nasty critic wasn't going to stop him. He was introduced to Sherman, and the boys in the group, except for Richard. Who just raised an eyebrow.

Chris was good at auditions, and this was no exception. He turned on the charisma as he shook hands, even shot a vaguely humble grin at Richard (who rolled his eyes), and hit his song perfectly. Sherman gave him a pat on the back and promised they'd call and let him know what happened, and, satisfied, Chris started out.

Richard glanced at Sherman. "I'm..." He coughed. "Gonna take five, back in a few." And before Sherman could answer, he let himself out and, irritated he had to do this, started after Chris. "Wait up," he called, jogging slightly.

Chris stopped. "...Um?" He looked vaguely confused, but forced himself to be polite, because after all, he did want to get into the group. And he figured if anyone knew he and Rich kind of hated each other, it would hurt his chances.

"So, uh. As long as I'm finding auditions for you?"

"...What?"

"So I've got this thing."

"...Okay."

Richard groaned. "Well, it's singing and dancing, and a bit more... high profile than this. And it was mentioned that you might be interested."

"Who mentioned what?" Chris asked. "What are you..." He stopped and made himself be polite again. "Um... What?"

"Okay, so here's what... What the thing is." Richard paused, and Chris just waited, vaguely confused. "I got an offer to do a... Okay, a boyband. There's really no other word for it."

Chris's mask of politeness broke. "You? In a boyband?"

"It's backed by Joe Pulitzer and has the same manager as the Uptown Boyz, and if that's not enough credibility for you—"

"Woah, back up!" Chris interrupted. "Pulitzer's funding it? This is for real?"

"Well... Yeah. They gave me the offer so I'm, um... Scouting talent."

Chris laughed. "Talent? Moi? You're kidding. That's sort of a compliment."

"Bite me," Richard answered. "It wasn't my choice, I had to agree to ask. I'll tell them you said no—"

"Who's saying no?"

Richard sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that."

Chris considered. "This is for real? We'd have a record deal, live show—TV coverage?"

Richard felt kind of ill thinking about it. "Uh... Well, yeah." He didn't like the calculating look on Chris's face, and could actually see the gears turning. Gritting his teeth, he reached for Weisel's card and handed it to Chris. "Call him, okay? I've gotta get back to..."

"Yeah." Chris paused. "Thanks."

"Bite me," Richard said again, the amended, "...Welcome."

Damn having to get along with business contacts.

AN: We love Chris and Richard (that would be Dutchy and Specs, to clarify) when they argue, far too much. And we love Alejandro. A lot. Because he's mean to Chris. Ha.

The chapter is dedicated to Sinhe, because we want her to come play with us!