Save Me

By: Emma

© 2001

Disclaimer: I don’t know NSYNC. I don’t know what goes on in any of their heads, although I have some fun theories about it. This is fiction. Not real. Get it?

I have a vague recollection of when my life used to be simple. When all I had to do was get out of bed and go to school. Then later, get out of bed and go to the lot where Mickey Mouse Club was filmed. That was the start of it all, the point where people started saying ‘that kid’s gonna be a star.’ And, man, I wanted to be a star. I wanted my name in lights on a marquee. I wanted to hear my name chanted in an offbeat rhythm by hundreds and thousands and millions of girls.

I should be careful what I wish for.

Because I got what I wanted. And then some.

I’m not complaining because, really, I have it all. Granted, I can’t go anywhere anymore without getting mobbed by throngs of young girls who think they own me. Girls who think they know me, know the real Justin Timberlake. But no one—no one—knows the real me. I don’t think I know the real me anymore…But these girls know my favorite color is baby blue—although I clearly remember saying light blue when I was asked. Lou—Fat Bastard—had thought it would be cute if the ‘baby’ of the group liked ‘baby’ blue. These girls know that my favorite sport is basketball and they exploit it and use it to make signs and webpages and who knows what else to get my attention and declare their love for me. They throw miniature basketballs at me when I’m on stage, never taking into consideration that small, round objects at our feet when we’re trying to execute sometimes complicated dance steps isn’t always a bright idea.

But I’m not complaining because I have it all.

I can overlook the blatant stupidity of my fans because there's nothing quite like hearing “Justin, Justin, Justin” chanted over and over by thousands of girls in a packed arena. There’s nothing like seeing them cry just because you touched their fingers as you passed or smiled at them or waved from the stage. Or breathed.

Sometimes it makes me feel like I’m a god. No, The God. I am who these girls worship and pray to when they’re on their knees, heads bent, on a Sunday. No, wait! I’m the Champ, greater than Muhammed Ali ever was or ever could have been. I’m an idol and everyone should bow down in quiet adoration when I walk by on a carpet of red rose petals. Because I am Justin Randall Timberlake, golden child of the best selling pop group ever.

…

Sometimes, though, it makes me feel cheap.

And used.

Like a discarded Kleenex found in the back pocket of a winter coat you haven’t worn in months but you pull out on a bitter cold day and you slip your hands in the pockets and find this crumpled piece of cotton, and you wrinkle your nose in disgust before tossing it in the trash.

Because when you get down to it, that’s all I am, isn’t it? A piece of Tennessee trash trying to be someone I’m not. Someone I never could be, no matter what I do or how many posters I’m on or how many records I sell or break.

So why do I keep acting like this stranger who’s borrowing my body? Because it’s too late to turn around and be the real me.

Because I’m afraid no one will like the real me.

Because I’m afraid I won’t like the real me.

I’ve reached the point of no return now anyway. Whether I want it or not anymore I’m somebody now. And I’ve gotten used to it. I’m used to walking into a room and having heads turn and a hushed murmur steal across the crowd until it settles in my ears.

“It’s Justin!” The whispers cry. “There he is, the one we’ve all been waiting for.” And always, from guys jealous because they’re not me, I hear “he’s nothing special. What’s he got that I don’t?”

A record deal, I want to shoot back. And a million-watt smile that makes girls cry.

Cry.

Smiles shouldn’t make someone cry.

But mine does.

And I’ll never be used to that.

…

But who cares, right? I’m Justin fuckin’ Timberlake! If girls want to cry over me, let them. If they want to worship me as a heavenly body and call me their own, who am I to stop them? It’s not like I’m ever going to meet them. The only way I touch their lives is when I breeze past them on my way to a several-hundred-dollar-a-night suite in a posh hotel. I am truly untouchable. They may think they own me but you can’t own what you can’t touch, can you?

Can you?

No, no you can’t.

…

I saw myself becoming this way, you know? A few years ago when our fame started to soar in Europe and I got my first real taste of what my life was going to become, I knew that I was going to be an egotistical bastard. But I didn’t try to stop myself because I knew that fighting it would have been like fighting with the sun not to rise.

So, now here I am. Twenty years old and at the top of the world. I can have anything or anyone I want with just the snap of my fingers.

I love it.

…

I hate it.

But there’s nothing anyone can do about it now. Believe me, the guys have tried to knock me off my pedestal. But I always rise again because I’ve gone too far to ever turn back. So don’t think you’ll get me to see the light, because you won’t.

You can’t save me.