The crowd extends out in an expansive sphere around me, distant sparkling specks who’ve paid dearly to admire me. They’re shimmering pebbles with their flashing cameras and glowing phones while they jump and scream in excitement. My brain shuts off as my body launches into autopilot, contorting and rocking in flawless synchronization with the music its rehearsed dozens of times. I forget the crowd, the scrape of the abrasive fabric on my skin, caught up in the routine of another night, another ocean of strangers who will pretend to love me from afar–as long as I reinforce what they want to believe. Tonight, I do.
“
Heavy beats on the dance floor
Can’t hear your blah-blah-blah
Over all the oh-la-la
I’ll be dancing the low beat, the high heat
Grinding that sick riff with these hips you don’t own anymore
No more
thump thump
of your cold heart
Just the
bum bum
of the kick drum
You won’t like what Imma bout to start
Best grab that drink and find the door
‘Cuz this mess is yours, baby
Hope you know
It’s your show
I’m not the girl you left, so
Can’t blame me
You’ve made me boy crazy
Cray-ay-ay-eh-eh-zee
Cray-ay-ay-eh-eh-zee
”
I navigate the stage effortlessly, ducking around dancers or joining them when I need to, soaking in the lights or avoiding their glare. I know when to smile, when to look confident, when to be touched and overcome with emotion. I know how to utilize every inch of the stage to reach as many members of the audience as possible and draw them into my fantasy. Make them believe in every magical moment that has been rehearsed until it looks natural and unplanned. Yes, I sell my soul to make thirty-thousand new friends. Like last night and the night before and the night before. I become what they want because I can be anything for two hours.
And at the end of the night, when those thirty-thousand friends return to strangers, I will still be Genevieve Fox, alone, unknown, preparing to seduce thirty-thousand more.
“Great job tonight!”
“That was amazing!
“You were stunning!”
“You had something extra on ‘Horizontal.’ So good!”
I offer a smile and thanks to all the well-wishers as I suck on a water bottle and launch through the underbelly of the stadium. With security clearing the way, we keep a good pace toward the sanctuary of my dressing rooms. Tonight went great, hardly a hitch except for a two-second delay on the trigger for “Barely There.” I’m sure no one noticed except me and the crew, but there will still be a meeting on that before tomorrow’s show. That brief pause will be treated like a global crisis, requiring a task force and urgent investigation. My performance was flawless, however, and I left the stage as a goddess, revered by thousands of new followers. I should be on a high, and yet, as I crash into my dressing room, those thirty-thousand friends are already forgotten in favor of one who wasn’t even here—the one person who won’t accept my sacred status.
I stare at the empty couch against the wall, wondering what it’d be like to find him here after a show, waiting to soothe the near panic that’s been simmering lately after the adrenaline rush wears off. Just one smile. That’s all it would take. One glimpse of that dimple in his cheek and the light in his eyes, and I’d be able to breathe again.
But he’s not here. I’m alone. Stranded on my gilded island that’s been steadily shrinking for weeks.
I grip the back of a chair in front of the wall of mirrors, trying to catch my breath. There’s no hope of that with the sticky reflection of a mannequin staring at me, so I quickly turn to lean my back against the stool instead. Crap, the other wall is mirrors too, and I clench my eyes shut, fighting the urge to smash them with my water bottle.
I have to get myself together. My mom is probably already on her way here to the dressing room, and I’m in no state to handle her right now. I’m lucky she wasn’t the one waiting on the couch.
It’s just a mirror. What is wrong with you? You’ve done this hundreds and hundreds of times. They love you. Everyone loves you.
But they don’t. They don’t even know me. Where’s Hadley with my phone? I need my phone!
Breathe. You’re okay.
I count in my head, quickly at first, then intentionally slowing the pace to time each inhale and exhale. My therapist’s voice filters into my head. I visualize her calm expression as she explains anxiety and the many weapons at my disposal to battle it. I am in control.
I am in control.
I am in control.
Hadley’s signature knock brings a wave of relief, and I let it settle over me. Still balanced against the chair with my eyes closed, I force in more steady breaths.
“Gen? You okay? What is it?”
“Fine.” I release a long exhale to match the inhale.
I am in control.
“Here, drink this.” She hands me a custom tea blend designed to soothe my vocal cords and frayed nerves. I’m drinking it more often now, lately multiple cups when one is no longer enough to calm the storm. This isn’t my first bout with anxiety after a performance, and it’s been getting harder and harder to stave off the panic that always seems to buzz just below my breaking point. But I can’t break. I won’t. I am in control.
When I finally brave a look at Hadley, I don’t like the concern on her face. It means I’m not doing a good job with my mask anymore. She always reads me better than anyone, but usually it’s because I want to show her more than the others, not because I can’t hide it. A rush of panic surges through me at the terrifying thought that maybe I’m
