It was a strain keeping silent as we rode back up the escalator. Freddie's head was down, my sunglasses hiding his eyes, and a worn-looking baseball cap covering his hair. Our lips sealed, I stood glued next to him, our hands tightly gripping each other's. We were doing anything to keep low profiles; we were surrounded by teenagers tittering to themselves about R2-D2 and Princess Leia, and two hours ago we had learned the hard way that a love of space fantasy is somehow correlated with a mad love for rock music like Queen.

And at the concession stand, of all places. Not even in the ticket line (which wasn't too short since the showing we were coming for started at 4:15; the line started really forming after we took our place), or when we sat down:

The minute I ordered a small popcorn for Freddie and a box of M&M's for myself, we were caught. We received our treats, and Freddie made one fatal mistake.

He opened his mouth and said, "Thank you very much."

That voice, the accent, and those teeth. We never had a chance.

The cashier shouted, "OMIGOD! YOU'RE FREDDIE MERCURY!!!!"

And that was it. People swarmed around him, begging for autographs and telling him in loud voices just how much they loved him, they were his biggest fans, and what the heck was "Bohemian Rhapsody" about anyway. Almost running, he and I ducked into the Men's restroom and waited in a locked stall till the coast was clear.

"You okay?" I asked.

Freddie nodded, relatively unfazed.

"That must happen a lot."

"Sort of. It's just, usually I'm not so vulnerable." He smiled. "And usually I like it."

"Not now?"

"Not today, no. I'm just a bloke who wants a nice little date with his lady."

I smiled. "But I've been told even blokes want to be stars, deep down. No exceptions."

"You don't forget anything I say, do you?"

We emerged a few minutes later, tiptoeing into the theater itself, and found two seats in the very back. The trailers were already running; we just missed the end of a trailer for Orca the Killer Whale ("Ooo," Freddie whispered as Bo Derek flashed up on the screen, and I rolled my eyes) and sat through one for Close Encounters of the Third Kind ("Richard Dreyfuss, my love," I sighed, which earned a patronizing snicker from Freddie) and The Goodbye Girl, which also starred Richard Dreyfuss. I sighed again and grinned like a fool.

Freddie leaned over and hissed into my ear, "You think he's cute?"

"Kind of."

He winced. "Why?" he whispered. I didn't answer, and instead just smiled and shook my head. Freddie folded his arms and pouted- not too hard, though, and not for too long. For Star Wars began immediately afterward.

The song goes that Jaws (which, curiously enough, also stars Richard Dreyfuss...) was never his scene, and he didn't like Star Wars. That wasn't the impression I got at all. As soon as the opening title music started rolling, a little smile crossed Freddie's face, and stayed there in varying degrees for two hours. Needless to say, he got a big kick out of Darth Vader ("I want an outfit just like that," he whispered, "The cape and everything"), and was tickled beyond words that Sir Alec Guinness played Obi-Wan.

But he seemed most affected, not surprisingly, by the music. "What a rip-off," he whispered (he did a lot of whispering throughout the film). "This has Wagner written all over it. Can you tell?"

Now that he mentioned it, he was right; the opening titles themselves had the stuff of Der Walkure about them. Though I'd seen this film at least two hundred times before, I was now expecting large women with golden braids and Viking hats to come flying through on horseback alongside the X-wings. And though the menacing Lord Vader was clearly his favorite character (shocker), he cheered like everyone else when Luke used the Force and blew up the big mean Death Star. Just goes to show, I said to myself. Even Freddie Mercury has a soft spot for good triumphing over evil, no matter how cliche is the struggle. We're only human. Happy endings are the best.

And they are the best. It's such a horrid shame that they aren't the norm.

As soon as "Written and Directed by George Lucas" popped up on the screen we started getting ourselves ready to leave. I had to disguise him; the nerd herd- er, I mean, young people in the audience- would be looking for him. So we found an old red ball cap emblazoned with a "B" that had been kicked under the seat, and my odd round sunglasses I'd forgotten I had all this time. Freddie walked directly behind me, the brim pulled far over the shades, slinging my backpack over his shoulder. The bruise on his lip, still quite prominent, took away from his habitual tightness in the mouth. Only someone specifically looking for Freddie in a crowd would have been able to spot him; in this peculiar outfit he blended quite nicely, I thought.

