Annoyed at letting myself get distracted, I go back to checking off faces in the crowd, mentally examining everyone I see and filing their images away in my memory bank. When Luna stops posing and moves on up the red carpet, I follow, keeping her in my peripheral vision, ensuring she’s only ever a few steps away from me, just in case.
As we near the door to the theater, instead of heading inside as the woman with the iPad is trying to get her to do, Luna walks over to the crowd gathered behind the railings. It’s another crowd of teenage girls, all of whom are holding up their phones, snapping photos and videos.
Luna poses for selfies, shakes hands, offers hugs, and signs T-shirts and even someone’s arm with a Sharpie pen. I step closer, ready to intercede, because some of the girls look close to overexcited and are starting to push and shove to get nearer, but Luna shoots me a warning glare, ordering me to keep my distance. I stop where I am, still within arm’s reach, watching the edges of the crowd where I notice it’s starting to surge as people shove each other in order to get closer to Luna. I look around for whoever is doing crowd control, but the venue’s security people are mostly at the other end of the carpet.
“We should go,” I whisper to Luna.
“Leave me alone,” she hisses, moving to sign more autographs. And as I begin to reluctantly step back, out of the corner of my eye I see a young girl, no older than eleven, get thrown against the metal railing as the crowd surges. I rush forward, watching in horror as the girl is knocked to her knees and disappears beneath a trample of feet and legs. I leap the railing, shouting at the girls to get back, shoving my arms down into the mosh pit and hauling the girl up by her collar. I heft her up over my shoulder and lift her over the crowd, which pushes and buffets like a storm around me.
The venue’s security guards have finally noticed the commotion and they race over. One takes the girl from my arms, and others yell at the crowd to back off. I jump the railing again back onto the red carpet side and crouch down by the girl who was almost crushed.
“You okay?” I ask her, checking her for any sign of injury.
The girl sniffs back tears and nods.
Luna is suddenly beside her on her knees. “Are you hurt?” she asks the girl.
The girl’s mouth drops open as she beholds Luna kneeling beside her. She’s rendered speechless, and when I look at Luna, glittering in front of her, I can see why. She looks like some kind of angel.
“Here, let’s take a photo,” Luna says to the girl, giving her a warm smile, and because the girl is too starstruck to move, Luna takes the girl’s phone and hands it to me.
I follow orders, snapping a photo of Luna with her arm around the girl, and when I hand the phone back, I catch Luna’s eye. For a moment I think she is about to say something to me, maybe thank me for saving the girl’s life, or even for just taking the photo, but she doesn’t. She gets to her feet and smiles and waves at her adoring fans, before striding off down the red carpet.
I follow at a safe distance.
LUNA
He’s breathing down my neck. Wherever I turn, there he is. Even with my back to him, I can feel him hovering behind me, like a stalker. I look over at him, standing a few steps away from the makeup table, his hands folded in front of him, head on a swivel like the freaking Terminator wearing a tux. He’s tall, but unlike the normal crew-cut, clean-shaven guards I’ve had before, he has a beard. It makes me wonder whether he’s growing it to look cool. But it’s scruffy, so I wonder if it’s just that he can’t be bothered to shave. Jamie’s tried for years to grow a beard and never succeeded in growing anything more than a few pale wisps.
“Did you see him leap over that railing?” Natalie asks, nodding at Will as she applies fresh lipstick to my lips.
I shake my head.
“It was like he was in Mission: Impossible,” she says, swooning.
Will looks over just then at Natalie as though he’s heard her, and I feel a sharp twist of annoyance that he’ll look at her but not at me. Whenever he looks in my direction, his eyes just skip over me, as though I’m a blank wall. I am pretty sure he hates me. But that’s okay, because I don’t much like him, either, and I want him to hate me. That way he’ll quit.
The woman with the iPad who has been hovering by the makeup table appears at my side. “Five minutes,” she tells me.
I nod, feeling the worms writhing in my gut and the nausea starting to build. My entire life is regimented by people with iPhones and walkie-talkies. I wonder where Marty is, but he doesn’t need to be here with me because the responsibility for getting me here was his and he did his job. The responsibility for getting me onstage is now this woman’s. I look at my phone. I want to text Jamie. It’s habit, rather than necessity. When I’m anxious, I usually turn to him to distract me. He understands what it’s like to feel nervous before going onstage, though he doesn’t get panic attacks like I do.
I am determined not to cave, though, so I glance at Will, who is looking in the opposite direction, and then I tell the iPad woman I need the bathroom.
She looks a little worried, given there’s only five minutes to go before I have to present onstage, but I don’t give her the chance to argue, as I’m already walking as fast as I can toward the exit.
Once through the door, I up my pace, darting down a hallway filled with waitstaff who are too busy carrying trays of glasses and canapés to pay me much notice. I don’t know where the bathrooms are and I don’t want to waste time by asking. Up ahead I’ve seen a green Exit sign and so I shove my way toward it, then through it and into a loading bay. A couple of waitstaff are hanging around a dumpster, vaping. I walk past them, inhaling the heady smell of weed, and around a corner into a parking lot, where I duck into a shadowed recess and lean my head back against a wall.
How many minutes do I have left? Three and a half? Two and a half if I want to make it back in time. I can feel my heart beating like a kettledrum being hit by someone with bad rhythm.
I start to tug at the ring on my finger. It’s a huge black onyx, and when it comes off, I flip it open, revealing a hidden compartment inside, like a jewel box hiding secret gems, in this case two blue Xanax pills.
I break one in half because I only need a little to manage my nerves. I’m so anxious about walking onstage that I need to take the edge off. If I go on like this, I won’t even be able to open the envelope without my hands shaking or my knees buckling. I put the pill in my mouth and tip my head back to swallow. When I open my eyes, I find Will standing right in front of me.
“You okay?” he asks.
Did he see? Now he’s probably going to sell the story to the National Enquirer. LUNA RIVERA DOES DRUGS! Even though Xanax is perfectly legal, it’s all about twisting the truth.
“I’m fine,” I say, starting to move around him, heat blazing across my face.
“Hey,” he says, blocking my way. He’s scowling. “You shouldn’t run off like that.”
“I’ll do whatever I want,” I say slowly, making sure he hears every syllable before pushing past him.
“It’s dangerous,” he answers.
I roll my eyes and storm off, heading back toward the fire exit door. I push against it, but it won’t open. Shit. I’m going to be late. I thump on the door with my fist, hoping someone on the other side will hear and open it.