Pop Star

by Meredith Michelle

Intel?

  You know what I mean—what were you reading?

  The series of dots appears again, then after a pause quickly disappears.

  Hello?

  After another pause, he answers.

  I am currently occupied trying to find uncooked rice. Who knew it would be so elusive? And then I have to go ISO your oversized panty liners.

  Ha ha

  OK found white rice. Be back shortly.

  Sasha?

  Yes.

  Are you going to answer my question?

  Getting in the bus. No text is important enough to die for. See you when I get back.

  Well, that got you nowhere. You pull on your clothes, switch off the light, open the door, and head back across the lot toward the arena.

  The sun is beginning to dip lower in the sky and you feel a familiar pulse of energy as you walk through the talent entrance. This prelude to your performance, the long walk down tile and cinderblock halls lined with offices and dressing rooms, leads to the one place you feel truly at home.

  The low thrum of the pre-pre show music intensifies as you approach the arena. You feel your senses heighten, your heart beat quicken. You pull the rubber band from your hair and let it flow freely around your shoulders.

  At an intersection in the long hallway, a haggard-looking twenty-something trying way too hard to look rock ’n’ roll suddenly intercepts you. Behind her, a thin rope clipped across the corridor barely keeps a throng of screaming fans at bay.

  “Oh thank goodness,” says the twenty-something. “I thought I was about to be trampled!” The ID card hooked to the lanyard around her neck is emblazoned with the title, EVENT MANAGER.

  But it’s too late. One of the fans at the front of the line has caught a glimpse of you and now the whole crowd is screaming. The rope is far too flimsy to hold and before you know it your fans are upon you. The first in line holds up her backstage pass inches from your face.

  “Oh my god!” she screams, apparently oblivious to the fact that you are in fact a human being and that at this distance her volume could cause hearing loss. “Is it really you?”

  You decide to answer her hysteria with a calm smile, which you find does the trick most of the time. “What’s your name?” you ask, gamely taking the Sharpie and T-shirt she’s thrusting in your direction.

  “You are even more beautiful in person!” she gushes. “Oh! I’m Kristin!”

  “Thank you!” You smile and sign the T-shirt. “Just one second.”

  You turn to the event manager, who is in fact not managing the event very well. “I thought the meet-and-greet was supposed to be after hair and makeup.”

  Her eyes are pools of pure fear. “I am so sorry! I thought you were already finished. They’ve been lined up here for hours.” She gulps then looks at you apologetically, “This is my first week.”

  “It’s okay,” you tell her. You can handle this. You calmly address the rabid crowd, using your concert voice. “Everybody!”

  The single word elicits a new round of screams. The group is a mix of your baseline demographic: teenaged girls, a few adolescent boys, a handful of post-pubescents, and a smattering of middle-aged moms and overly calm and cool-seeming dads trying too hard to appear uninterested. You look down and realize in your hurry to dress following the cell phone fiasco you forgot to throw on your bra. Oh well. You pull your long hair forward over your shoulders to cover what you can, fully aware that some of the men—and likely some of the women—in this crowd are followers of @honeyshives, a renegade Twitter account set up by fans in homage to your much-admired assets.

  “This way!” you call, then lean toward the event manager, yelling in order to be heard. “Help me get them to the meet-and-greet room—I’ll take them in one at a time—but we have to make it quick.”

  “Got it,” she replies, and together you corral the crowd down the hall to the holding area outside of the little room bedecked in glittery, oversized hives and adorable cartoon bees.

  One by one, you bring each group of fans into the room, take a photo, scribble a hasty autograph, and then send the group off with a Honey Swag Bag containing a honey-bee shaped lip gloss, honey-flavored lollipops, Bit-O-Honey candies, and a glittery tiara complete with glowing bee antennae to be worn during the show (also sold for $14.99 at the many Nobility Tour kiosks sprinkled throughout the venue). The fans are universally wowed and gushingly grateful, and you know they’ll be posting their selfies on social media for weeks.

