“Whoa,” he said suddenly.
I followed his gaze. The front of the hotel was swarming with reporters and people holding signs. Protestors? Supporters? It was hard to tell.
Security guards were keeping the crowds away from the doors and had created a path for us to walk through.
“Excuse me! Where are you guys from?” a reporter called. Patrick replied, but I kept walking, my eyes catching on the signs.
TRAITORS, one said.
“DO NOT WITHHOLD GOOD FROM THOSE TO WHOM IT IS DUE, WHEN IT IS IN YOUR POWER TO ACT”—PROVERBS 3:27, another said.
THE MONSTERS ARE HERE, said another. I wasn’t sure if that one was supportive or not.
The biggest group of protestors stood a bit apart from the others, singing a song and swaying to the rhythm. Most of them held signs, the same ones I’d seen on the news several times: THE VISITORS ARE NOT OUR ENEMIES. STOP SCRAB MURDER. PEACE WILL SAVE US.
They were members of the Worshippers of the New Gods, a cult that thought the scrabs were aliens sent by god to cleanse the earth. They worshipped the scrabs and argued against any type of violence against them.
A man with a KEEP CALM AND KILL SCRABS sign walked up to the Worshippers, yelling something at them. I turned away and ducked into the hotel.
The lobby was absolutely stuffed with people laughing and chatting. A security guard was pushing a reporter and her cameraman toward the exit.
We followed the signs to the ballroom, which was huge, easily seating a thousand people, and already over half full. Rows of chairs faced the front of the room, where an elevated platform was set up with a microphone.
The room practically vibrated with excitement. Chatter and laughter echoed all around me. Four huge men with military-style haircuts passed us, talking loudly and fist-bumping each other.
“Let’s sit there,” Noah said, pointing to a row in the middle of the room that was empty except for an auburn-haired boy.
Noah skipped ahead without waiting for our reply, and plunked down right next to the boy. He looked up, clearly alarmed, and then glanced at the completely empty rows in front of and behind him. He was light-skinned and freckled, with a long, thin nose.
“Hello, I’m Noah,” said Noah, either oblivious or choosing to ignore the boy’s why are you sitting next to me face. I slid into the seat next to Patrick.
“Archer.” He spoke so softly that I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.
“Archie?” Patrick asked.
“Archer,” he said, a little louder.
“People probably call you Archie, though, right? Like the comic?”
“No.” He paused for a beat. “Or, I’d rather they didn’t.”
Patrick was clearly trying not to laugh. “Got it. Archer it is.”
“Archer from . . .” Noah prompted.
“Ohio. Outside Springfield.”
“Never been,” Noah said. “Like I said, I’m Noah, from Asheville, that’s Patrick, and Clara. They’re both from Texas.”
“Austin,” Patrick said, because people from Austin didn’t think they were actually part of Texas.
Noah opened his mouth and then abruptly snapped it shut. His eyes widened.
“Is that Madison St. John?” His tone was almost reverent.
A blond girl in impressively high heels was striding toward the microphone at the front of the room. She wore a pristine white dress, the kind that always seemed hard to walk in to me. Couldn’t take big steps in a skirt that tight.
Her shiny hair fell over one shoulder as she leaned into the microphone. “Excuse me,” she said sweetly. The room immediately quieted. “If you could please take your seats, we’d appreciate it. Move all the way into the center of the rows. We’ll be starting in five minutes.”
“Is she related to Grayson?” I asked, watching as she walked away from the microphone. Three-fourths of the room was watching her. The whole world tilted in the direction of Madison St. John. She pretended not to notice.
“Yeah,” Noah said, looking at me strangely. “She’s his younger sister. You don’t know who Madison is?”
“I didn’t know who Grayson was until a couple days ago.”
He looked even more baffled. Archer leaned over and peered at me like maybe I was making a joke he didn’t understand.
“But . . .” Noah typed furiously into his phone, then flipped the screen to face me. “Seriously?”
He’d typed “Madison St. John tabloid.” The screen was covered in tabloid covers featuring Madison in various poses. Madison walking out of a coffee shop with a man in sunglasses and a headline that said MADISON AND JULIAN: BACK TOGETHER? Madison and Grayson smiling above the words AMERICAN ROYALTY. Madison in sunglasses and messy hair, still looking like a supermodel, the headline reading MADISON ST. JOHN’S WILD NIGHT.
“Huh,” I said. “I didn’t know they were famous.”
“Really?” Patrick said with a laugh.
“I’ve never kept up with celebrity stuff. What were they famous for before this?” I asked.
“Being rich?” Noah lifted his hands in a shrug.
“And hot,” Patrick said. “And hanging out with celebrities. I’m surprised they never had their own reality show, honestly.”
“There’s still time,” Noah said. He paused. “Assuming we don’t all die.”
“Reality television execs everywhere wait with bated breath,” Patrick said.
More people filed into the room, until almost every seat was full and the noise in the room had reached alarming levels. I was relieved to see that there were far more women than had been on my bus—probably sixty-forty men to women. Our group of four was definitely younger than most of the people around us. The man sitting on the other side of me had an impressive beard and was at least in his late twenties.
The room quieted as Grayson St. John strolled through the door, hands slid into the pockets of his perfectly fitted black pants. Everyone was on their feet suddenly, thunderous applause echoing through the ballroom. I stood and joined them. I supposed he deserved a standing ovation, since he got me out of Texas.
Grayson had an easy smile on his face as he waved to the cheering crowd. He and Madison both looked exactly as one would expect someone with
