Pop Star

by Meredith Michelle

So you do—well, most of it.

  * * *

  The better part of the second and final day of your Albuquerque tour stop is spent in a fitful sleep. You awake in a sweat from a nightmare in which your hand has swollen to the size of a balloon and throbs painfully as it floats above your head. Opening your eyes, you realize the pain in your hand is quite real. At least the grotesque swelling was just a figment of your dream. You reach for your cell phone to check your messages and see a lengthy stream of texts from Sasha:

  How’s the hand?

  You up yet?

  Hello?

  Okay you must still be sleeping but text me when you wake up.

  I don’t want to disturb you if you are still sleeping but pls let me know you are OK.

  It’s noon. Text me back.

  You type a one-handed message.

  I’m up. Where are you?

  Costumes

  OK be there in a few.

  You can’t believe Crispin hasn’t checked in once. But then again, his phone probably isn’t working. After a Red Bull and a quick shower with a baggie over your injured hand, you feel a thousand percent better. You pull on stretchy pants and a loose shirt then make your way across the parking lot to the costume trailer. On your way, you try Crispin. Your call goes straight to voicemail.

  Sasha sits perched on a little stool, hunched over his sewing machine. “Well, good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he says without turning around, biting off a piece of thread as he greets you.

  “What are you working on?”

  “One second . . .” Sasha slides his hands skillfully across the machine and spins around to display the finished product. “Et viola!”

  A long, glittered glove hangs in front of you, reflecting the fluorescent lights of the trailer like a disco ball.

  “I don’t think—” you begin.

  “You are right,” Sasha cuts you off. “You don’t think, and that is why we have found ourselves in this unfortunate situation. You should have let me take that ridiculous phone when I could have, then this whole crisis would have been averted. And once again I am left to find a solution. So here you go.” Sasha holds up the glove again. “Now let’s see if it fits over that unsightly bandaged paw.”

  Sasha’s clearly irritated and likely a little overtired himself—and you do appreciate his coming to your rescue. You hold out your hand obediently and wince as you feel the pain begin to throb anew.

  Sasha notices immediately. “You okay, Henrietta?”

  “It’s ridiculous that a tiny cut could hurt this much.”

  “Well, we all know you have a very low pain threshold,” Sasha says sardonically. “I will be careful.”

  He slides the glove slowly over your hand, intently monitoring your expression to be sure he isn’t causing too much pain.

  You move to the mirror to observe the effect. “It works, I guess.” You twist your hand gingerly left and right. “But I’m thinking it may be a little too Michael Jackson.”

  “I’m going to make another one, obviously,” Sasha rolls his eyes. “Michael Jackson. Puh-lease.” Sasha spins back around to show you the makings of the other glove, the pattern already cut and ready to be sewn.

  The ripple effects of your little post-show calamity become increasingly evident as you enter the backstage area. Your dressing room has been relocated to a small crevice the size of a closet on the other side of the hall and rolling racks of your costumes now line the hallway. Your previous dressing area is taped off like a crime scene. You ease into the makeup chair, now squeezed into a cramped corner, as Freddie pops his head into the crowded space. “Sorry,” you apologize.

  “You don’t have to apologize to me,” he tells you. “But I gotta tell you I don’t think Albuquerque is going to be sorry to see us go.”

  “I know. I feel awful.”

  “Eh. It was an accident. How’s the hand?”

  “It’s okay. It kind of throbs off and on.”

  “Well I’m glad it wasn’t worse. I talked to the doctor. He says you’ll be good as new in a couple of weeks. But don’t push yourself too hard tonight. And you let me know if you need anything, you got it? You need extra rest? You leave it to me. Did they give you medicine at the hospital?”

  “Just some extra-strength Tylenol,” you tell him. “Didn’t make a dent.”

  “I have something I can give you for tonight if you have trouble sleeping, but it’s strong stuff. You shouldn’t take it unless you absolutely need it.” He fishes inside his pocket and extracts a chalky, round pill.

  “Thanks,” you close your fist around the little pill. “Thanks, Freddie,” you smile at him in the mirror, “You’re the best.”