  The last of the pre-show guests is preempted by a frenetic Freddie berating the flustered event manager as she tries in vain to explain the meet-and-greet mix-up.

  “All right people, move it along!” Freddie yells as he barges into the room. The final group looks crestfallen at the prospect of a foreshortened visit.

  “No, you don’t have to leave,” you tell them. And to Freddie, “We have plenty of time.”

  “We do not have plenty of time!” Freddie insists. “You are almost an hour late for hair and makeup.”

  You hop down from the photo platform in the center of the room.

  “Freddie,” you say as quietly as possible. “These people have been waiting in line for hours. It’s the last group. And now we actually have more time since the meet-and-greet is already done.”

  Freddie breathes in a deep breath. “You got ten minutes.”

  “Thank you,” you tell him, half-seriously. “I’ll meet you in the dressing room in ten.”

  But Freddie plants himself by the door like a sentry, folding his arms across his chest. “I’ll wait.”

  You can’t help but smile at his protectiveness as you finish up with your last guests and send them on their way back to the arena.

  Your glam squad, Marco (your hair stylist) and Margot (your makeup artist)—M & M, as you affectionately refer to the duo—wait in the dressing room and immediately go to work. Sasha saunters into the room, noticeably calmer than when you last saw him.

  “The supplies you requested are in the corner,” he tells you, then leans to whisper in your ear, “under the rainbow wig.”

  Marco waves Sasha away in irritation, but luckily appears not to have heard him.

  “Okay . . .” You look toward the corner but see nothing but the rainbow wig, styled and ready, resting on its usual wig stand.

  An hour and a half later, you step out of the makeup chair and take a careful sip of your Red Bull through a straw. You blink your eyes as you look in the makeup mirror, after all this time still slightly surprised at the transformation the layers of makeup, the fake eyelashes, and the sleek up-do accomplish.

  For the first song, your own hair will be exposed, pulled up high with the ends of your ponytail just touching the middle of your back. During the first costume change, the pony gets wrapped into the tight bun that will be hidden under the wigs you wear for the rest of the show until the finale.

  Sasha holds your first costume in front of you, ready for you to step into. It’s a heavily sequined minidress, and weighs at least ten pounds. The intricate beadwork creates a prism effect under the lights onstage, and draws gasps from the crowd as you make your entrance, lowered down from above onto the platform projecting out into the center of the arena.

  Sasha zips the back of the dress and helps you into your four-inch silver heels. The rest of your Act One costumes hang backstage, ready for the many split-second changes you’ll make during the show.

  Your dancers and backstage crew trickle into the dressing room as you listen to your opening act play their second-to-last song. The nervous energy in the room is palpable, the adrenaline increasing by the second. The dancers joke, laugh, and stretch as they form the little pre-show circle you’ve grown to love.

  “All right, everybody,” you bring the circle to attention “Let’s make this the best show yet. I am so excited to be here in”—you realize you actually have no idea where you are—“what city are we in?”

  The group laughs, probably not sure whether you are joking. “Albuqu
erque!” one of them tells you.

  “I knew that.” You wink. “Let’s give this Albuquerque audience the best night of their lives!”

  The group cheers and you initiate the energy pulse, a quick hand squeeze that travels around the circle. When it’s come back to you three times you are ready. “On three: one, two, three . . .”

  “Nobility!” they cheer in unison before scattering to take their places.

  Backstage, Sasha gives you a little squeeze as he passes you in the dimly lit wings, “Kill it, Henry!”

  Two of your dancers accompany you up the winding staircase to the catwalk, where you’ll wait to make your entrance. They walk directly behind you, at Freddie’s insistence, in case you should stumble backward and fall, which thankfully hasn’t happened yet. You can hear their playful banter as they follow one step behind.

  “You better not be talking about my ass,” you tease.

  One of the dancers, a ripped eastern-European transplant who goes only by his first name, Serge, laughs, “We cannot even see your ass. We are blinded by so many sparkles.”

  You giggle and ascend to the top of the stairway, where you’re met by two burly crew members who affix a sturdy harness to the back of your costume before they assist you over the six-inch gap leading to the catwalk. You dare to look down, and the sheer height brings on a swooping sense of vertigo.

