Pop Star

by Meredith Michelle

  A rough shaking wakes you what feels like minutes later. You try to rise, but your head feels like it’s trapped in a vise. You crack your eyes open, but shut them immediately when the light shoots a piercing pain directly through your brain.

  “Oh my God. Did she drink the whole bottle?” Sasha’s voice sounds genuinely concerned and you want to tell him you are okay, but your mouth feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton. The feeling is far and away worse than any hangover you’ve ever had.

  “I do not know,” Freddie’s voice disappears into the distance. “No, not even half. Maybe she’s sick?”

  “Honey, can you sit up?”

  Using all of your effort, you push yourself into a sitting position. The motion makes you feel like someone has struck you between the eyes with a ball-peen hammer. Your stomach lurches and you run unsteadily to the bathroom, where you are immediately and violently sick.

  Freddie rushes to your side and pulls your hair back from your neck. Sasha wets a washcloth and hands it to you.

  “Sorry,” you say, as you rise shakily to your feet. “I’m okay.” But you’re not, and you make it to the sofa just as your legs go out from under you. Freddie and Sasha catch you by the arms and exchange anxious looks.

  You lie back on the sofa and close your eyes. You can feel Freddie and Sasha hovering around you, but their voices fade into unintelligible mumbles as you drift off. What feels like moments later, you hear Freddie say, “He should be here in about ten minutes.”

  “Who should be here?” you mumble.

  “The doctor,” Freddie answers.

  “I don’t need a doctor,” you protest. “I’m fine.” You wave your hand, then place it on your forehead, which feels as though it is throbbing in painful, rhythmic waves.

  Time has taken on a soupy, liquid quality. You close your eyes for what feels like a second then are startled awake by a cold hand grasping your wrist. A gravelly voice echoes through the cottony scrim that seems to have descended over your ears. “Pulse is slightly weak,” the voice says. You force your eyes to open against the glaring light and see the doctor, orange-tanned, and leathery-skinned. “Honey, I’m Doctor Childs. Can you sit up?” he asks.

  “Mmmhmm,” you push yourself up slowly, careful not to recreate the typhoon in your stomach.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been better,” you manage to answer.

  He slips a plastic-sleeved thermometer between your lips. “Under your tongue,” he instructs.

  The little instrument beeps a few times. “Slight fever,” he pronounces. “Probably from dehydration.” He addresses Sasha and Freddie, who both continue to hover nervously. “I’ll get some fluids in her and I think you’ll see she’ll be good as new.”

  He rustles around in his bag and returns with a needle and an IV bag. “Boys, get her some pillows?”

  A moment later, two fluffy bed pillows are thrust behind your back and Freddie helps you recline—much more comfortably now—onto the sofa. The doctor takes your hand and extends your arm, cleaning it with an alcohol pad. “Little prick,” he says, making Sasha snort.

  “Something funny?” the doctor asks.

  “Nope,” Sasha says, extinguishing his grin, which makes you giggle.

  “Humor,” Doctor Childs observes drolly when you don’t even flinch, “the best anesthesia.”

  He extracts the needle and connects the catheter to the tube dangling from the fluids bag.

  “Just relax, now,” he instructs.

  Despite the odd sensation of the cool liquid running into your vein just under the skin of your arm, you soon find yourself dozing again. When you awaken, Freddie and Sasha sit nearby, Freddie by your feet and Sasha perched on the adjacent chair.

  You blink your eyes and are relieved that the light filtering between your eyelids is no longer as painful. “How are you feeling?” Freddie asks.

  “So much better,” you answer. The throbbing in your head has disappeared and your stomach has steadied.

  The doctor strolls over and removes the empty IV bag, then hangs a new bag, full of liquid. “Just for good measure,” he explains.

  “What is in that?” you ask, amazed that it had such an immediate effect.

  “Just fluids,” he deftly hooks the new bag to your IV line.

  An hour later, two full IV bags in your system, you feel like yourself again.

