by A. E. Radley
“After that, the new camera crew’s going to… Hope?” Marissa said. “Did you hear me?”
Some long ago when we were taught
“I heard you,” I said. “Massage at nine, get my ass kicked at ten, hair, makeup, and then the video shoot.”
The expression on her face reflected back to me by the glass was that of a prissy cheerleader who’d just finished arguing with her football player boyfriend. She hugged a clipboard to her chest; ink pens were wedged behind both ears, and for some reason, they made me think of missile launchers. They were going to fire at any moment, and I would be the target.
Marissa huffed out a sigh.
That for whatever kind of puzzle you got
I rubbed the space between my eyebrows. “Are you going to stand there being pissy, or are you going to tell me what the problem is?”
She was silent for a moment.
“I don’t get you,” she said. “One minute you can’t get enough of me. The next minute you treat me like I’m your… like your…”
“Assistant?” I supplied. “Seeing as that’s what I hired you for, I don’t see why that would be a problem.”
You just stick the right formula in
A solution for every fool
“That’s all I am to you? An assistant?”
I turned around. “Did you think you were something more?”
Marissa glanced over her shoulder, then she took a half-step forward and lowered her voice, despite the fact that we were the only two people in the room.
“With all the time we’ve been spending together… at night,” Marissa said, “I thought that maybe…” She stopped herself. Closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m not going to chase you. If you want me, you need to tell me. Otherwise, I think it’s time that I move on.”
She’d probably read those lines in a self-help book somewhere. Something like, You are amazing and worthy and people should be chasing you, not the other way around. That, or one of her friends had told her to give me an ultimatum.
“I never asked you to chase me,” I said calmly. “I don’t understand why you thought we were anything more than… casual.”
Her eyes welled with tears.
Oh, great, I thought.
“So that’s all I am to you?” she asked, and now she was getting shrill. “A casual fuck?”
“Marissa…”
“When I held you last night,” she said, “when you cried and told me that you missed your Uncle Billy, that you wish you could be there to watch Melody’s kids grow up… when you fell asleep in my arms… none of that meant anything to you? It was all casual?”
“It was an emotional release. One I needed. And appreciated.”
I paused. Marissa was a competent assistant, one I didn’t want to lose. But I’d let myself go too far with her, given more of myself than I’d intended, and now things had gotten unnecessarily complicated.
I chose my next words carefully. “I don’t think I’ve ever done or said anything to suggest I want a relationship with you, Marissa. I’m sorry if you had that impression.”
“Right,” she said, and the word was heavy with sarcasm. “Being intimate with me night after night, taking me out to dinner, texting me after your shows telling me how much you miss me — none of that implies anything. Certainly it wouldn’t imply something more than casual sex.”
“No. It doesn’t imply anything more. If it did, I would have told you.”
She rolled her eyes like a teenager and muttered something under her breath I didn’t catch.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
I crossed my arms against my chest. “I don’t have the time or the energy for games. If you have something to tell me, say it. Otherwise, leave. Because I’m trying to get a song written — or at least started — before the massage therapist comes.”
“You know what, Hope?” she said. “Maybe we need to stop sleeping together, if this is how it’s going to be. If you can’t be adult enough or emotionally available enough to be in a real relationship.”
“I’m plenty adult and emotionally available,” I said. “Just not for you.”
That did it.
She opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water a few times, then scurried from the room, clipboard still pressed flat against her chest.
It was probably a shitty thing to say. On the other hand, I’d never suggested we were anything more than friends with benefits.
Or boss and assistant with benefits.
Hmm. Maybe I needed to stop sleeping with the people who worked for me.
I turned back around to my desk, picked up the card I’d been looking at earlier. It was a corny happy birthday card, funny enough to snort-laugh when you read it the first time, dumb enough to make you shake your head at it the next two times. The inside had familiar handwriting scrawled across it: “Here’s Hope-ing you have a wonderful birthday,” it said. Below that, without a “Sincerely” or a “Best wishes” or a “Love” was simply: “Julie.”
I remember the time when I came so close to you
Sent me skipping my class and running from school
Ridiculous card with a bad pun inside. It was so Julie.
We’d gone back to not speaking, not calling. The brief couple weeks when we had were just a fluke, I decided. Just me being needy and weak and reaching out to the last person who’d truly loved me. Who loved me for me — for dorky, corny, and sometimes awkward and insecure smartass Hope Caldwell from Calvin, Georgia. Not who loved me for being Hope the pop icon, the Grammy winner, the millionaire.
And I bought you that ring ’cause I never was cool
What made me think I could start clean slated?
The hardest to learn was the least complicated.
I pulled out a blank sheet of paper from my desk. I miss you. I’m sorry I haven’t called, I wrote on it, and I didn’t add “Yours” or “XOXO” or “Love” or even my name. She would recognize the handwriting.
