The Brightsiders

by Jen Wilde

  While I wait for the colors to set, I start patting different shades of pink eyeshadow onto my wrist to decide which one to wear. Zach always offers to bring in a makeup artist for me, but I have too much fun doing it myself, so we only have one on hand to make Alfie and Ry look zit free and add some killer black liner to their eyes.

  Alfie wanders into the room and starts rummaging through his backpack. He’s wearing a pair of tight gold pants with rips at the knees, and a T-shirt that says:

  BOY

  GIRL

  NONE OF THE ABOVE

  UNICORN

  I’m about to compliment it when he walks out of the room just as quickly as he came in, like he’s running late. Something is up.

  “Be right back,” I tell Zach, then hurry into the hallway before I lose sight of Alfie. Unfortunately, Sal blocks my path.

  “Nice hair,” she says, chuckling. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” I say, peering over her shoulder. Alfie is down the hall, tying his hair into a bun before disappearing out the back exit of the building. I don’t know why, but I have a bad feeling. I need to get to him.

  “Good,” Sal says, patting me on the arm. “I don’t want you to worry about anything. You’re going to have an amazing show!”

  Ry rides by on his skateboard, taking her attention away from me. She goes after him, begging him to slow down so he doesn’t injure himself. Now’s my chance to find Alfie.

  I walk swiftly down the hall and out the exit, and find him leaning over a dumpster, puking his guts out. A strand of his long hair falls from the loose bun, and I move closer so I can hold it back from his face. Then I rub his back until it stops.

  “I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” he says as we sit on the steps under the door.

  “Are you sick?” I ask. I place a hand on his forehead, but it seems normal.

  “Nah.” He presses his palms into his knees and stares up at the stars.

  I move closer. “Then what’s up?”

  He clears his throat. “I puke before every show.” He grips his knees and hangs his head a little. He says something else, but it’s so mumbled I can’t make it out.

  I bend down to match his gaze, but his eyes are shut. “Alfie?”

  He groans. “It’s an anxiety thing. I have social anxiety disorder.”

  I furrow my brow. “Huh?”

  He takes in a deep breath and looks me in the eyes. “I have social anxiety disorder. I’ve been taking medication for it.”

  I don’t know what to say, but I can’t just sit here staring at him in silence. “Oh.”

  “Yeah.” He holds a hand over his stomach and takes in a few deep breaths.

  A thousand questions run through my mind. How could someone like Alfie be socially anxious? He’s literally a rock star. He’s the light of every party we go to. He owns every stage he steps onto. And how could I be his best friend and not notice he was going through something? Am I that self-involved? Or have I just been too out of control?

  I don’t ask any of those, though. Instead, I ask the question I think he needs to hear most.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Um, you could not tell anyone,” he says with a quick smile. “It’s hard to talk about.”

  I put my hand over my heart. “Promise.”

  “Thanks, Em.” He picks up his water bottle from the ground and pulls an orange bottle of pills from his pocket. “Once I’m onstage I’ll be chill. It’s just the hours before that mess me up.” He notices me staring at the bottle and turns it to show me the label. “Beta blockers. I’m supposed to take one a few hours before a show, but I forgot. Until I puked.” He pops one in his mouth and washes it down with his water.

  “Does it help?” I ask.

  “Fuck yeah.” He slips the bottle back into his pocket. “I mean, vomiting in a dumpster isn’t my ideal pre-show ritual, but it’s not as bad as it used to be.”

  “How did it used to be?”

  He takes another sip of water. “Well, like, before I started taking meds and seeing a therapist, I’d be sick before every gig, every interview or photoshoot. I couldn’t breathe, my hands would shake, I couldn’t sleep. My stomach was constantly hurting, and I couldn’t eat much. The more anxious I got, the more I’d worry that people would notice. I barely remember our first spot on Jimmy Fallon because I spent the whole day worrying I had vomit breath or clammy hands.” He chuckles, but it’s a shy chuckle, like he’s embarrassed. I just want to hug him. “Now, when I actually remember to take the meds, I mean, I can do a show without feeling like I’m gonna die. The nervousness is still there, but I figure that’s pretty normal. You get nervous, right?”