  Flanked by a dancer on each side and with the two crew members behind you, you carefully navigate to the platform that will carry you down to the stage.

  As the stage lights darken, the buzz in the arena erupts into applause and cheers of anticipation. “She’s secure,” one of the crew announces into his walkie as he gives the harness a tug. “We’re a go.” The dancers are clipped into their harnesses, set to drop onto the stage as soon as you land, and choreographed to gracefully unclip you as the show begins.

  You take in a long breath, slowly exhale, and shake out your nerves. Every sense is immensely exaggerated in the moments before a show, but the nerves you feel now will become pure energy the minute you step on stage.

  Serge reaches over and squeezes your hand. “Break a leg!”

  You smile at him in the dark. “Thanks,” you whisper.

  He leans in and brushes his rough cheek against your smooth skin. “Your ass,” he tells you, “is dazzling.”

  You laugh as you hear, “Go, go, go!” and the crew pushes the button that initiates your descent. What was that? You wonder, but not for long.

  Surrounded by two huge spheres of shining silver, the platform appears to levitate as it slowly floats to stage level. Pyrotechnics in rainbow hues explode behind you as you make your descent. The sea of audience members that encircles the stage, as far as you can see, sparkles with neon tiaras and illuminated signs, and cheers at a deafening volume. You lift your face to the sunlight of their adoration, bring the microphone to your lips, and give them what they came for.

  Three hours and two encores later, you are bundled into a soft terry robe as you walk back to your dressing room, thanking the crew as you pass them in the hall. “Great show!” they yell back and high-five one another. Sasha meets you at the door, ready to remove the headpiece still attached to your aching scalp.

  “That blasted peacock!” he says as you ease into a low chair and prop your feet up on an ottoman.

  Along with bottled spring water, a footbath warmed to precisely one hundred degrees (though you never check), a mint-infused neck pillow, loose-leaf brewed passionflower tea, and peanut M&M’s (a nod to your glam squad), your concert contract rider calls for a comfy chair with an ottoman. You’re not a diva with an extensive list of demands, but you do have a few basic requirements that help you unwind after a grueling stage performance.

  “It wasn’t that bad.” You drop your feet slowly into the footbath, the heavenly warmth of the water beginning to relax your aching muscles. “It seemed faster tonight to me.”

  “Well, it wasn’t,” Sasha says. “I’m sure the sound booth was dying a slow death waiting for us to get you out there.”

  There’s a quick knock at the door as Crispin enters the room, grabbing a fistful of M&M’s and bending to kiss you on the cheek.

  “Brilliant show, darling,” he tells you. “That bit with the tightrope always gets me. Plus I got to have a glimpse straight up your knickers.”

  “You and the rest of the world,” Sasha comments as he gathers an armful of costumes and begins hanging them piece by piece on the rolling rack.

  “Not like there’s anything to see. I’m in full granny panties during that song.” You reach down gingerly to touch a fresh blister that’s appeared on your big toe. “Ouch. Looks like I still haven’t broken in those shoes.”

  “Aww, let me take a look,” Crispin sits on his haunches in front of the little bath and lifts your foot from the water. He rests your heel in the palm of his hand, and takes your big toe between his fingers. “This little piggy goes to market . . .” He glances up and lets his gaze run the length of your leg, a look of mischief on his face as he lowers his voice, “No granny panties in sight now, if I’m not mistaken.” He drops your foot and runs his thumb along your bare thigh. He follows his thumbstroke with a little bite and growls. “This little piggy is ready to go all the way home.”

  “I do not need to be a witness to your freaky X-rated nursery rhymes,” Sasha rolls his eyes as he breezes past, pushing the heavy rack of costumes toward the door. “I will catch you in the morning.”

  Before he can exit the room, a high voice you can’t place emanates from the other side of the rack of clothes. “Crispin? Are you in there?”

  Crispin jerks around, clearly startled. “Just here,” he calls out. He straightens his shirt and smooths the front of his pants before turning back to you. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asks.