"We need to get you a purse or something, dear," he muttered into my ear. "You're better than this old ratty thing."

We boarded the escalator to reach street level (Loews was an entirely underground one-screen theater), and it looked like we were going to slip out a little more smoothly than we'd slipped in. We said nothing, although I wanted to join the people around us in extolling the virtues of this brand new cultural phenomenon, and I wasn't even really a Star Wars fan.

But Freddie was wearing the wrong hat.

As we rose to the top, and we left the theater, the real trouble began. We had barely rounded the corner when some tough guy who looked like one of the Wayans Brothers called out to us.

"Hey, man, you still pullin' for those Red Sux?" he jeered. Too late I realized what the B meant. Oh, dear. We were Boston Red Soxers in Yankee City.

Freddie halted and bit his lip, so ready with a juicy comeback, but he held it in. He smirked and kept walking. But now Tough Guy and a small group of trouble-making hyenas were following us.

"We gonna nail your asses this season," the guy said, this time with a chorus of "yeahs" backing him up.

"That so?" I heard him say.

"Better believe it, jackass. You're gonna feel pretty dumb wearing that hat 'fore long."

Freddie stopped and lifted his head. He was not about to let that slide. I couldn't see his eyes for the hat and my sunglasses, but his mouth twitched, and he sighed through his nose. Uh-oh. These guys had better run for cover.

"So!" he boomed at last. "You don't like my hat, eh?"

"It's the sign of an ass-hat loser!" Tough Guy said.

"Yan-kees! Yan-kees!" they chanted.

Sports fanatics. There's a place for them, there has to be. (Just kidding. These guys were just jerks looking for trouble, Freddie could have been wearing a suit and tie and they'd jeer at his preppiness).

I could almost hear Freddie rolling his eyes. This would be way too easy. Very quietly, then, very subtly, he transformed.

Wrenching away the sunglasses, Freddie revealed his face, the flat and untouchable expression of the showman. But his eyes were flashing as he reached forcefully into my backpack's open flap and grabbed a black pen.

"Hey, wait," one of the mindless cronies gasped, "aren't you that guy? The weird guy with the 'Mama I killed a man' song?"

Freddie didn't answer. He was too busy scrawling his name across the brim of the hat, which he held up high over his head. "Who wants it now?" he cried.

By now most of them had recognized him. And their whole attitude changed. They rushed up at us, but not to attack; they only wanted to be closer to him to say they'd been this close to a rock star. And the two guys who were still lost simply followed their friends. No matter what the reason, every one of them wanted the autographed hat. In just two seconds they were putty in his hands.

"Think fast, darlings!" With a lofty toss, the cap sailed into the air and down the street. Like dogs after a stick, the goons turned on their heel and reflexively started for it.

Freddie grabbed my hand in this split second hesitation. With quiet authority he commanded, "Run."

I don't know who got the hat. We were long gone before it even hit the sidewalk.

It was like something out of a movie, the two of us running hand in hand, laughing like winded morons, while people on the street dove out of our way for fear we might run them over. I ran out of steam well before he did; Freddie looked primed to keep up the pace another three blocks, and here I was, bent over and wheezing after thirty seconds of sprinting.

"Thank God, I've still got the old school stamina," he said, playfully thumping his chest.

I forced out a laugh. "You're crazy."

"Yes, but you love it."

I grinned, and nodded. "Yes. Yes, I guess I do. So where to?"

"Depends on how much is left."

I checked my pockets. "We got two dollars and fifty-four cents."

"How'd that happen?"

"The tickets cost a dollar fifty each, but the food and drink doesn't. What time is it?"

"I don't know, you're the one with the Magic Mirror."

"It's in the bag. And it's off." Fortunately there was a clock across the street. Squinting against the sun's glare on the glass, I made out the time. "Six forty-five. And we're supposed to be back in front of that currency thing at seven, right?"

Freddie nodded, but he didn't look too enthused. "I'm not standing round here and waiting for them either."

"But what if they head over at seven and don't see us here?"