  * * *

  Sitting in the hair-and-makeup chair before the show that night, exhaustion hits you like a ton of bricks. You have no choice but to pop an energy pill before you take the stage. You know you’ll need another one of Freddie’s pills at bedtime, but this time you’ll know better than to mix it with alcohol.

  Freddie and Sasha continue to check on you every few hours for the next day, which you find extremely aggravating. “I’m fine,” you tell them. “It was probably just a twenty-four-hour bug.”

  Your final morning in New York and you’re packed and ready to go. You feel full of creative energy and look forward to the uninterrupted hours on the bus to finally write out all of the lyrics and music that is in your head.

  Freddie joins you on the five-hour drive to D.C. Between manic scribbling in your notebook, you remove your headphones to chat with Freddie and Sasha.

  “One thing I want to do in D.C. is go see the cherry blossoms,” you tell them. “We’re arriving right in time for them to be at peak bloom. Who’s going with me?”

  Freddie and Sasha glance nervously at each other.

  “What?” you ask them.

  “I’ll go,” Sasha says. “We can be tourists for a day. It’ll be fun.”

  “What about you?” you ask Freddie.

  He gazes out the window, apparently deep in thought.

  “Ah, Honey,” he says, a wistful smile on his face. “Springtime is a young person’s season.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” you ask.

  “Let’s get settled in and make plans after that,” is his non-answer.

  “Okay . . .” You put your headphones back on and resume writing.

  The D.C. hotel suite is three times the size of your NYC digs and has a beautiful view of the Potomac. Airplanes descend low over the water, and the trees on the far bank are just beginning to show signs of life. The hopeful energy of spring is all around you.

  Freddie comes up behind you as you gaze out the picture window. He wraps his arms around you from behind and kisses the top of your head. After a long moment he says, “Honey, we need to talk.”

  You feel your stomach drop when you see the grave expression on his handsome face. “About what?” Then you notice Sasha standing in the doorway, hands folded patiently. “What’s up, Sasha?”

  “He means we both need to talk with you,” he explains.

  “Okay.” You walk out into the living room, and take a seat in a wingback chair. You fold your arms across your chest. “So, let’s talk.”

  Freddie sits beside Sasha on a loveseat separated from you by a huge, oriental rug. “Honey, please know this isn’t easy,” he says, running his hands nervously up and down his legs as he speaks.

  “And we are doing this because we care about you,” Sasha adds.

  You wait, mystified.

  Freddie looks at Sasha, who gives him a little nod.

  “Honey, we know it was not the stomach flu that made you so sick in New York.”

  “Really?” you ask, immediately aggravated. “What was it then, doctor?”

  “We would be happy to call the doctor, if you really don’t remember,” Sasha looks at you coolly.

  “It cannot come as such a surprise, Honey,” Freddie says. “That mixing chemicals with alcohol would be dangerous.”

  “Chemicals?” But you know what he is probably referring to, and you feel your heart start to beat triple-time.

  “How long have you been stealing Freddie’s pills?” Sasha asks, his mouth pursed in a thin line.

  “Sasha,” Freddie looks at him in alarm. “Don’t. Thi
s isn’t what we—”

  “No, it’s okay”—you look from one of them to the other—“you can go off-script. I wasn’t stealing your pills, Freddie. You gave them to me.”

  “I gave you one, Honey,” Freddie gently corrects you. “Now the bottle is almost empty.”

  “Well, I’m so sorry,” you lash out. “I work my ass off, if you didn’t notice, and I need to be able to sleep. You have no idea what it’s like coming off the stage pumped full of energy and trying to unwind night after night. And then to have to try to function after a sleepless night, and to have to do it over and over and over again, day in and day out. With thousands of people coming to see you, expecting you to be perfect, and hundreds of people relying on you for their paychecks. Stressful does not even come close to describing it.”