  “Yes,” he agrees with a satisfied smile. “I am the best. Don’t you forget it.” Then he disappears into the hallway.

  Getting into your first costume is a nightmare. Thank god for Sasha’s silky glove, which helps the tight sleeves slide over your throbbing hand. Your stomach clenches when you reach the next obstacle, the long stairway leading to the catwalk. You place your foot onto the first step and suddenly the climb seems much steeper than it did last night.

  Your dancers wait behind you.

  You take another step onto the stairway and vertigo overwhelms you. You begin to fall back, and are gracefully caught in a pair of muscular arms.

  “Oh!” you exclaim as Serge literally sweeps you off of your feet.

  “I got you,” he says, his bulging biceps pressing into your back. In one swift motion, he carries you like a baby up the stairs, depositing you gently down at the top.

  “That must be exactly what Lois Lane felt like in Superman’s arms,” you say, your head still swimming a bit.

  “I am honored to come to your rescue,” Serge says with a huge smile, then leans in close and whispers into your ear. “I would tell you to break a leg, but I think your hand is already enough.” Then he’s gone with a wink and you are harnessed into the platform and ready descend to the stage. Once you’re there, the pain melts magically away and you are one with your music and your audience.

  Sasha keeps you company after the show as you wait in vain for a visit from Crispin. Sasha’s incessant yawns and the thought of a long travel day tomorrow finally convince you to give up and return to the bus. Sasha air-kisses you goodnight as you close the door and burrow beneath the covers.

  You lie awake in the dark, then pick up your phone to try Crispin again. This time, it rings once and then goes to voicemail. You can’t believe he hasn’t even checked on you all day. You know he’s probably angry about the phone, but still you’d think he would have been worried enough about you to get over it. You decide not to leave a message but text him instead.

  U there?

  The text hangs on the screen, unanswered.

  You slip out from under the covers to pace around the little bus, the adrenaline from your performance still not completely out of your system. You check your text every few minutes even though you know a message would have popped up on the dark screen if Crispin had responded.

  Finally, you give up and decide to return to bed. As soon as you lay down the pain in your hand returns with a vengeance. You can’t seem to find a comfortable position. Even propping your hand on two pillows doesn’t help. You roll over to grab the bottle of Tylenol the hospital prescribed when you remember the little pill Freddie handed you before the show. You pop back up to find the pill, and you examine it as you try to determine what exactly you are taking. You can’t find any kind of identifying mark.

  You fill a glass with water and hesitate for a moment. You don’t have any allergies you know of and you know Freddie would never give you anything dangerous, but still something in you is giving you pause. The Tylenol would be the safer bet, but you know it is useless and the last thing you need is to be up all night and miserable all day tomorrow, with nothing to distract you from the pain on the long ride to your next stop in Vegas. Should you listen to your gut and deal with the pain? Or should you take Fredd
ie’s pill and hope for a solid sleep?

  To take the Tylenol, turn to page 82.

  To take Freddie’s pill, keep reading.

  You pop the little pill into your mouth and wash it down with a quick swallow of water.

  What feels like minutes later, pounding at your door jolts you awake. “Just a second!” you yell. Your breath comes out in little puffs in the frigid air as you race to the door. You feel insanely refreshed and incredibly awake. Even your hand is miraculously painless.

  “The circus has pulled up stakes,” Sasha announces the minute you open the door. “You ready to roll?” He rubs his hands back and forth, “Did you forget to turn on the heat or something? “

  The desert nights are truly freezing and you realize you did in fact forget to switch the heat on, and now the bus is frigid. “I was so exhausted after everything last night I completely passed out.”

  “Hmm,” Sasha comments. You were so tired you didn’t even change your clothes?” Sasha purses his full lips. “What’s up, Henrietta?”

  “What do you mean?” you ask innocently, “I was just really tired.”

  “Are you seriously going to lie to me right now?”

  “Okay,” you give in, realizing there’s no point in trying to hide anything from Sasha. “Freddie gave me a sleeping pill or something last night and it totally knocked me out.”

