“Jen! Move!”
I look up just in time to see a huge inflatable heart falling toward my head. Paul’s big hand wraps around the top of my arm and yanks me out of the way.
“Sorry!” I hear someone from backstage shout. “The rigging on that one is a bitch!”
I watch as the heart hits the ground and bounces back up. I was almost attacked by one of Ariel’s stage props. I look above me again to see a sea of hanging hearts in various sizes, colored red, pink, and purple. She’s certainly going all lovey-dovey for one of her numbers.
“We should move,” Paul says. “It’s not like we don’t know our fucking places. We’re not jumping around like fucking River Dance.”
Ah, Paul. If I’ve learned anything about him in the last ten days, it’s that he doesn’t hold back.
“Sure,” Drew huffs from behind us. “Move farther away and leave me lost in the goddamn glitter.” He brushes his head and sparkles go flying. “Tell me why we’re here again?”
“We’re here,” Dean’s voice echoes through the speakers, “because we need to be. They said we could rehearse, so we’re rehearsing.”
I take a step away from Paul and stare out into the empty abyss of the Staples Center. The tour begins tomorrow night, and Roxanne secured us some stage time while the crew runs through Ariel’s set changes. What sounded like a great idea at first has turned into a comedy of errors. In addition to the falling heart, we’ve been blinded by stage lighting and bombed with glittery chunks of confetti. The pyrotechnics that exploded a half hour ago almost made us piss our pants. As I look around, I start to wonder if we should cut our losses and call it quits.
“Now what?”
Drew’s groaning question makes me turn around. The hearts above us start to ascend and large tie-dyed panels are wheeled into place around the stage. They surround Drew, and he tosses his drumsticks over his shoulder, defeated and annoyed.
“I feel like I’ve stepped into some trippy dream,” I say to Paul. “Hearts and tie dye. Is Ariel sixteen or twenty-five?” I’ve yet to meet her or any of her people, but I am familiar with her music. To me, she seems like a mix of Britney Spears and Katy Perry. Sexy and sweet with a little raunchy thrown in.
Just then, the lights go out and black lights illuminate the stage. Everything glows, including us.
“Your dream just got a fuck-ton trippier,” Paul jokes and starts to pluck a familiar bass line. It’s “Purple Haze” by Jimi Hendrix. I laugh and try to join in, but I’m terrible.
“Guys. Let’s focus,” Dean says. “Let’s take it from the top of “Out of the Blu.”
“I need out of the black,” Drew says. “I can’t find my sticks.”
Dean lets out a frustrated sigh. “Take five.”
I walk back to my side of the stage to wait out the latest special effect. Standing in place I rock back on my heels, thinking about the last week and a half. It’s been a blur and my fingers are blistered, but I wouldn’t trade this crazy experience for anything. I never thought I’d be standing on stage in an arena that can hold 18,000 people, yet here I am. Playing tomorrow both excites and terrifies me. It’s a heady feeling. I’m still nervous, but not as much as I was when I left Chicago.
When the lights come back on, movement off stage catches my attention. Roxanne is headed our way with her arms full of paper.
“How’s your rehearsal? I hope you’re putting in quality time.”
I want to tell her if she’s worried she should stay, but I don’t. Even after a week and a half I still can’t read her very well. Is she our friend? Our boss? I’m still not clear on whether she works for the record label or Dean.
Roxanne shifts what looks like posters in her arms. “I brought the final product of your last photo shoot.” She stops walking and stands near the front of the stage. “I think you’ll be pleased.”
We all walk toward her, and she hands us each a copy. The glossy posters are longer than they are wide with a sepia-toned background. Each of us is pictured in black and white, and we’re standing side by side but looking off in different directions. We never posed this way, so I know the photographer took our individual shots and Photoshopped us. Dean is first in line and he stands casually. He’s holding the neck of his guitar with one hand and looking down at the ground with a smile. Drew is next, and he wears a more serious expression. He has his arms crossed and most of his back to the camera, so you can see his drumsticks sticking out of his back pocket. Paul wears his usual cocky smirk as he holds his bass over one shoulder, and then there’s me.
I’m last in line, but I wear the biggest grin. My eyes are closed as I hold my acoustic in front of me like I’m playing. My hair whips around my face, but it doesn’t obscure it. I think I remember this shot. At one point during the session, the photographer’s assistant turned on a big fan and it felt like I was stuck in a hurricane. I started laughing because I thought it was silly; a stylist spent an hour meticulously curling my hair only to have it ruined in an instant. Plus, I’m not a model. The fan reminded me of a fashion shoot.
Paul reads aloud from the top of the poster and embellishes the band name just a little. “Dean McCarthy and the motherfuckin’ Union.”
A small smile plays over Dean’s lips as he looks over the design. “Joining Ariel Allyn on the Renegade Tour,” he adds.
“Here.” Roxanne starts to hand out equal stacks of posters. “Every one of you needs to sign all of these.”
“Why?” I ask as I receive mine.
“We’ll be shipping them to radio stations and doing online giveaways through Dean’s website. People who purchase a VIP ticket to the show will also get one.”
I look over the picture again. Cool. I get to autograph something.
When Roxanne’s hands are empty she reaches into the over-sized canvas tote she always carries and pulls out two packages of Sharpies. She hands them to Dean. “I’m giving the swag to you now because I have a dinner meeting with Ariel’s manager. We need the posters signed by tomorrow and there’s five hundred here.”
“Okay.” Dean juggles the items in his hands. “I say we set this stuff down and –”
“PA-SSSSSSHHH!”
A pop followed by loud hissing noise makes us all jump and duck. I turn around and see plumes of white smoke being shot into the air at the back of the stage. There must be twenty air-pressured jets shooting the mist sky high. It’s so loud we can’t do anything but stare until the test is over. When the jets stop, a damp fog drifts over us.
“All these effects can’t be safe for the dancers,” I think out loud. “Someone is going to fall and kill themselves.”
“That’s why they make more money than you,” Roxanne says matter-of-factly. “They’re trained for this.”
I meet her eyes and frown. The woman doesn’t have a filter.
“Let me explain why.” She holds both hands in front of her, palms up, and shifts them like a scale. “Headliner, opening act. Established musician, former guitarist starting over. Practices that have taken place since the tour was established, one week of rehearsals. Do you see a theme here?”
Way to make me feel small, Rox. “Thanks for clearing that up,” I say sarcastically.
She doesn’t react to my tone. “Well,” she claps her hands together, “I’m off. I need to meet Mason and discuss uploading your merchandise to the tour store. I also want to add a link on Ariel’s webpage. I swear, you’d think these things would be easy, but ...” She drifts off. “Anyway, I’ll see you all bright and early. Remember you have a radio interview at ten. I need you alert and happy, so turn in early, okay? This could be the last decent night of sleep you get for a while. Call me if you need me.”
She walks away and our collective group of eyes follows her. Once she’s out of sight, tense voices can be heard from the opposite direction. Our attention shifts to the left, and we see some arguing crew. Drew clears his throat.
“I say we ditch this joint. Let’s find some drinks, sign this shit, and celebrate. The tour starts in twenty-four hours.” He looks around the group. “Who’s with me?”
Paul’s hand shoots up first and mine follows. Dean gives us an exasperated look. “Guys. I think we should run through the set at least one more time.”
I walk over and nudge his arm with my elbow. “We got this.” I sound more confident than I am, but I think a break is in order. I can tell we’re starting to stress, Dean more so than the rest of us. We’ve been going non-stop since we flew into L.A. “Let’s relax,” I say. “All of these stage surprises have us on edge.”