  “We realize how hard you work, Honey, believe me.” Freddie rises and walks toward your chair. “But you are right, I will never completely understand how it feels. I’m sorry you have been so stressed. And I’m sorry I ever gave you that first pill. In many ways, this is my fault.”

  “It’s no one’s fault,” you say quietly. You feel tears beginning to spring to your eyes. You quickly blink them away.

  Sasha sits perfectly still. You can feel the anger coming off of him in waves.

  “What are you so livid about?” you ask him through the tears now streaming down your face.

  He cocks his head and looks at you. “I just thought I knew you better than this, I guess.”

  “Look”—Freddie moves to stand between you and Sasha—“when something like this happens people have all kinds of reactions, fear, sadness, anger sometimes. It is all completely normal. The important thing is that we are here for you, Honey”—he pauses to look at Sasha—“both of us. And we are going to help you get through this.”

  Sasha’s expression remains unchanged. The hard set of his jaw and the coldness in his eyes hurts more than any words he could say.

  You rise to leave the room, feeling a mix of a thousand emotions. “I don’t need your help, guys, but thanks. Really. Your concern is touching.”

  “Well, you’re getting help, whether you like it or not.” Sasha rises from the loveseat and stands, arms folded, between you and the bedroom door.

  You push past him and close the door in his face. You grab your sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a light jacket and rush out of the suite, moving too quickly for Sasha or Freddie to stop you.

  “Honey, Honey!” You hear Freddie yell behind you, but you take the stairs and are out into the city before he can catch you.

  You’ve been to D.C. enough times to know that the nearest Metro stop will lead you downtown. You join the hurried crowd pushing its way through the automated stiles and board a train for the short trip to the Smithsonian Station. You emerge into the sunlight and make a beeline for the Tidal Basin.

  Throngs of tourists crowd the pathway along the Basin. Cotton-candy pink trees laden with blossoms line the Basin and reflect their mirror-images in the water’s still surface. The fragile petals are just beginning to release their grip on the reedy branches and snow lightly down upon you as walk the path beneath them. You find a spot under a tree, look up between its branches at the light blue sky, and feel a sense of peace descend upon you as realize what you have to do.

  To accept Freddie and Sasha’s help, turn to page 166.

  To call Freddie and Sasha and tell them you don’t need

  their help, keep reading.

  You pull your phone from your pocket. You’ve missed five calls from Sasha and three from Freddie. You close your eyes and turn your face to the sun as you tap Sasha’s number. He picks up on the first ring.

  “Henrietta, where are you?” He sounds angry, but you couldn’t care less.

  An odd sense of slowly warping time overtakes you as you speak the next words, “Sasha, you’re fired.”

  “I don’t know what you are trying to do, Henrietta, but whatever it is, it is not at all amusing.” Sasha spits out the words rapid-fire.

  When he finishes, you let a few moments of silence spin out between you before speaking. “Did I not make myself clear? You. Are. Fired.”

  Sasha laughs incredulously. “You cannot be serious.”

  “I am serious as a heart attack,” you answer coldly. “I want you and Freddie out when I get back to the hotel. Take your time. I’ll be gone for a few hours.”

  “Henry,” Sasha pleads, “come back to the room. Let’s talk about this.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Henry,” Sasha’s voice is low, choked.

  You feel a sense of perfect calm as you move the phone away from your ear and gaze at the display for a long second. Hitting End feels satisfying, like hurling a glass against a wall and watching it shatter, the tiny shards raining down into a million pieces.

  The next steps suddenly lay themselves out before you in a clearly visible path. You make another call, this time to one of the most recognized and high-powered talent managers in the business. “May I please speak to Colton Powers? This is Honey Noble.”

  Powers agrees to fly in to meet with you immediately. He is more than happy to offer you representation, He promises to help you get out of your existing contract and to keep the tour running as scheduled. “You just worry about what you do best, and let me do what I do best. The legal stuff, piece of cake.”