OCTOBER: “COMFORTABLY NUMB,” PINK FLOYD
There’s no better feeling than the feeling that comes after playing a show that you know was kickass awesome. I practically skipped off the stage, completely breathless after two encores. I high-fived my dancers, backup singers, and band members. I could tell from the looks on their faces that they were all as high from the show as I was.
“That was amazing!” one of the dancers called after me as I passed her.
One of the stage guys handed me a bottle of water.
“You’re amazing!” I shouted back at her over my shoulder.
I headed to the meet ’n greet area, where the lucky ten fans who’d won the radio station promotion we’d agreed to would be waiting for autographs and selfies and a few sweaty hugs. I didn’t mind doing it. I loved my fans. I loved performing. In that moment, I loved everything about life and I always would.
I knew I was slightly manic.
And I knew that every manic high came with a corresponding depressing low: After the fans were gone and the dancers had gathered their bags and took off together, there would just be me and my new personal assistant, a gay Brit named Nigel, and Charles. Then even Nigel would go home, and it would just be Charles and me. Compared to the excitement of the show, the buzzing silence of the limo that took me back to our hotel would be impossibly claustrophobic.
But that was for later. Now was for autographs.
“Hi, y’all!” I said when I got to the meet ’n greet area, my southern accent twanging painfully.
A girl of about nine stood with a man I assumed was her father. She held his hand and pressed against his side with wide eyes. The rest of them were vying for my attention and saying things like, “Oh my God, I can’t believe we’re really here! And that’s really her!” but I went straight over to the girl.
“Hey, sweetie,” I said to her, bending down and putting my hand out to shake. She took it tentatively, and her palm was clammy. “What’s your name?”
“Melanie,” he said.
My smile broadened. “Melanie? That reminds me of my cousin Melody. We call her Mel. Does anyone ever call you Mel?”
The girl glanced up at the man, then at me, then smiled. It was a beautiful smile, the missing-your-front-tooth smile that only little kids have.
“My daddy sometimes does,” she said.
“Really?” I said. “How old are — ”
A hand grasped my shoulder, yanked me backwards. Before I knew what was happening, a man’s face was mere inches from my face.
“Hope,” he said. “I’m your biggest fan. Your biggest.”
His brown eyes were wild; his breath smelled of something sweet and rotten, like fruit gone bad. A light coating of beard stubble covered his face. He clasped my upper arms in a tight grip, pulled me forward until my chest crashed against his.
Melanie screamed. So did several others.
“I love you,” he said into my ear, and the words were hot, moist. “We belong together.”
My stalker. The one who’d been writing the letters for months, including the latest round, filled with death threats.
A blur of dark grey and black wedged between us. Charles. He pried the man off me.
“Get off her, man.” Charles shoved the guy backwards.
Two uniformed security guards appeared out of nowhere, both of them looking panicked as they grappled with the stalker’s flailing arms.
“I love you!” he shouted, trying desperately to wriggle out of the grip of the guards. Charles positioned himself between him and me, blocking my view. “I love you, Hope, I love you! We’re going to be together! You’ll see!”
His voice grew distant as the guards moved him down the hallway.
Charles turned to me. “You alright?”
I nodded, rattled. It had all happened so fast; I’d barely had a chance to process what was happening, then it was over.
I looked down at Melanie. She was crying. “Sweetheart…” I said, thinking to comfort her, but stopped when I realized I didn’t know what to say. I wanted someone to comfort me.
The smell of the man’s breath lingered in my nostrils.
Nigel appeared at my elbow, touched my arm gently. “Should I give them all backstage passes for your next show?”
I nodded wordlessly.
“Sorry, everyone,” he said, turning to face the ten lucky fans. Their faces were as shocked as mine must have been, and they huddled together in small groups. “We’re going to have to cut it short tonight, I’m sure you understand why. But if you line up here, I’ll give all of you…”
Charles wrapped a thick arm around my shoulders. “It’s over,” he said quietly.
“Not really,” I said. My throat constricted. “It never ends. It’s him this month. Someone else next month.”
“Let’s get you out of here,” he said, and he escorted me to the dressing room, arm around my shoulders the whole time.
There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship smoke on the horizon
“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” he said when we got there. “And no one gets in without going through me first.”
Your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re saying
“Thank you.”
He smiled. “Of course,” he said, and left, closing the door behind him.
When I was a child
I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look but it was gone
I sat in front of the mirror for a few minutes, staring at my reflection, at the makeup that had been smudged through the course of the night by sweat and equipment.
I fished around inside one of the vanity’s drawers, found my cell phone. I opened my messages, typed in Julie’s name.
I cannot put my finger on it now
But what would I say to her? And how would she respond? I’d been sending her calls to voicemail for almost six weeks. She’d probably just do the same to me. And even if she didn’t, it wasn’t fair for me to call. I set the phone screen-down on the vanity.