  I nod. “It makes me pee a lot.”

  I happen to say that just as he’s taking another swig of water, and he spits it out laughing.

  “Well,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m glad it’s not just me.”

  “Nope,” I say, laughing with him.

  He unties his long hair and musses it up with his fingers. “You don’t have to stay out here. I’m okay.”

  “I want to stay.”

  I mentally go through every piece of advice I’ve ever heard about anxiety disorders and how to help. I want to ask him about it: if he likes going to therapy, if he knows what started it, how often he feels this way. I want to tell him that he doesn’t need to feel embarrassed or ashamed, especially not with me. I chew on my bottom lip, holding back all my thoughts. I don’t want to overwhelm him.

  “I’m always here,” I say softly. “If you want me. If you ever need to talk.” I take his hand in mine and hold it tight.

  With his free hand, he pulls his headphones from his pocket and hands me one. I pop it in my ear as he takes the other one and pops it in his, then hits shuffle on his phone. We sing along when we feel like it, but mostly we just sit, hold hands, and listen for a while. He seems to breathe easier after the third song, and that makes me breathe easier, too. I hate seeing him upset.

  Eventually I hear Zach calling my name from inside the building.

  “You’re being summoned,” Alfie says with a smile.

  “I’ll stay,” I say. “He can wait.”

  Alfie shakes his head. “Nah, go. I’m fine now, really. Just having you with me helped a lot.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Zach calls my name again, and this time he sounds frantic. I give Alfie a quick hug and hurry back inside, wishing I could freeze time and sit with him all night.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The crowd chants our name. The lights fade out and thick clouds billow from the smoke machine. Alfie, Ry, and I scurry onto the stage to take our places just in time for the spotlight to illuminate us. The chanting turns into screams, the noise echoing off the walls of the concert hall. My heart rate speeds up in my chest. It’s been a few months since we’ve performed a live show, and I forgot how intense it can get up here.

  Alfie puts on his charm. “Well, hey there, gang. Thanks so much for the warm welcome.” He says it smoothly, like he’s chatting someone up at a bar. It drives the kids wild. “We’re honored to be here to entertain y’all and help make this Pride Prom one to remember.” More applause and cheers ring out. “We’re starting with a song that’s very close to my heart,” he says. “I wrote it years ago, when I was trying to figure out my identity in a world of binaries. It’s called ‘Fluid.’”

  He turns to look at me, gives me a wink, and then I start counting us in. I tap, tap, tap my drumsticks together, and then BOOM, I smash out the beat.

  Ry starts strumming his guitar. People in the audience hold up rainbow flags, waving them proudly. Then Alfie starts to sing.

  “The world says we gotta follow,

  All the rules we’ve been assigned…”

  My gaze is drawn to Alfie, his hair falling into his eyes as he sings his heart out. Something about the way his squeezes his eyes shut when he hits high notes makes me swoon a little.


  Wait. Swoon? He’s Alfie. Alfie doesn’t make me swoon. I drag my eyes away from him and try to distract myself by looking at the crowd. A teen wearing a Brightsiders T-shirt under a suit blazer pumps their fist in the air. Someone with pink and blue hair screams Ryan’s name. A cutie in a bright yellow dress holds up a sign that says MARRY ME EMMY! and I have to suppress my squees so I don’t mess up my drumming.

  “But who are they to tell me who I am?

  Who are they to decide?”

  We play straight into the next song, then another, and another. Tonight, our set isn’t made solely of Brightsider songs. We’ve also added a few LGBTQIAP+ Pride faves and some epic dance tunes to really get the party going. Lady Gaga, George Michael, Prince, and Tegan and Sara are just some of the icons on our set list.