"Then they can come look for us."

"Oh, Freddie-"

"Besides, I know French restaurants. They take their time. What's more, Sharon has a way of getting distracted."

"Are you seriously going to make Elton and Peter and everybody wait? They're your friends, I thought!"

"They are. That's not the point. Now, let's see- I haven't been over in Central Park in ages-"

"Freddie, we need to stick around," I insisted. Now that I had the money, I also had the power. How nicely that all works. "It's the Starship we need to think of as well. And what about Vegas?"

"Oho! Look who's suddenly in a hurry to get to Sin City!"

"I'm just saying-"

"Hang on, Evie. Why don't we settle this like adults?"

"How do we do that?"

"Let me see a nickel or something, if you please."

I sighed. What was the use. I pulled a tarnished copper penny out of my pocket and laid it into his palm. Freddie took the coin and balanced it precariously upon his thumb. "Right. We'll flip once. No second go's."

"You are so stubborn."

"Yes, I am. I should think you might have learned to expect it by now. Ready?"

With another sigh, I nodded. Freddie blew lightly across the penny, then leaned back, instructing me, "Call it."

"Heads, we stay; tails, I follow you."

"I like how you put that, darling. Tails!" he cried, and flipped the little brown circle into the air. He caught it as it came crashing down and covered it with his hand. "You said, heads?"

I nodded. Freddie smiled and uncovered the coin. We took a look.

***************************************************************************************

"Hot town, summer in the city," I was singing under my breath as Freddie and I hustled across the street. Thank God, the sun was at last sinking behind the skyscrapers; the summer heat reflecting off the concrete jungle was starting to get to me. As soon as we stepped into the oasis that is Central Park, the air cooled. Through the trees we could see the sky turning soft oranges and lavenders while the sun within it began to set.

"That's better," I sighed. "I was getting fried."

But deep down I was worried. It was at least ten minutes past seven by now, and I couldn't help believing that the others were out looking for us. I couldn't decide if Freddie was just having too much fun to stop, or just a naturally inconsiderate narcissist, or both. But I had a feeling it was the third choice.

"This is nothing," Freddie remarked. "Where I grew up, it was hot year round, almost."

"No winter?"

"Mm-mm. Never saw snow till I moved to England. I thought Judgment Day had arrived," he joked.

I put my hands behind my back. "Where are you from?" I asked, as if I didn't have his birthplace hardwired into my memory. "I mean, from where did you move to London."

Freddie slid his arm round my shoulders as we walked. "Guess."

"Aw, nuts. I hate guessing."

"I'll give you three. Go."

"Um... uh- Australia?"

"Are you kidding?"

"I guess so. Erm... New Zealand?"

"Now you're getting colder. Here, I'll give you a hint: it's in Africa."

It was getting harder and harder to play dumb; but the name of his home island remained silent on my tongue. Instead I said, "South... Africa?"

"No, dear, give up?" I nodded, and he announced, rather proudly I thought, "Zanzibar!"

My eyes widened with interest. "Really?"

"Well, my family was technically from India, I suppose, geographically speaking, but my father worked in the Royal Court in Zanzibar when I came along, so I consider that my, um- you know, not my home, really, because England is my home, but-"

"I know what you mean," I said. "So you're Indian."

"No, I'm Persian. I come from a Persian sort of area in India. We're called Parsis."

"Oh, I see. So what was Zanzibar like?"

"I was rather small in those days, but it was beautiful. We were quite literally on the beach, as I remember, where we lived. White sandy beach, crystal blue ocean. Absolute paradise. A lot of happy days spent there."

Freddie's eyes sparkled as he reminisced. His features seemed to relax as gentle, perhaps nearly forgotten memories returned to him. This coming from a man who had waved away at talk of his past with indifferent words like "Oh, that's so mundane." Clearly he didn't honestly feel that way. I smiled, watching closely. This was a side of him I had never witnessed, and I was enchanted.

"Why'd you move?" I asked.

"There was the whole Revolution. The government was overthrown and things just got too dangerous for us to stay. And we weren't about to spend the rest of our lives in India, so we came to the UK. Best decision my parents ever made."

