The Brightsiders

by Jen Wilde

  Just thinking about our album brings a smile to my face. Two years ago, I was dancing around in my bedroom, singing into my hairbrush and dreaming of touring the world, playing our music to packed arenas. Now I’m living those dreams, our album is selling off the charts, and our shows sell out within minutes.

  Putting lipstick on was a good idea; I feel better already.

  “Hey, Em!” Alfie calls up the stairs. “You ready to hear Ry’s song?”

  “Be right down!” I call back. As I leave the bathroom, I have the urge to take a selfie and post it online. Then I remember I’m on a strict media break. It’s been days since my fans have heard from me, and I can’t wait until this mess quiets down so I can connect with them again. All this is really reminding me how much I love those beautiful people.

  I skip down the stairs, feeling good and looking cute.

  “All right,” Alfie says, falling casually onto the couch. “Ry, let’s hear the new song, man.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Let me set the mood first.”

  I open the sliding doors to the backyard to let the warm breeze inside. The stars reflect in the swimming pool like glowing fireflies. I pick up one of my dad’s guitars from its stand in the living room and hand it to Ryan.

  Chloe and I sink onto the couch on either side of Alfie while Ryan sets up the guitar in front of the fireplace.

  He clears his throat. “It’s called ‘And by the Way.’”

  I’ve got an arrow in my heart and it’s carved with your name …

                                           … I didn’t mean to, I didn’t know I could …

  … at first I thought it was just a phase …

                                           … the rhythm of my heart has stayed the same …

  … one day a switch flipped and then …

                                                               … all I could see was you …

  … my heart just keeps comin’ back …

                                                               … to you.

  And by the way …

                                 … I’m a fool for you.

  Lyrics spill out, filled with angst and accidental love, unrequited. Our songs always lean more toward a punk or pop-rock sound, but this one has a classic-rock vibe to it. It would be rad with my drums and more guitars backing it up. By the time the last bars ring out, I’ve fallen head over heels in love with it.

  “Well?” Ryan asks when he’s done.

  Alfie punches his fists into the air. “Yes! You killed it!”

  Ryan smiles. “Thanks, man.”

  “Ryan,” Chloe says. “Wow. Just wow. It’s amazing on, like, another level.”

  Alfie turns to me. “Em? Thoughts?”

  I cannot wipe the smile from my face. “I fucking love it. I think it’s your best work yet!”

  He laughs, but his gaze drops to the carpet. “Thanks, Em.”

  “Seriously,” I say, standing up to give him a hug. “So many people will connect with those lyrics. They’ll wish it was written about them.”

  “You think so?”

  “Hell yeah! I wish it was written about me.”

  He laughs as he puts the guitar back on the stand.

  “You know what,” Alfie says, stroking his chin like he has a beard, “it would sound wild as a rock song, with Emmy as the lead.”

  I do a double take. “Wait, what? You want me to lead?”

  Ryan nods. “Yeah, that’s actually what I had in mind for it.”

  I twist my fingers in my lap. “But the studio will never go for it. I’ve already tried.”

  “Don’t worry about them,” Alfie says, waving it off. “I’ll handle it.”

  “Oh my god, Em,” Chloe squeals. “Do it!”

  My heart races. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. But I’ve already messed up so much. The band is hanging by a thread because of me. Stepping in as the lead on this song would just be one more thing to screw up. And Alfie would have to vouch for me to the studio, adding even more pressure. I can’t let him down. I can’t let any of them down. Not again.

  I avoid their expectant gazes and shake my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I need to fix my mess first.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Emmy,

  Mr. Tucker and his colleagues have asked to meet with us to discuss recent events. I’m adding it to your calendar now. Nine a.m. tomorrow (Monday) at the record label.

  Do not be late,

  Sal

  Ugh. Recent events. Obviously that’s code for the Mess Emmy Has Made. Time to face the music.