The child is grown
The dream is gone
I have become comfortably numb
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1: “FIRE AND RAIN,” JAMES TAYLOR
The energy of the crowd was like an ocean tide, a current I could surf even from my position behind the screen. The synth and bass began to thrum, and from the cheers of the audience, I knew the video introduction to “Low Brow,” my latest chart-topper, had started.
Butterflies swarmed my stomach. Five hit albums and two Grammies later, I still got butterflies before each performance.
To my left, one of my dancers blew out a breath between pursed lips and wiped sweaty palms down pleather pants. The dancer on my right had his eyes squeezed tightly closed, his mouth set into a tight line.
The strobe lights started. The sound of the video introduction began to fade.
Our cue was coming in three, two, one…
The backside of the thirty-foot video screen in front of us split apart, shuddering for a moment before its two halves rolled outward on their tracks, moving right and left. Pyrotechnic effects burst with color and sparks.
The spotlight hit us. The crowd went insane.
We could hear them; we couldn’t see them. The only thing we could see from our place inside the nuclear-hot beam of white light was the spotlight itself. It was like staring into the sun.
I cocked my head to the side, making my purple-silver wig flop. I was vaguely aware that one of the rivets holding my costume together was digging into my side, just below my breast.
It would be one of those strange details I remembered later. But at the time, at the beginning of “Low Brow,” the rivet was just a sensation that sat at the edge of consciousness. Present, but ignorable.
I lifted the microphone to my lips, and I started to sing.
Flawless. The first song was flawless.
We didn’t stop. The dancers didn’t rush backstage to change costumes. We held our poses for about five seconds, then went straight into the second song, “Fire on Me,” without even slowing down. Of the number one songs I’d written, it wasn’t actually one of my favorites. But it was a fan favorite. And that was all that mattered.
You can
You can
You can fire on me, baby
The words would prove to be ironic.
After “Fire on Me,” we slowed down to catch our breath. The dancers went backstage to get ready for the next group of songs; I stayed behind. My job was to stall, to give the dancers and the technicians and the stage hands enough time to prepare for our next few songs.
I walked to the front of the stage, lifted my arms in a big Y shape. The audience hooted and cheered.
“Good evening, Chicago!” I said into the mic. I waited for them to get quiet enough that I could speak again. “You know I love your city, right?” They agreed. I laughed. “I’m going to write a song about your city one day. I’ll call it, ‘New York But Nicer, but Just as Shitty in the Winter.’”
They thought that was good, funny, the best idea they’d ever heard; they told me through their cheers.
“Speaking of New York, that’s what this next song is about,” I said. Some of them cheered loudly, knowing what was coming. Those fans were the real ones — the ones who read or watched every interview I gave, who knew my Wikipedia bio by heart. But the rest of the crowd hardly reacted; they didn’t know “She Never Sleeps” was about a city and not a person.
My dancers reappeared, each of them wearing mint-green costumes that looked abstract but were actually pieces of a whole. By the end of the song, they’d be stacked up one on top of the other, cheerleader pyramid style, and the Statue of Liberty would materialize before the audience’s eyes. They’d love it.
The dancers positioned themselves, spreading out behind me. T
he intro to the song started, the beat tickling my skin.
I waited for my cue while the rivet dug into my side again, part pain and part itch.
There was my cue. I lifted one foot, prepared my slow pirouette. But something wasn’t right. The pulse of the audience had shifted, the cheers they made were too shrill. I began my pirouette anyway.
But then I understood. The audience wasn’t cheering. They were screaming.
Things happened at concerts, all sorts of things. People fell and hurt themselves and had to be carted off. Fights broke out. Or people got high or drunk or both and did something stupid. For the performer, the best idea was usually to ignore whatever the ruckus was and stay focused on the show. Security would take care of it. Those of us on stage, we had a job to do for the twenty thousand or so other people who hadn’t passed out or gotten into a brawl.
In this case, the screams were accompanied by popping pyrotechnics. I assumed a special effect had malfunctioned somewhere. The sounds of the screams were like the rivet in my side: I was aware of it, but I wasn’t focused on it.
But the screams grew louder. They grew in number.
I finished my pirouette. The heavy electronic rhythm picked up, strobes flashing in time with it. The world blinked in and out of existence — darkness, strobe, darkness, strobe.
Darkness, and I drew in a breath to sing. Strobe, and I could see them running.
Darkness. Strobe, and I saw the expressions on the faces of the audience members closest to the stage. Expressions of sheer terror.
Darkness. Strobe, someone running towards me from the side of the stage. What was happening? Why was Charles running onto the stage?
Darkness, strobe. Darkness, strobe.
The sight of my sprinting bodyguard was what made my dancing finally falter. The other dancers stopped when I did, exchanging bewildered, frightened glances with one another.
A moment before Charles reached me, my thigh caught fire. That was what it felt like, at least. Like someone had doused my leg in gasoline and then lit a match. White-hot heat. Then slammed the same spot with a baseball bat. Then poured something warm and wet all over my leg.