  “I’m sorry, come again?” Sasha shakes his head in disbelief. “Freddie gave you what exactly?”

  “I don’t know. Some kind of little round pill. It was totally harmless, obviously. And I slept like a baby.”

  “I bet you did,” says Sasha. “Let me see the pills.”

  “He only gave me one.”

  “Hmm,” Sasha folds his arms across his chest. “Best you keep it that way.” He walks to the front of the bus, settles into the driver’s seat, and puts on his sunglasses. “Why don’t you come up and keep me company, since you’re so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  “I’d be glad to,” you tell him, and take your seat beside him.

  * * *

  Eight hours, fourteen games of twenty questions, and three unproductive attempts to call Crispin later, you pull into downtown Las Vegas. The city is lit up magically, the setting sun barely visible behind the rows of high-rise hotels and casinos. The sky is a blood-orange backdrop for silhouetted palms and twinkling neon lights. Sasha pulls the bus expertly into the wide circle in front of the Maxamillion Resort and Arena, or “The Max,” as the famous Vegas landmark is known.

  “You ready to sleep in a real bed?” Sasha asks. “I know I am.”

  “So ready,” you tell him, heading to the back of the bus to grab your hotel bags, pre-packed with comfy PJs, cosmetics, and two fun outfits—one for an obligatory appearance at the resort’s Max nightclub, and one just in case.

  The hotel lobby bustles with energy, color, and light. Men in tuxedos and women in floor-length gowns and glittering jewels glide in and out of elevators and casino entrances. The clang and chime of slot machines, the click of spinning roulette wheels, and smell of money waft past as you make your way unnoticed to the service elevator. A uniformed elevator operator turns a key, opens a locked panel, and pushes a button that whisks you to the penthouse suite. The doors glide open onto an expanse of sleek marble ending at a wall of windows overlooking a breathtaking view of the Strip. “Wow!” you exclaim, as you step into the dimly lit suite.

  Sasha rolls your bags into the living room and opens the little bar refrigerator. “I love it when they get Freddie’s memos,” he says, cracking open a Mountain Dew and taking a deep draught. “Ahhhh,” he sighs, “that hits the spot.”

  He tosses you a frosty can of Red Bull, which you manage to catch. “Thanks,” you say, and begin to explore the suite.

  You round the corner and almost run smack into Freddie’s chest. Red Bull shoots straight up and out your nose as you laugh in surprise. “Owwww! That stings!” you howl, tears streaming from your eyes.

  “My god,” Sasha tosses you a towel from the bar. “I cannot take you anywhere.”

  “That really is not very ladylike,” agrees Freddie, hoisting his bags on a chair in the far corner of the room.

  “Sorry,” you mop your face and then the floor.

  “Nice, right?” Freddie asks, looking around the suite. “What took you so long to get here?”

  “You know Sasha,” you answer. “Drives like an old lady.”

  “You’re welcome to drive anytime, miss thing,” Sasha snaps.

  “I’m good.” You smile and take another swig of Red Bull. “Sasha,” you yell, “can you grab me a straw?”

  Sasha rifles around under the bar and saunters over twirling the straw then sliding it into the Red Bull can. “I am only here to serve you,” he says before dipping a curtsey and leaving the room.

  “That stuff is toxic,” Freddie says as he watches you drink. “A straw does not make it any better.”

  “I know, but at least it won’t ruin my lipstick.” You’re glad Sasha and Freddie are here to distract you from thoughts of Crispin. You can’t believe he still hasn’t called you back.

  “Is your hand bothering you?” Freddie asks as he carries his bag into the smallest of the suite’s bedrooms.

  “Not too much. It’s actually a little better.”

  “Oh, you had kind of a funny look on your face.”

  Is Freddie really able to read you so easily? For a fleeting moment, you consider confiding in him, but you immediately think better of it. Crispin isn’t Freddie’s problem.

  “I had an amazing sleep, which helped. That pill you gave me worked wonders.”

  “Oh, so you took it?”

  “Yup, and I slept like a baby.”