  Now that I’m onstage, getting swept up in the beat, I feel alive again. It’s hard to remember why I was so nervous about performing tonight—my fans never judge me the way adults in the media do. As long as I keep showing up, so will they. For the first time since the Incident, I’m truly happy.

  Toward the end of the night, we get to my favorite part: the make-out song. During our world-tour concerts Alfie sang “Kiss Me” by Sixpence None the Richer, and the cameramen filmed cute people making out during the song and broadcast it on the big screens. It was our version of Kiss Cam, and it quickly went viral as a fan fave. Tonight, we don’t have the big screens or the cameras, but we have a hall full of queer teens who are rocking out and making out and dancing and letting their rainbow flags fly, literally. And to me, that is so much better.

  It occurs to me that if I ever want to come out, this is the place to do it. There’s nowhere safer or more welcoming than right here, right now. A shiver runs down my spine at the thought, but it feels right. Now is the time.

  After the last song ends, I stand up from my drum kit, walk over to the microphone and take it off the stand. My stomach flips like a gymnast on a high beam.

  “Thank you so much!” I say. “What an amazing audience you all are! Seeing you with your rainbows and your gorgeous smiles … it feels like it’s time for me to say something I’ve wanted to say publicly for a while.” As though sensing what’s about to happen, people in the crowd start screaming. I pause for a second, grinning at Alfie and Ry. “I mean, there are a ton of rumors out there about me. So why not just clear things up right now? Or should I say, queer things up.” More screams ring out, and I laugh at my own bad pun. “I’m totally queer, my friends. Bi as hell. And I’m honored to be here with you all right now, and I thank you for giving me the courage to share that.”

  Ry comes over and puts an arm around me while Alfie stands by me and proudly applauds. People in the crowd cheer and make hearts with their hands for me. I sit on the edge of the stage, and a bunch of kids rush forward to take selfies.

  “Your cheekbones look amazing!” one kid screams. “What do you use as highlighter?”

  “Unicorn sweat and the tears of my exes!” I scream back, and they squeal with laughter.

  There are dozens of phones in my face, and I can’t keep up with everyone talking to me at once, but I’m having the time of my life. It’s one thing to fend off paparazzi, and quite another to just have fun with people who love your music as much as you do.

  I don’t get home until three a.m., but I’m too amped to sleep. My parents are out and Jessie is nowhere to be found, so I hook my iPhone up to my speakers, put my iTunes on shuffle, and dance around my room. There may or may not be a lot of air guitar and singing into a hairbrush going on.

  I fall onto my bed, sweaty and out of breath. But I’m still buzzing. I can’t stop thinking about those amazing kids in the audience, waving their rainbow flags and having a blast. I get my laptop and go online to see the photos people have posted from the show. Sal finally ended my social media ban, thank god.

  I open Tumblr and find that some clever person out there has already turned my answer to the highlighter question into a GIF. Someone else Photoshopped me riding a unicorn, my glittered hair sparkling like a disco ball. I grin and keep scrolling.

  When I go on Facebook, the video of me coming out has already been shared thousands of times. I squeal when I see sites like the Mary Sue and Teen Vogue have already picked it up. And when I open my Twitter app to see my name trending, it’s amazing to know it’s not because of something I’m ashamed of.

  I take a selfie to post all over social media, spreading the love far and wide. The only caption I add is rainbow hearts.

  What a perfect night. I literally left a trail of glitter behind me everywhere I went, my Bisexual Pride eyeshadow and purple lipstick effing rocked, I didn’t miss a beat on the drums, and I got to help the coolest kids celebrate themselves and one another. I could do this every night for the rest of my life and die a very happy girl.

  High on fan love, I decide to commemorate the night with a new song. I call it “ILY” and start brainstorming lyrics.

  Look at you with your hot pink hair,

  Look at you with your sultry stare,

  Look at you with my T-shirt on,

  Look at you singin’ my song.

  You weren’t born on the sidelines,

  You entered this world with all eyes on you,

  And that’s the way you can live it, too.

  Jessie creeps into my room and I jump into her arms, immediately telling her all about the concert.