I noticed he wasn't saying anything about the biggest chunk of his childhood: his days at that Panchgani boarding school which consumed about ten years of his young life. I wondered why not, but to ask about it would give me away.

"What about you?" he asked. "Oh, that's right. You won't tell me."

And I couldn't. That would be too vile a violation of the Three Commandments. Besides, telling Mr. Well-Traveled Zanzibari I was from Dallas, Texas would seem so anticlimactic. "You wouldn't know where it was anyway," I lied. "It's a tiny little place."

"You don't tell me anything," he grumbled.

"That's not true and you know it."

"Okay, fine. You won't tell me anything under your own steam. I have to pull it all out of you by force."

"Well, I'm just not sure if you'd be interested. Do you want me to just prattle on about myself?"

"No, but my God, Eve. You haven't even told me your real name!"

"You never asked."

Freddie shook his head. "A whole week this has gone on, and I still know nothing about you- no, that's not true either. I know a little. I know you prefer coffee over tea, and you have a most disturbing fetish for Richard Dreyfuss-"

I burst out laughing. "I do not! I just like him, that's all."

He smirked, sliding back into smarmy mode. "You said you found him attractive."

"I do."

"That's your kind of man? Prematurely gray, curly hair, glasses, stands two inches shorter than you-"

"He does not!"

"Frizzy beard and a squeaky voice? The disheveled professor look?"

"Right on."

"My God. I thought you had more self-respect."

"I love his intensity- how high strung he is. Looks- and voices- aren't everything, you know."

But Freddie was snickering. "Good Lord. Well, that puts things in perspective- gives me an insight into how deep your sexual frustration must go, if that's what you'd be willing to ba-"

He cut himself off, but I'd already heard the shot. My lips clamped together in a hard line and I nodded. "Thanks, Freddie," I said quietly. "Good to know that's what you think."

I turned and meandered away from him, letting him think I was angry. But I honestly wasn't shocked to hear him suggest I was sexually frustrated. It's hard to get mad, really mad, at the truth when you yourself accept it to be truth. And thanks to Freddie's conditioning over the past week, these words I once would have considered outrageous, I now swallowed and conceded without much of a struggle.

But regardless, what a catty thing to say. And how mortifying for a man I found much more appealing than Richard Dreyfuss to be the one to say it to my face. For God's sake, Freddie. Pick a personality and stick to it. This is exhausting.

I walked along through the dry, tall grass. For the first time I noticed the noise of a huge invisible crowd of people. I couldn't see much beyond this huge, tranquil pond in front of me. The green grass near the water's edge looked cool and inviting; I sat down near the smooth wet stones, breathing deeply. Just to do it, I took off my shoes and set them down by my side. Freddie hates it when I'm barefoot.

Footsteps approached from behind. A shadow fell across me a moment before Freddie too seated himself upon the ground. I greeted him with a nod, I kept staring out across the pond, listening to the murmur of the crowd.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "That was rude."

I looked at him. "What was?"

"The, um- the comment I made about, er-"

"Me being sexually frustrated?"

"Yes." He sighed. "That came out wrong."

"Came out wrong?" I squinted. "Is there a right way to talk about sexual frustration?"

"That wasn't what I meant. I was referring to- not that, necessarily, I meant as far as everything is concerned. That includes the, um, the foreplay."

I had to laugh. "Foreplay? Kisses and whatnot?" Freddie nodded sheepishly. "Well, for your information, I'm not. Frustrated, that is."

On instinct Freddie let out a little sarcastic laugh, before catching himself.

I cocked my head. "You don't believe me?"

"Well, as a matter of fact... no."

"Why not?"

He exploded, "Because- Good Lord, Eve, sometimes I swear you act like God just plucked you from his garden on high, planted you in my closet, and boom, there you are, a fresh-faced child, only hatched yesterday, as naive as they come! You're- you're so good. And I tell you, it freaks me out a little."

I stared at him. Suddenly I realized maybe I wasn't nearly so sexually frustrated as the man sitting next to me. But you're Freddie Mercury. You can have anyone you want. What's the matter with you?

I fought back a smile. "What does this have to do with-"

"Let's start with the basics. I have to