Page 26 of Backstage

His answer makes me pull my phone out of my pocket, and I almost have a heart attack seeing my Instagram account notifications. “Holy cow,” I whisper in disbelief.

Damian gives me an inquisitive look.

“Yesterday, I had about thirty thousand followers, now it’s one hundred sixty thousand, and it keeps going up every time I reload the page.”

He looks at me, puzzled. “And isn’t that normal?” He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know, one of Evan’s secretaries or interns runs my account, so...”

“No, it’s not normal. It takes people months of work, eight hours a day, to achieve those results. My pictures also have hundreds of likes and comments, which never happens.” I look more closely at the screen. “Some of them are really bad.”

“What do they say?” He leans towards me, invading my personal space with his bulky presence and his masculine scent, making me want to rip his clothes off.

“That I’m a bitch whore, that I finally found a cock full of money to launch my career...”

The vulgarity of some of the comments leaves me speechless. Jenna’s photo may have triggered the wrong assumption, but it seems like an exaggerated reaction given that everyone in the room last night can confirm there was no kiss.

I google my name. The first search result is a video clip of last night’s concert; a few seconds, nothing more. In another, a TMZ headline reads: “New flame for the man who hates commitment?” and below that an article in which “witnesses,” or people who followed Jenna’s live Instagram during the concert, confirm we were very intimate, that the sexual tension was palpable and that someone saw us making out off stage with “tongue and hands everywhere.”

“Holy cow,” I whisper, as I look up at an entertained Joe and an angry Damian reading what they wrote.

He gets up and leaves his breakfast halfway through to grab his phone and start yelling at Evan.

“He cares about his privacy,” Joe says, laughing as I swoop over my breakfast and try to figure out how to interpret this information from the Internet.

I try to forget the nasty comments underneath my photos, even though once I read them, they’re branded in my brain, and I feel like crying. I’ll ask Luke to delete them, or I’ll block them, even though I know I’ll get criticized for it. I want to enjoy my music, the stage, an experience I’ve never had in my life. Those comments are trying to ruin what’s rightfully mine to enjoy.

*

We’re headed to the rehearsal studio after what feels like an endless tour of Manhattan clubs, grateful that Evan finally gave us the green light to rehearse for the arena tour. Damian is in a bad mood and doesn’t say a word, but luckily, Max, the driver, is more inclined to have a decent conversation. Once in the building, a girl sent by Evan comes to pick me up; I notice Damian disappearing without opening his mouth, and I can’t help but roll my eyes at his lack of patience.

“So? Have you fucked him yet?” Martin immediately asks me with a smile as soon as I set foot in the decked-out rehearsal room that makes the one we had in Brooklyn pale in comparison.

“Good morning to you too, Martin. I’m fine, thank you. And you? Have you slept well?” I’m just teasing him, given his proverbial lack of tenderness.

Everyone laughs as I sit on the couch next to Luke. The rehearsal room they’ve provided looks more like a relaxation corner with gear than a real studio. There are white, faux leather sofas on two walls, a small table with snacks, all kinds of drinks, a coffee machine in one corner, and on the other side of the glass the instruments; not ours, but the ones that have been made available to us. When we won this contest, I knew they would treat us with white gloves. After all, we are their investment as a band for the next few years, but I had no idea the extent of the advantages we would have. We’re talking about full VIP treatment here—thousands of dollars worth of guitars, drums, and basses that we could never buy for ourselves.

Taylor was given a brand new Gretsch, and, as a massive fan of Charlie Watts of The Rolling Stones, he almost fainted at the natural shade of the maple it was made of. Martin finally got his hands on the Fender Stratocaster with its 1960s design, metallic ice blue, which he had dreamed of all his life. When he discovered it was a one-of-a-kind piece, custom made for him, with the shape of the handle asymmetrically rounded to accommodate his crooked thumb from a fall as a child, he literally jumped into Evan’s arms. Luke also had his 1960s Gibson Les Paul, which he had drooled over for months in the window of Manhattan’s Chelsea Guitars.

Evan, however, did a fantastic job on my instrument. Typically, it’s hard to find a six-string bass with a neck small enough to accommodate a woman’s hands. So, Evan went to Ibanez and had them make a custom-shaped model, completely black, opaque, with the grain of the walnut and maple wood beautifully visible. I cried when I first held it in my hands.

I’m pulled from my admiration of our new gear by Martin’s insistent retort: “Don’t get all holier-than-thou. You can see on the video that you’re fucking him with your eyes...and he’s got a hard-on. Damn it, I was too sideways to see what the hell you were doing, but the front view from Instagram is very explicit.”

“No, I wasn’t fucking him with my eyes or in any other way. I was terrified, with Jenna staring at me,” I say. “By the way, I managed to do the interview without throwing up on her, can you believe it?” I squeak excitedly, turning to Luke, who is laughing and hugging me. “And Damian didn’t have an erection,” I throw back at Martin, who keeps talking about what was in my male counterpart’s pants. Everybody’s laughing, and I’m lost.

“Oh, no? Then explain to me what this is,” says Taylor pulling out his phone with an enlarged picture of the singer’s crotch.

I look at it and admit that it might actually look like a boner from this perspective. “But it’s the effect of the lights.” I minimize the situation by getting up and going to put my bass over my shoulder, eager to change the subject.

“Yes, of course, the lights. I wish I had those magnifying lights when I’m in bed with a girl.” Taylor makes us all burst out laughing, and I sigh with relief because I can feel my cheeks flushing. My interrogation ends when we all grab our instruments.

The rehearsal goes on until late afternoon with a lunch break in the middle where we join the Jailbirds, and everyone, no one excluded, gives Damian a hard time for his equipment. At first, I thought he would nail them to the wall with a punch, but I soon realize he has a completely different temperament than the morning. Guessing his mood swings and state of mind gives me a headache, but Evan seems to handle it better than the others, except for Thomas, who, from what I understand, is his best friend.

“Would you like to taste the life of a rock star?” Damian asks as we enter the rehearsal room while we’re putting the instruments away, completely exhausted from the busy day.

We all look confused, but it sends a spark of excitement through us. For years we’ve dreamed of becoming a worldwide success and we still don’t realize that it’s really happening.

“What is it?” I ask, since the others seem to have lost their tongues.

“An exclusive party at one of Manhattan’s most fashionable rooftops,” he says, expecting a delirious reaction, which there is from my bandmates, who accept immediately.

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