  “Did you see the video?” I ask excitedly. “I came out! I didn’t plan it, but I was just so buzzed. The energy in that hall was something else. So I just went for it.”

  “Yeah,” she says as she kicks her boots off. “I almost had a heart attack when I saw you trending. I thought you’d fucked up again.”

  My chest tightens a little, and I resist the urge to get defensive. She mustn’t have meant that the way it sounded.

  She grins and wraps me in her arms, holding me tight. “But yeah, so proud of you, babe. And now we can hold hands and go out in public without feeling like we have to hide anything. Everyone will know that you’re mine.”

  We lay down to cuddle, and she points the remote at the television and turns it on to the news. “Let’s see what the press are saying about it. I bet your PR team is relieved.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  She raises an eyebrow. “Because this is a great pivot. You’ll get great headlines, a butt load of praise, and everyone will assume that you’ve been such a screwup because you were in the closet and struggling with your sexuality. It was such a smart move, Em. I’m impressed.”

  Oh, god. I never even considered all that. I sit up in bed, suddenly feeling nauseous. “But that’s not why I came out. And I wasn’t struggling with my sexuality! I … this … It was not a pivot.”

  She laughs. “It’s okay, Em. It’s me. You don’t have to pretend. Keep that act for them.” She nods toward the television.

  My jaw drops. “It’s not an act. I didn’t come out for the headlines. I did it for me.”

  “Okay, Emmy.” She rolls her eyes. “Whatever you say.”

  First she accuses me of coming out to sway the media’s perception of me, and now she’s implying that I’m lying about it? Does she really think I would do that?

  The gate to the backyard squeaks open, and laughter bubbles up through my bedroom window. Great. My parents are home, and they’ve brought company.

  I reach for my noise-canceling headphones to help me sleep, but Jessie goes to the window to spy. “You know, from everything you told me about your parents, I expected them to be real assholes. But they’re pretty cool. All they do is party.”

  I start to laugh because I think she’s being sarcastic, but then I realize she means it.

  “It might seem cool,” I say. “But when you’re a kid it’s not so fun.”

  “What wasn’t fun about it? They don’t give a shit what you do. You could’ve gotten away with murder.”

  I don’t even know where to begin. Jessie grew up in a loving home with p
arents who liked spending time with her. She has brothers and sisters she considers her best friends. I don’t expect her to understand what it was like growing up in this house, but I definitely didn’t expect her to think it was “fun.”

  “They don’t give a shit,” I say, my voice filled with more emotion than I expected. “That’s the problem. They never gave a shit about me. They didn’t even want me around.”

  I lost count of all the times they forgot to pick me up from school or couldn’t help me with my homework because they were too drunk or busy entertaining their friends. And all the nights they stayed up fighting or crying or singing until the sun came up. It’s scary when you don’t know which version of your mom you’re going to get when you leave your room. Or if you’ll have to step over your dad in the morning because he’s passed out on the kitchen floor again.

  Jessie rolls her eyes. “Aren’t you being a little dramatic? It’s not like they beat you.” I gasp and she laughs, as if it’s a joke. I feel like I’m shrinking to the size of a pea.

  “It’s not funny,” I say, my voice as small as I feel. “I think they really messed me up.”

  She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Everyone’s parents messed them up. And let me ask you this: If you’re so traumatized by them, what are you doing here? It can’t be that bad if you chose to move back in with them.”

  So many answers run through my mind.

  They’re all I have.

  I don’t have anywhere else to go.

  Even though it’s messed up, this is the only home I’ve ever known.

  I wanted this to be my one last shot at having a good relationship with my parents.

  But Jessie has already moved on. She sits on the bed, scrolling through Tumblr and smirking at memes.

  I put on my headphones and roll over so she doesn’t see me cry.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The television is still on when my alarm wakes me up. Jessie is asleep next to me, her arms and legs spread out like a starfish. I reach over her for the remote, but stop when I hear my name mentioned on the Today Show.