  It’s my first time out in public since the Night That Shall Not Be Named, so I want to look better than I feel. I spend hours getting ready with my stylist, Zach, who chooses a smart white blouse, dark gray suit jacket, and matching pants. We tone down my makeup, keeping it simple with brown lipstick and matching eyeliner. Zach sweeps my hair over to one side and spritzes a dash of perfume on my wrists and neck.

  Chloe offered to come with me to the meeting as moral support. They have been famous a lot longer than I have, amassing millions of subscribers on YouTube before striking it big as a solo artist. After all the years they’ve been hounded by the media, they’re less shaken by the constant paparazzi presence than I am.

  By the time Chloe arrives at seven a.m., I’m shivering with nerves.

  “How are you feeling?” they ask as their driver turns onto the 405.

  “Awesome,” I say with a sarcastic laugh. “You?”

  “Fine,” they say, pushing their sunglasses up into their hair. “Freaking out about you, though.”

  Shame washes over me, and I have to look away. I open the camera on my phone and check my makeup. Even with all the concealer Zach piled on, the purple and black under my eyes is still slightly visible in the right light. Luckily, the swelling in my nose has gone down. As long as I don’t sneeze, I shouldn’t be in too much pain.

  “Chloe,” I say softly. I take in a breath, letting it fill my lungs slowly. Gotta hold it together.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m low-key panicking right now.”

  “I know you are,” they say. “But you’ve got this, Em. Just remember to own up to your mistakes and don’t make excuses. They need to know that you know you fucked up.”

  I sigh. “Believe me, I know.”

  “Then you’ll be fine.” They reach over and pat me on the hand. “Just suck it up, apologize, and tell them it’ll never happen again. And then the real work starts: proving to yourself and the world that you’re better than your worst day.”

  Chloe’s right. I’ve got a lot of work to do if I’m going to come back from this, but plenty of people have come back from much worse before me. I rotate my shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension.

  Then a thought occurs to me, and it almost stops my heart.

  “Do you think they’re going to kick me out of the band?”

  Chloe’s jaw drops. “Emmy, no! Are you serious?”

  I shrug.

  “Em,” they say, shaking their head, “they’d never kick you out. First of all, you are the heart of the Brightsiders. Alfie’s the hot lead, Ryan’s the prankster, and you are the badass bitch with a heart of pure gold. Secondly, Alfie and Ryan would never let that happen. It doesn’t matter what you did—they would go on strike if you got kicked out. Thirdly, the fans would literally riot if you left. They adore you. There’s no band without you.”

  I take in a deep breath. “Thanks, Chlo. Really.”

  C
hloe takes my hand and squeezes it. “Anytime, babe.”

  When we pull up to the building, photographers and TV cameras are waiting. Chloe untwists the lid of their plum-brown lipstick and slides it over their bottom lip. I must have seen them wear it a hundred times, but it always looks amazing. It complements their brown skin perfectly. One of the many things we have in common is that we both wear makeup like knights wore suits of armor. I hope mine protects me from the arrows coming my way today.

  The driver steps out of the car first, doubling as our bodyguard. Paparazzi rap their knuckles on the window. TMZ, Entertainment Now, and a host of other celeb gossip reporters are here, their lenses pointed right at me.

  “Oh, God,” I groan.

  “Neutral,” Chloe says. I nod.

  I dab a fresh layer of powder over my nose, ease my sunglasses over my eyes, and step out of the car. I keep my head down as our bodyguard pushes through the crowd. I don’t cry. I don’t smile. Not even when the barrage of questions start.

  “How are you today, Emmy?”

  “Hey, Chloe! Are you on babysitting duty today?”

  “Have you been drinking this morning, Em?”

  “Where’s Jessie this morning?”

  “Are you an alcoholic, Emmy?”

  “Emmy! How does it feel to hit rock bottom?”

  Security ushers us into the foyer and we hurry to the elevators, desperate to get out of sight.

  “You’ve got this,” Chloe says when we reach the top floor.

