Sometimes he came offstage with the ultimate high, buoyed up with adrenaline and the approval of thousands of girls ringing in his ears. Other times, more and more often now, the screams echoed faintly as if through a long, dark tunnel. The tunnel between then and now. It was at those times that he knew they weren't screaming for him.

He knew that the same girls who screamed "Ohmigod it's him!" went home and typed up reviews that mentioned his tummy, his stubble, his ass. They didn't seem to notice during the show, but afterwards, when the rush of hormones was gone, they remembered. He wasn't the same anymore.

The only good result of this change was that, along with the youth, the beauty, the perfection, he'd also lost the title of "diva". He was still considered "the problem one" in the group, but now there was almost pity in the term he still heard when they didn't know he was there. After all, it wasn't his fault.

"It's in his genes," some nameless, faceless person who used to work for Jive pointed out sympathetically. "Look at his little sister."

He'd grown out of his violent phase, but knew how to wield his fading power as he'd once swung his fists. The clueless lackey received a pink slip before the end of the day, no reason given.

Because his sister, his sister was young and cute, bouncy instead of sleek, protected from growing up too fast because none of the marketing people could envision her as "sexy". He thanked God for that every day. More often, he let her know how beautiful she was. Somehow her size fit her just right, made her huggable and lovely. And she shone, especially when she smiled, her face lighting up to warm his heart. He wouldn't let them take that away from her.

He appreciated it when the guys protested, almost as much as he hated it. They weren't protesting because they disagreed with PR, or wardrobe, or the photographer du jour, they were protesting because he was one of them, and the person heralding the ugly truth was not. And whoever it was knew that and hated him more because of it. He could see it in their eyes.

This new one, a thin, nervous woman, the kind who looked like she'd be chain smoking if it was allowed in this building, had sneered at him when the shirt she'd picked out ripped. He was mortified, more than usual. She'd been given their sizes by wardrobe, had he managed to gain weight again?

"Hey," Howie said, his voice firm and quiet. "Aren't you supposed to give us quality stuff for this shoot?"

"Lay off, D." he muttered, embarrassed, his face scarlet. "She's just doin' her job."

"Her job is to get clothes we can wear," Howie insisted, not looking at him. "She seems to be wasting our time."

He rolled his eyes at the first member of the group to be dressed. "Cause you had lots of problems with your clothes. Let it go, D." Somehow the exchange gave him courage to meet the woman's eyes. "We can find something else, right?"

When the contact sheets came back, he didn't bother looking.

"C'mere! You look great in this one!" A.J. yelled from the other room. He turned his walkman up a little more.

He stopped more for the fans now. Actually talked to them a little, signed a few autographs. He wanted to make them acknowledge the zits, the sleep in his eyes, the unkempt, sheer hugeness of himself as he signed outdated pictures of the pretty boy. Somehow he found satisfaction in seeing them turn away, pass him over. Those ones will find someone else to scream for.

"Nick?" One last voice before he leaves. Holding out one more picture.

He reaches for it with shaking hands, recognizing the treacherous shoot. He can't help asking, "Why this one?"

"Are you kidding?" Huge eyes, a little squeak of sincerity that she didn't really mean to let out. "That's my favourite picture of you."

There's no answer to that one. But there is one more question.

"Can I get a hug?"

He gives it automatically, still a little surprised. It's only when the teeny voice is replaced by a sly, confiding tone that his arms tighten a little. "You grew up great, Carter. Knock 'em dead."

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