Today, it’s annoying as fuck.
Because you’re thinking of him.
Marcello.
Rain says her prayer, “Lord, bless this music so that it may spread love. Use our talent to serve You. May Your presence be found in each word and note, to reach hearts of the people, and draw them closer to You. Let Your spirit guide our instruments for peace and Your purpose. Amen.”
My eyes lock with Zoey’s as I wait for her to react, because she always does. But, right now, she’s looking at me with an odd mix of concerned annoyance etched across her face.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re up, Mae,” Tricks says before she can answer.
Mae skips onto the stage in her hot pink attire as the lights begin to rise and the instrumental arrangement continues. Rain is next, wearing a pale pink.
“You better bump up, Tris,” Zoey says as she rubs her finger under her nose. “You look half-asleep.”
“Get out there, Zoey.” Tricks nods toward the stage as he hands me a headset mic.
After slipping it on, I adjust the mic, holding it to my mouth, and start the show the same way I have the other four shows that we have done by asking the question, “Are you ready to play?”
The noise level of the crowd crescendos as I begin the walk from the wing toward the stage.
“Kick ass, kiddo.” Memphis grins as I walk past him, hoping to absorb not only his energy but some from the forty thousand fans gathered here at La Défense Arena to see them and make them my own.
I head center stage, mimicking the smile that is always donned on my sister’s, Brisa, face while staring at the spotlight to blind my view of the crowd to shield them so that I don’t get stage fright, or worse, sick again like I did the first two shows.
I stop at Zoey, and we do our handshake, palm to palm, then grasping thumbs, sliding our hands away, stopping to wiggle our fingers against each other’s, ending with a hair flip, and then on to Rain, doing the same thing but ending with a hip check, and finally Mae, doing the same damn thing and ending with her doing a back flip and me a front, before making my way to the center, in line with “my girls.”
“I can’t hear you, Paris. I asked: are you ready to play?”
The lights begin to change as the instrumental changes from nursery rhymes to our intro song, the first four minutes of the show from our set list, “Are you ready?”
Lined up, we start our over-choreographed dance, side by side, as the arena and stage light up in a kaleidoscope of pinks.
One by one, we take our turns asking the question then striking a pose, starting with Mae. “Are you ready?”
Next Zoey. “Are you ready?”
Then Rain. “Are you ready?”
And me. “Are you ready to play?”
Mae intros herself in song, “Mae be yours, but for now, I’m mine. And, as you can see, I’m doing single just fine. Are you ready to play?”
Then Zoey, “Lipstick stains, horns and flames, get too close, and you’re to blame. Are you ready to play?”
“Thunder, lightning, pouring Rain. I’m a daddy’s girl. Bet you know his name. Are you ready to play?”
The crowd’s noise level raises to a roar, and amongst the cheers, River’s name comes to life.
“Trysts and twists, and kissing games. I’m no one’s girl, but do lay claim. Are you ready to play?”
They scream my name, my heartbeat begins its race, and my insides catch fire. The monsters inside … well, they fucking bow to me and my music.
We shed our cloaks, all made of our signature colors; mine being the only one that’s not of the pink variety—it’s blood red—as the lights dim.
In leather hot pants and halter tops, we start the next song in the set, “Wanna Be,” a bitch-slap in the face to the thunder twat twins. Every one of my band members knows it’s about them, too. And, even though I don’t feel as close to them as we portray, I know, in this instance, that they play it up on stage, sometimes even bigger than I do.
“Crew Love” is the third song Tricks and I wrote about what matters the most: loyalty, friendship, family by choice. It’s a slight contrast to the man-hating and slightly sexual—and only slightly because I have a few more months until I’m eighteen and my father insists—undertone to our set list.
After “Crew Love” and another costume change, we’re all in what I call our power outfits and the dance heavy beginning of our show is over.
Emotions simmer to a rolling boil as I get through “Somewhere In-Between,” “Kiss it Away,” “Love Doesn’t Always Win,” and finally “Red Roses Turn Black,” or, as I call it, “Monsters.”
Burnt and broken, left in the dark.
Never saw it coming, bit like a shark.
Shattered screen, broken dreams.
Tormented by thoughts, your traitorous team.
Loved you, swore it to you, until our very last days.
Caught in a web of deceit, false promises, their childish praise.
Don’t wanna be yours, just wanna be all right,
so I’m gonna kiss someone else tonight.
Chorus
Cruel winter, even crueler spring.
Thought one day, I’d wake from this goddammed dream.
Ebb and flow, like a thawing mountain stream.
Been tossed like waves, turned like a ring.
The only cure, open up and sing.
Didn’t wanna be left.
You were always right;
The whole damn thing, a fight.
Bled and cried in the pouring rain.
I’m on the brink, going insane,
Laying here with my monsters tonight.
Smashed my heart, unrecognizable to me.
The mirror, the crowd cannot see.
Took a swing, killed loves light.
Crushed plans, no longer my knight.
Bended knee, foolish me.
Don’t wanna be yours, just wanna be all right,
so I’m gonna kiss someone else tonight.
Chorus
Cruel winter, even crueler spring.
Thought one day, I’d wake from this goddammed dream.
Ebb and flow, like a thawing mountain stream.
Been tossed like waves, turned like a ring.
The only cure, open up and sing.
Didn’t wanna be left.
You were always right;
The whole damn thing a fight.
Bled and cried in the pouring rain.
I’m on the brink, going insane,
Laying here with my monsters tonight.
Don’t wanna be yours, just wanna be all right,
so I’m gonna kiss someone else tonight.
When red roses turn black, never turning back.
Don’t wanna be yours, just wanna be all right,
so I’m gonna kiss someone else tonight.
When red roses turn black, never turning back.
Like every night, pretending it’s part of the act, of course—but it’s not; it’s out of complete need … self-medication for my soul and with a healthy dash of revenge—I jump off the stage and hurry to the closest and least secure part of the barrier between the crowd and stage before the unsuspecting security guard can get to me.
The crowd goes wild, as it always does, while I search for the lucky person to lay my lips on. Someone, anyone. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be a male, and yes, I am so fucking straight that I could be a pin. But the thought that he—Marcello—may see it on some random concert-goers’ live feed, or uploaded video, that I’ve kissed a girl—and although I’m not Katy Perry—“and I liked it,” I love the thought of it making him crazy.