The book, which chronicles little Nick's long -- in kid years -- climb from local access children's television star to international heart-throb, has all the makings of a Nickophile's bible. Scads of early family photos of prepubescent Nick with captions like "Cool!" and "Hot!" fill out the tome, each destined to be enlarged on school photocopiers and plastered up on innumerable teen bedroom walls. Earlier this evening, Mom and B-Boy plugged the book on MTV's Total Request Live, prompting guest host Puff Daddy to bring his own mother out to compare baby photos. At tonight's signing, Barnes & Noble will sell 2,000 copies, and Nick and Jane will dutifully sign every single one.

"About three years ago, we were on tour in Europe, and all the fans were asking how [Nick] got started," explains Jane in the limo ride from MTV's Manhattan studios to the signing. "I decided that I would start writing down the stories about what had influenced him into going into music..."

Nick is sprawled wearily on the seat across from her, staring blankly at a pair of girls who have caught up to the limo at a stoplight. They scream and hold their "I [heart] Nick"-type posters in front of the tinted windows. For an eighteen-year-old who's just appeared on MTV with his *mom*, and had his baby-in-diapers pictures flashed on national television, he seems remarkably collected.

"It doesn't bother me, because I think I'm more mature than a lot of teenagers," he says, adding that he never thought of asking his mother not to use any specific photo or story. "It's all or nothing, you know what I'm saying? I've been through a lot, and trust me, this is the least embarrassing."

Embarrassment seems like a fun topic to run with for a bit. I ask his mom what she thought the first time she heard Nick coo his most famous Backstreet line, "Am I sexual?" to a sea of rabid girls eager to find out for themselves. Jane smiles. "The first time I heard it I was like, [gasps] 'They're having him sing those lyrics!' But all these girls really liked hearing him say that, so I guess he is sexual. That's what his persona is -- he's a sex symbol. *And* a very talented artist."

Traffic's horrible, and it's gonna be a long drive out to Long Island. Nick says he hates New York. He's due to fly home to Florida the next morning, but he's having his mother's book publicist jump through hoops trying to get him a flight out tonight. At one point Jane gently chastises him, telling him he's acting like a spoiled star. But Nick's at the end of his rope: last night the Backstreet Boys finished their American tour with a make-up gig in Minneapolis, and he's been on the run promoting his mom's book all morning. In a couple of days, he's off to Germany for another show. All he wants is one extra night in his own bed. But it ain't gonna happen. Nick sighs and rolls his head against the window.

An icebreaker is needed. Hey Nick, is it true you're a Journey fan?

"*Love* Journey," he says. "Except now they've put that frickin' new singer in, I'm so mad." Later, he asks if I've heard the new Bryan Adams song. No. "It's pretty cool."

It's endearing to hear him profess his love for Eighties rockers, but not too surprising. Mom was a big Journey fan, and Nick sure as hell isn't going to profess a passion for, say, 'N Sync.

"I'll tell you one thing," he says when the inevitable "boyband" subject is broached. "We've been together for six years. We've done almost ten tours. So of course it kind of makes me upset to see that we're competing with 'N Sync at this level, because really I feel we're at a higher level, maturity-wise."

To wit, look for the next Backstreet Boys album to feature songs co-written by the Boys themselves. And no, they won't play instruments on the record, but they certainly will on stage. (That'll be Nick on the drums.) He seems confident -- if a bit cautious -- in assessing the group's bid to be taken seriously. "I think there's a lot of people out there that doubt us," he admits, "but I think we're getting there."

It'll still be a good forty minutes before we get to the bookstore, however, and Nick quickly falls asleep. Jane spends the drive talking about the budding career of Nick's ten-year-old brother, Aaron, and defending herself against the wicked stage-mom stereotype. At long last, the limo pulls into the strip mall parking lot, where some girls have been waiting since 3 a.m.

Nick is awakened. The door is opened, and pandemonium ensues. Out climbs Jane, followed by the publicist, followed by ... me. I try to hop to the side to make room for Nick, but I'm grabbed by police and whisked into the store, blinded by flashbulbs and deafened by the screams of an adolescent hoard, which, for fifteen surreal, frightening seconds, thinks I'm the dreamiest thing to ever walk the earth. "You've got the wrong guy," I tell my escort, who does a double take and goes ghost white. A second wave of screams heralds the approach of the *real* Nick Carter. Thank Christ. I'm not far off, as it turns out.

"We skipped school to come out here today," a trio of fourteen to fifteen-year-old girls explains to me later after they've got their treasured books signed. "We told our teachers we had a religious retreat -- which is okay, because Nick is our *god*!"

RICHARD SKANSE (December 1, 1998)