  * * *

  “You dodged a bullet the size of Air Force One, I hope you know that.”

  The executive at the head of the table glares at me from across the conference room. His name is Mr. Tucker, and he is a Dick with a capital D, emphasis on the ick. I’ve only met him twice, but both times he referred to me as “sweet cakes” and winked at me. It’s like he binge-watched Mad Men until it melted his brain into a pile of sexist fuckboy goo. He’s also the Big Boss at our studio, so what he says goes.

  Alfie, Ryan, Sal, and I sit at the end of the long table. Our whole management and PR team is squished into this room to hear me state my case. I’ve never felt more intimidated in my life.

  “I know,” I say. I reach my hand up to remove my sunglasses, but then decide against it. I don’t want them to see what I did to my face.

  “I’m serious,” Tucker says, leaning forward over the table. “In less than a week, you’ll be eighteen. Time to grow up.” He looks at Sal. “Did you tell her about the club?”

  Sal sighs and turns to me. “The nightclub has been fined for serving alcohol to minors. They also banned you from going back there until you’re twenty-one.”

  That’s fair. They must have been fined for Jessie and Ry drinking, too. I know Alfie didn’t drink because he never touches anything with alcohol in it.

  I nod. “I won’t be going clubbing again for a long time, anyway. Trust me.”

  Tucker smirks. “This isn’t about trust, honey. It’s about the reputation you’ve built for yourself. One that we don’t feel fits with the Brightsiders brand. The majority of your fans are teenage girls, and they worship you.” He points a finger at me. “More importantly, their parents shell out hard-earned cash to buy your music and merchandise and concert tickets. Do you think they’ll keep doing that if they think their kid’s hero is a drunk skank?”

  I suck in a sharp breath. Don’t cry, Em. Don’t. You. Dare. Cry.

  Alfie and Ryan speak up in my defense.

  “There’s no need for that,” Alfie says, glaring at him.

  “Yeah,” Ryan adds, “give her a break.”

  Tucker shoots them an icy glare. “We’ve given her plenty of breaks, believe me.” He starts counting on his fingers. “First there was that restaurant screaming match she had with her parents after the album dropped. Then there was the time she flashed her tits at everyone at LA Pride. And the time she pulled an all-nighter before the concert in London and almost missed the show.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and scowl down the table at him. For the record, the fight with my parents wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t seen them in months because the Brightsiders were touring the country and promoting our debut album, so when they asked me to have dinner with them at a beautiful, fancy restaurant in LA—something we had never done before—I was excited. I thought they wanted to celebrate the album release, and maybe apologize for all the times they told me I was a worthless piece of shit. But instead, all they wanted was to tell me my success wouldn’t last, drink three bottles of expensive wine, and make me pay the bill. Then they asked for money. I started renting my apartment in the hotel the next day just to avoid having to go home.

  As for flashing my breasts at Pride, that was a form of protest after a morning show host criticized me for not “acting like a lady.” I stand by that.

  But I can’t argue with him about the thing in London. That’s solely on me and my inability to say no to Jessie when she wants to party.

  I don’t say any of that to them, though. Arguing will only make this a thousand times worse, and they don’t care about why I do anything, they just care about how it looks to the rest of the world. It’s all about the “optics” to them. Besides, I’m not here to talk, I’m here to suck it up and listen. I take a deep breath. This is one of those moments where I have to choose between my dignity and my job. Do I tell Tucker he’s a condescending, money-hungry jerk and risk my dream career, or keep my mouth shut and keep rocking out? I choose door number two, and make a mental note to fantasize about all the things I want to say later.

  “Listen,” Tucker says. “You’ve been begging us for months to let you sing lead in some songs. You want that to happen? You gotta be smart. You gotta show up and do the work.”

  “Okay,” I say, holding my hands up. “Please stop. I know I’ve messed up. I’ve made one mistake after another, and I’m really, truly sorry. I’m going to fix it. All of it.”