  You shake your head and shrug, unsure what he is asking.

  “Oh boy,” Sasha mutters as puts his weight into the rack and rolls it swiftly out the door.

  “There you are!” trills the voice you finally place a moment before Trixie enters the room. “I thought you’d run off!”

  “No, I’d never . . .” Crispin looks oddly abashed in her presence, and for a moment you feel like you’re a fly on the wall of a private moment you are not meant to witness. The moment passes quickly, though, as Trixie finally notices you.

  “Honey!” she drawls, racing over in a series of stilted baby steps on her towering platforms. Her breasts and her extensions bounce merrily as she approaches to give you a bubble-gum scented squeeze. “Your show is just magical—truly one of the best! Technically it’s just—to die! Thank you so much for the pass!”

  You can’t help but laugh at her sheer enthusiasm. “You’re welcome,” you tell her, although you had no idea you had given her a pass. You can only imagine that Crispin must have given her one of his comps.

  She does an abrupt about-face and begins to circle the room, alternately cracking her gum and making an aggressive display of bubble-blowing, like a howler monkey inflating its throat. She stops to pick up a bottle of water and then considers and rejects the colorful bowl of M&M’s.

  “It’s amazing,” she continues, “how you make all of those songs sound so authentic. I know all the little tricks, but it is truly like you’re really singing up there. And we all know how much of our music is auto-tuned,” she says with a conspiratorial wink.

  She pops a huge bubble then twists the masticated wad of gum disgustingly around one finger, pulling it into a long string before popping it back into her mouth. She holds the same finger, glistening with saliva, up to her lips, “Shhh!” she assures you, “I won’t tell a soul.”

  You know you should take nothing about this girl seriously, but still you feel your blood pressure rising. “Um, I actually do perform my music live. That’s really me singing up there on stage, Trixie.”

  Trixie laughs as though you’ve just told the funniest joke she’s ever heard. “Oh my goodness, you are too precious!” she c
ries.

  You glance over at Crispin to see whether he thinks her behavior is as bizarre as you do. He looks completely uncomfortable, his back hunched as though in pain.

  You straighten up in your seat and pull your robe more closely around you, tightening the sash. As you do, you see Trixie headed toward the counter, inches from the rainbow wig and the phone you remember is stashed there. She moves from one wig to the next, gently stroking a tendril on each.

  “Trixie,” you’ve got to get her away from those wigs. “I don’t mean to sound rude but if you could just not touch those wigs that would be great. My stylist just reset them after the show, and he’s pretty protective of them.”

  Trixie seems to consider this for a moment then slowly withdraws her hand just inches from the rainbow wig.

  “Hmmm,” she says, “they don’t look very styled. No offense.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what we do . . . kind of... unstructured,” you trail off, immensely relieved she’s moved away from the wig.

  “Yeah . . .” Trixie suddenly turns to you and makes full eye contact, as if measuring you up.

  Crispin seems to sense the tension and breaks in. “Hey, I’ve just remembered—I seem to have misplaced my mobile. Have either of you lovely ladies seen it lying around?”

  It doesn’t escape you that Crispin appears to think it’s just as possible that Trixie might know where his phone is as it is that you do.

  Trixie seems to sense your unease and jumps at it. “My hotel room is such a disaster. I guess it could be there. I don’t think I would have even noticed.” She appears to ponder for a moment. “Or could it maybe be in my car?”

  Your head is spinning. Crispin’s been in Trixie’s room? And in her car?

  “We should probably go look.” She stands just inches in front of Crispin. You watch, horrified, as she uses two fingers to walk baby steps up his chest. “You know, retrace our steps.” The loud crack of her gum is the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

  Suddenly every jealous, competitive nerve in your body is on fire, and you know you need to do everything you can to keep Crispin from leaving with Trixie. “Actually, Crispin”—you keep your voice as even as possible—“there’s something I need to talk to you about. I was hoping we could have a few minutes”—you look pointedly at Trixie—“alone.”