  “That’s great.” He gives your shoulder a little squeeze and heads off in the direction of the bathroom.

  * * *

  An hour later, Marco and Margot put the final touches on your hair and makeup. Your makeup is a dramatic smoky eye with a glossy, natural lip, and your hair is swept up high and slick, a thin braid wrapped around to conceal the hairband. “Thank you,” you tell them as they pack up their bags and cases. “It’s perfect.” You rise from the hair-and-makeup chair and hear the strains of “Starry Eyes,” Crispin’s first solo platinum single. You grab your cell phone from your pocket and answer it as quickly as you can.

  “Crispin?”

  “Henrietta!” Crispin’s unmistakable British clip sizzles from the other end of the line. “How in the world are you?” He draws out the word are, not actually pronouncing the “r”, so that it sounds like a low ahhhhh.

  Something definitely isn’t right. “Where are you?” you ask him.

  “The question is,” he answers brightly, “where . . . are . . . you?”

  “Crispin, what’s going on?” You don’t like the tone of his voice, the slight slushiness of his words.

  Then you hear a chiming laugh in the background followed by a familiar drawl. “Crispin! Come on! Hang up the phone,” Trixie cries. “Just hang it up!” The exaggerated slur of her words is evident, even in the background.

  “Is that Trixie?” you ask, even though you know the answer.

  “In the flesh, love,” Crispin answers. “In the flesh!”

  “What are you two doing?” you ask carefully. You know you should just hang up the phone, that Crispin is clearly in an altered state, but you are afraid to let him go. “Do you need help?”

  “Help?” he asks, “I do believe I have all the help I could possibly need.”

  Trixie laughs again in the background and begins to sing in a low, slow, drawl, a famous Beatles song about getting help from friends. Then she breaks into another hysterical peal, “I get high! Oh my god, I don’t need any help with that!”

  “No,” laughs Crispin, “you most certainly do not!”

  You are suddenly out of sympathy and out of patience, “Let me talk to Trixie.”

  Crispin is silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, what, love?”
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  “Please put Trixie on the phone,” you repeat with all of the patience you can muster.

  Crispin clears his throat. “Let me just see if she is available.”

  Crispin whispers loudly, then snorts a short laugh, “Ms. Taylor, are you available to come on the blower for a moment?”

  “Ha!” Trixie barks. “You mean to tell me that Honey Noble, the world famous pop star, wants to talk to little old me?”

  “I do believe she does, doesn’t she?”

  “Honey?” Trixie picks up the phone. “Honey Noble? Is it really you?”

  “Cut the shit, Trixie.” You are in no mood for her games. “I don’t know what you have Crispin on, but clean yourselves up and get him back to rehab.”

  You feel tears spring to your eyes as you realize that Crispin’s months of hard work and sobriety have come to this. He’s an addict, and he needs more help than you can give him.

  “Honey, I truly have no idea what you could be talking about.” Trixie drawls sweetly. “We’re just having a little party. Isn’t that right, Crisp? There is nothing untoward going on here, nothing at all. I’m an official Rehab Advocate. RAs don’t let RAs relapse. Or something like that. What was it Crispy?”

  “Yeah, that was it, well done,” Crispin says in the background. “Very well done, indeed!”

  “Wooo!” yells Trixie loudly, and you pull the phone away from your ear.

  “Put Crispin back on,” you tell her.

  “Yes ma’am!” she obliges.

  “Crispin,” you tell him. “I feel sorry for you, I really do. You worked hard to get clean and now in one night you’ve ruined it all. I wish I could help you, but I can’t do this for you. You have to want it. And clearly you don’t want it badly enough.” You pause for a moment then let out a long sigh. “I’m just so disappointed.”

  Crispin gasps as though wounded. “Well, I certainly don’t want to be a disa . . . disapp . . .” he snorts with laughter, unable to get the word out. “I don’t want to let you down, baby, do I?”

  “Crispin,” Trixie whines in the background, “get off the phone! Don’t let that stick-in-the-mud ruin your good time. We were having fun!”