  “Look,” the exec closest to me says, “we just want to make sure you’re okay. We need you to be at your best so the Brightsiders can be at their best. If you need anything—anything at all—tell us. You want to see a therapist? Go to rehab? Join a yoga retreat or start a juice cleanse? Whatever you need to do to feel better and be your best self, do it.”

  I resent the way he’s patronizing me, but I nod anyway. “I’ll straighten up. I’ll show up to all the press junkets, the studio sessions, the events you want. I’ll do the work. I promise.”

  Fucker—I mean Tucker—stares at his reflection in the window, checking his perfectly trimmed beard. “Awesome.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  On Friday afternoon, I’m in our dressing room, sitting at the mirror with a colorful assortment of makeup products in front of me. Zach, our stylist, is juggling three different tools in his hands as he transforms my hair from flat and faded to luscious and sparkling. I open up an eyeshadow palette the size of an iPad and scan it for the colors I need—pink, purple, and blue. Tonight, we’re holding a free show for attendees of a LGBTQIAP+ prom organized by a nonprofit, and I want to look like a walking Bisexual Pride flag.

  Our team is buzzing around the halls backstage, making last-minute changes and double checking everything from lighting to costume to our set list. This is our first show since what Sal has taken to calling “the Incident,” and I’m fucking terrified. Usually I love this part of performing: the hours and minutes leading up to a show, when the air is electric and the crew is frazzled, and I’m itching to get behind my drums. But tonight is different. I feel like I’m suffocating. I keep thinking of all the eyes that will be on me, watching every move I make. Not just in the crowd, but online—the show is being livestreamed on Facebook, and I don’t feel ready to be under that kind of scrutiny. I’m not strong enough yet, not prepared enough, not perfect enough. But we booked this show months ago, and I have to keep my promises. Plus, the hall will be filled wall-to-wall with queer teens. They are why I’m here. They are my people … even though th
ey don’t know I’m their people, too.

  My phone vibrates among the makeup brushes on the counter.

  JESSIE: good luck tonight gorgeous!

  EM: aww thanks love xo

  I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve sometimes wondered if Jessie just uses me for money and to get her name in print, but then she does something sweet like this and I realize she really does care. She just doesn’t always know how to show it. She wanted to come tonight, but our PR team thought it best that we don’t appear together in public for at least a couple more weeks. They’re worried that seeing us would only remind people of the accident. Jessie wanted to tag along anyway, but I gently reminded her that I’m already on thin ice with Tucker and the studio. I can’t do anything to piss them off. It would threaten my chances of ever singing lead.

  Ryan waves a hand in front of my face, snapping me out of my funk. “Are you pumped, Em?”

  His grin is contagious, and I smile at him in the mirror. “Pumped.”

  He claps his hands together and practically cartwheels out of the dressing room.

  Everyone in the band handles the lead-up to performances differently. Ryan becomes even more restless than usual, jumping around, doing flips, riding his skateboard through the halls. Alfie gets intensely quiet and disappears. I can never seem to find him until ten minutes before we go out.

  Me? I turn into a child who’s downed ten Red Bulls. I talk a mile a minute. I giggle even when nothing particularly funny is happening. I’m a nervous pee-er, so I run back and forth to the bathroom every few minutes. I check the time a lot, because the clock seems to tick irritatingly slow when we’re about to do a gig.

  But tonight, time is moving much too fast. I don’t want to go out there yet.

  Zach sweeps the dye brush over my roots, filling in any patches. “So,” he says, looking at me in the mirror, “we just wait for this to set, then rinse. Then do the glitter dip-dye thing up to here.” He holds a hand next to my ear. “Yeah?”

  “Awesome,” I say, grinning. Tonight we’re trying a style that makes it look like my hair has been dipped in cotton candy and glitter. I gave him my very technical instructions of “I want a rainbow-slash-glitter-slash-ombré look,” and being the trouper that he is, he’s pulling it off. I can’t wait to show everyone.