Avery rolls onto her back and stretches the gum in her mouth out between her lips and extended fingers. “Wouldn’t it be awesome if some hot guys had a picture of you in their room someday?” She motions to my wall of posters, at the center of which is none other than Dylan Ryder.
The sexiest rockstar in the world. I met him once—well, I was in the same room as him and he brushed by me on his way off the stage. But it counts.
“Imagine all the jerkin’ they’d be doing to your half-naked body pinned to the wall.”
Only my best friend would already have my poster visualized in her head. Not to mention guys fantasizing to it. “Let’s get through the first night of the show before you start selling posters outside, okay?”
“Shit!” She jolts upright. “I didn’t think of that. I could make posters and sell them! Fuck college. I’m totally getting rich off of your rockstar ass.”
I laugh and take one last look in the mirror before turning. “What do you think?”
“You look like a cross between a saint and a sinner. Total wet dream. Guys are going to want to lift that little plaid skirt to see where the garters lead to, and girls are going to be running all over the city trying to find blood-red Mary Jane stilettos.” I’d decided on sexing up a Catholic school uniform for my debut stage outfit. It went well with “Choices a Girl Makes,” the first song I’d be singing. A song about a girl struggling between her beliefs and her desires. Mom loved my choice. Dad…not so much.
“You know, the majority of my mom’s fans are older. So you talking about guys whacking off to me and lifting my skirt is sort of icky. They’re old. Like my parents’ age. Gross, Avery.”
“I thought you liked older men?”
“I do. Like twenty-five. Not twice that. Guys our age are immature.” I take one last look in the mirror and a deep cleansing breath. “You have your backstage pass?”
“Of course. You think I’d chance watching my best friend with the common people? I’m totally standing on the side of the stage and mouthing every word into my fake microphone. When they scream your name, I’m going to pretend they’re screaming mine.”
One of the things Dad insisted on was that I was not the only opening act. He didn’t want me carrying the pressure of being singlehandedly responsible for delivering an enthusiastic crowd. He wanted me to be able to take a break if I needed one, and have someone to share the burden of opening a sold-out tour. It meant I didn’t get to bring my band from high school; I’d be fronting the guys from After Sunday, the band that Lars Michaels plays with right before me.
At the time, I thought Dad didn’t have enough confidence that I could make it as an opening act on my own. But standing on the side of the stage, waiting for my turn to go on, I finally get it. The opening act has a huge job. People are coming and going, everyone is here to see someone else, yet somehow, through all of the preshow distractions, we are responsible for getting people pumped up. It’s not an easy task.
To lukewarm applause, Lars announces that a second act will be playing the preshow. He makes a big deal about telling the crowd it’s my first tour show and they need to make me feel welcome. Then the stage lights go dark, so the crew can change up the layout and I can walk to the center of the stage. The spotlight won’t come on until I’ve sung the first line of the song in the dark. It’s a bit overly dramatic, but I’ve watched the practice video and it really seems to work.
Mom squeezes my shoulders as people work around us in the dark. “Ninety seconds.” A guy wearing a headset yells in our direction as he lifts an instrument that was just knocked over near his feet. It’s chaos on stage. Ten men run around reconfiguring things, and drills buzz while they call out to each other.
“You’re going to be great,” Mom says from behind me.
“Sixty seconds,” Headset Guy yells again.
“Mom.” I cover her hand on my shoulder with my own. I never call her Mom. When I talk about her to other people she’s Mom, but I’ve always addressed her as Iris as long as I can remember. Until now. I didn’t think about it. The word just came out.
“Right here, baby.” She squeezes harder. “You can do this. By the end of the day, no one is going to remember my name. They’ll all be too busy talking about the songbird who opened for whatshername.”
I take a deep, relaxing breath.
A few of the workmen jog from the stage.
“Thirty seconds.”
“You’d better go. I’ll be right here. Dad is in center stage, row three. Go show your parents how it’s done.”
“Fifteen seconds.”
My hands shake as I walk toward the center of the stage. We’ve rehearsed so many times, I can probably do this on autopilot. At least, I’m hoping I can do this on autopilot, because I’m pretty damn sure I might have forgotten the words now.
Shit. I don’t know the words.
I put my feet on the pink X taped to the floor to indicate where I should stand.
“Five.”
I think I’m going to vomit.
“Four.”
Shit. I really don’t remember the words. What’s the first word?
“Three.”
Panic sets in. The first line is supposed to be sung acoustic, then the spotlight comes on. The band joins in after that. My hands are trembling. And I can’t feel my knees.
“Two.”
Fuck. I have no idea what the first word is. And I’m going to vomit. Right in the center of stage. On the stage Iris Nicks is going to be on in a half hour.
“One. And go.”
I don’t.
I can’t. Because I don’t know the first word. Seconds tick by. I can hear the audience milling around, a loud chatter going on. They don’t know I’m supposed to be starting. Yet.
The spotlight hits me, as timed. I should have already sung the first line.
Nothing.
The band is supposed to join in.
They don’t. Conversations in the audience cease like someone just flicked the off button. I can’t see any of them. But I’m sure they’re all staring at me.
“Lucky,” my mother whispers from the side of the stage, but I don’t turn my head.
I wish I could see the audience. Where’s Dad? Row three, center stage. I remember Mom saying it right before I walked out. But I still can’t remember the damn words to the song I’m supposed to sing.
I hear Mom’s yell again from stage left. “Flood the first five rows. Center only. Turn off the stage.”
A few seconds later, lights come on in the first five rows, and the spotlight shinning on me flicks off. My eyes search the rows until I find him. Just like Mom promised. Third row, center stage. He smiles at me.
I take a deep breath and smile back, even though he can’t see me.
Dad nods. The look on his face isn’t full of panic, like mine. He’s calm, and pride beams from his smile.
A few seconds pass and the words just come to me. So I sing them. In the dark, while looking at my Dad’s soothing smile. The first line done, everything snaps into place.
Lights flick off in the audience.
The stage spotlight shines on me.
The band kicks in. And I go on to sing the entire song.
Flawlessly.
By the time I’m on the third song in the set, I’m walking the stage like a pro. As if it’s rehearsal and not a live show with a couple thousand people watching.
The roar of applause isn’t even necessary when I’m done. I’m high just from being up here. My arms and legs are filled with goose bumps from head to toe. I even hear a few people yelling, “Encore!” as I walk off the stage.
Mom congratulates me and pulls me in for a quick hug before she’s whisked away for last-minute show prep. Avery, of course, is jumping up and down like she just won the lottery. Tons of people come by to tell me how good I was. No one even mentions my momentary meltdown.
I keep looking for my dad, but he doesn’t come backstage. Knowing him, he probably wants to give me time to enjoy the post-show high. But all I really want to do is thank him. For being there for me. And not just for today. For every day of my life. I don’t know what I’d do without him.