Page 20 of Selling Out
Thereisn’ttime to see the city the next day. There are press interviews—watching Austin at those is something else, I tell ya—more rehearsing, moving our stuff from the hotel to the tour bus, and final costume fittings.
Dinner is catered to the venue, where we all eat early enough that our stomachs won’t be full of Czech food when we go on stage.
The opening act is an unknown-to-me but apparently well-known-in-Europe artist named Fireflight. I try not to let the sound of the cheering crowd trigger my nerves. Kelly and Rose are immune to it, and they keep a constant flow of chatter about everything and nothing that’s oddly settling to my nerves, like we’re just hanging out on a random Thursday night with takeout instead of preparing to go on stage in front of a couple thousand people.
So far, my hiccups haven’t made an appearance. Part of mewonders if the move Austin pulled yesterday jammed my diaphragm for good. Maybe I’m permanently hiccup-free.
All it cost me was a continuous, all-night flow of dreams about him. Not sure whether I came out ahead on that whole trade.
Eventually, the time comes for wardrobe and makeup. They put the finishing touches on my makeup, and I get up and head to the costume rack. Victor is handing Rose her costume. He glances at me after, and his lips pinch together. He’ll never forgive me for asking for a pantsuit. I’ve insulted his life’s work. It doesn’t escape me that Victor brought the dress I was supposed to wear—probably to shame me into feeling bad. Well, it’s working a little.
He pushes the pantsuit into my hands and turns away before I can squeak out a “thank you.”
I sigh and look at the hanger. Rose and Kelly will both be wearing dresses, so I’ll be the odd one out. The diva who wouldn’t take one for the team.
I bite the inside of my lip, look where Victor is, then grab the hanger with my dress on it. Maybe I’ve blown things out of proportion. It can’t hurt to try it on.
I sneak behind a couple stacks of boxes on one side of the room and rearrange them into a makeshift dressing room. Once I’m in my underwear, I grab the hanger with the dress and hold it up.
“Here we go,” I say.
I own some dresses at home—nice, flowy ones that allow for healthy ventilation. I can pull those over my head.
Not this one. I step into it and pull it up, wriggling to get it over my hips and butt. I slip my arms through the holes and shrug it over my torso and chest.
Hey, that’s not too bad.
That’s when I remember it has a zipper. I reach behind meand fiddle with it, trying to channel my inner contortionist to zip it to the top, but my face is the main thing contorting.
Whew! Got it.
It’s much tighter now, that’s for sure.
I run my hands over the rough sequins, sparkling and catching the light like a freshly cleaned princess cut diamond. The lighting isn’t great in here, so I can only imagine how it’ll look with the stage lights on.
I grab my phone from the pile of discarded clothes and turn on the selfie camera, holding it out to try to get an idea of how I look.
I stare at the screen, trying to recognize myself in the image there. It’s so much more makeup than I ever wear, and this dress…
I suppress a smile. I actually look… good. I look like a performer, and that’s what I have to be tonight. Beyoncé has her alter ego, Sasha Fierce, for when she performs. Maybe that’s what I need too. And maybe this dress is the ticket.
I bend to pick up my clothes, but my dress stops me. It has opinions about what things I’m allowed to do, and casual bending is not on the list. It takes some maneuvering, but I manage to pick up the clothes and fold them. Grabbing the hanger with the pantsuit, I take in a deep breath and step out from behind the boxes, jostling a couple in the process.
Kelly turns at the sound, then freezes. Her jaw slips open, and my cheeks fill with heat. Eyes still on me, she reaches blindly for Rose, who’s got a monologue going as she surveys her makeup.
“…I don’t think this shade of lipstick quite goes with—what?” She reluctantly turns to Kelly, then follows her gaze to me. Her brows inch up. “Okaaay.”
I shift uncomfortably. “I should wear the pantsuit.” I turn toward my cardboard box shelter, but hands on both my arms stop me.
Kelly pulls the pantsuit hanger from my grasp and runs away, which looks completely ridiculous since she can barely move her legs in the tight dress.
“You arenottaking that dress off,” Rose says, pulling me away from the boxes and toward the mirror.
I pull in a shaky breath as she smiles over my shoulder at our reflection. Those hiccups should appear any second now. Or maybe this dress is too tight to allow for spasms of the diaphragm. That’s something, right?
Having safely hidden the pantsuit, Kelly takes her quick baby steps to us, coming on the other side of me.
“Victor!” Rose calls.