  It turns out that Powers and Dr. Childs, the same doctor who treated you in New York, have a long-standing relationship. When you explain that part of the reason you want to make a change is that your previous team had you running ragged and you haven’t had solid sleep in months, he calls Childs in to help. “I’ve seen it a million times,” Powers tells you. “Classic performer’s anxiety. Completely normal and completely manageable. Dr. Childs is a miracle worker, you’ll see.”

  * * *

  At first Sasha attempts to contact you daily, and you are riddled with guilt about the way you ended things. You tell Dr. Childs about your feelings and he brings in a renowned therapist who guides you through what he describes as a perfectly natural period of mourning. When you have trouble sleeping at night, thinking about the sound of Sasha’s voice as you ended that last call with him, or you wake up in a cold sweat sure that Freddie is beside you only to find an empty bed, Dr. Childs is right there with an IV of some sort of soothing medicine that helps you fall into a solid, dreamless sleep. Every morning, Dr. Childs administers a “holistic” concoction of antioxidants, herbs, and hydration that keeps you bright-eyed and full of energy all day. Sasha eventually stops calling.

  True to form, Freddie sends you a handwritten letter; its tone is tender and respectful. “When the time is right, I hope you will allow me back into your life,” the letter concludes. “For my part in what’s happened, I can only say how very sorry I am. I hope you never forget how very deeply I care about you.” You fold the letter into a tiny square and fold it between the pages of one of your used notebooks.

  Four months later, you feel better than you have since before New York. You’ve kicked both the sleeping pill and the energy pill habits and you feel like a new person. You’ve hired a new driver who respects your privacy, never pries into your personal affairs, and lets you write and rest on your drives from stop to stop. The media celebrates your revamped tour look, oblivious to the behind-the-scenes drama and personal toll it took to get you here. Powers has done a fantastic job of smoothing over the rough edges and spinning the story in the right direction, and he keeps your schedule so full that it’s easy not to think about your past—or anything else, really.

  Your career grows even hotter, and you release platinum album after platinum album. You sell your house in Hollywood, opting instead for the carefree luxury of hotel living when you are on tour, which is most of the time. When you have a rare week or two off, you rent villas in Europe or on a Caribbean island. You lose track of how much money you have, and instead quantify your success by how many sold-out tours you have under your b
elt and how many platinum albums you have to your name.

  Serge, the backup dancer you had a mini-crush on when he first started on the tour, has become dance captain and your backup romance. He’s more than happy to be seen on your arm at industry events, eager and energetic in bed, and just as content to give you your space when you need it. The tabloids have a field day speculating about the nature of your relationship, so he’s useful in keeping you relevant, too. Things really have worked out pretty well, when you stop to think about it.

  Following your eighth world tour and ninth album, you are stunned and honored to be nominated for a lifetime achievement award. The day before the Grammys, you attend a pre-show party filled with celebrities, music icons, and industry heavyweights. You do your best to socialize, but you’re feeling a little off, and you want to escape the event and head home as soon as you can tactfully make an exit. You pull out your phone to text Dr. Childs.

  Going to need a little something extra when I get home. Headed out shortly.

  Maxx Swagger intercepts you as you begin to make your way to the door. He’s as tall and wiry as you remember and doesn’t appear to have aged a day. His leathery skin pulls back into a wide grin as he drapes his long arm around your shoulders.

  “Honey Noble,” he croons, his accent exaggeratedly rounding the “O’s” in your name. “This is a blast from the past, isn’t it?”

  “Maxx.” You smile up at him. “It has been too long.”

  “How’ve you been?” He takes a step back, extracts a shiny silver flask from his jacket pocket, and takes a long draw. “Well, I hear. Career’s en feugo and all that jazz.”

  “Thanks.” You laugh. “I can’t complain. I’ve been lucky.”

  “Ah, we make our own luck, don’t we, love?” He winks.

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “I could say a lot of things. But I want to hear what you have to say.” He pauses to take another swig from his flask. “Specifically, about what happened with Freddie.”