Page 112 of The Comedown

The moment stretches until the ball flies past Julian’s face, cutting the connection as he reaches out to intercept it.

“I think someone else has a creepy little crush,” Holter says, I think for Julian’s ears only, but I hear it and shift. I don’t know if I’m supposed to act like I heard it, but under no circumstance am I going to cop to knowing what they’re referring to, so I pretend I’m oblivious on all fronts, picking a piece of invisible lint off my wide-legged, corded lounge pants.

Julian’s laugh echoes off the walls, bringing my attention right back to him. Looking directly at me, he says to himself, “Ain’t nothing little about that.”

Holter smacks the ball away from Julian before sprinting down the court with it.

Julian doesn’t take his eyes off mine at first, so I mouth the words, “Thank you,” back to him, making him shake his head with a secretive smirk.

He takes off after Holter, and for the next hour, every time he looks my way, I’m the one smiling, holding on to my own secret.

Collette

My breath comes out in spurts as my dancers rush past me offstage, the finishing touches on my wardrobe-change hastily being put in place by at least three pairs of hands.

“Done,” someone says, and striding back on the stage, I reach up and take my wig off, shaking my natural hair out and teasing the sweaty strands so they’re not stuck to my head.

At first, the audience is silent, then all at once they erupt in cheers. My true fans know this is not my usual, but even the ones new to my music will have noticed I was wearing a wig the entire first act of the show.

“In case it wasn’t obvious, I like my wigs.”

My short, wet hair tickles my exposed shoulders, and I bend down next to a group of teen girls in the front row, smiling from ear to ear. They laugh and scream, snapping so many photos I don’t think their thumbs even release the capture button.

“But recently someone asked me if it was a way to hide myself, and it made me stop and think.” I look out at the crowd, standing again. “I love that you all wear wigs to my shows. I think you’re beautiful.” I pause, letting the applause weaken before continuing, “But what if I told you you’re beautiful without it? What if I told you you’re perfect just the way you are?” I have to raise my voice to be heard, yelling into the mic, “I want you just as you are!”

I catch sight of Julian off to the side, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, and I shoot him a wink. They’re similar to his words, and I don’t think I realized just how powerful, how meaningful, they were until this moment. To accept someone exactly the way they are without asking anything of them, that’s rare. Not everybody can do that. There’s almost always an ask, an expectation. Julian’s got none for me. I’m not sure why or how, but he doesn’t. He’s told me several times now; I’m just getting around to understanding.

Unfolding his arms, he turns away, disappearing somewhere backstage.

Is he mad? Did I break the contract by repeating his words publicly? I didn’t say who said them.

Oh well. This is more about me than him. He helped me realize I was keeping myself hidden; I’m the one coming out from behind the smokescreen.

Refocusing on the crowd, I shout, “Let’s all stop hiding!”

High in the air, wigs in hues of blue, pink, white, silver, and every other color imaginable are tossed along with the inhibitions they masked, and I drop my hands by my sides, taking it all in. Several people sob while others scream or laugh, everything tumbling out into a beautifully chaotic blend of truth. Raw truth. Pain, agony, love, life, loss, regret, bravery, celebration—it’s all here, both visibly and spiritually.

A sort of therapeutic sensation settles over the superdome, reminding me of my why. The one I lose track of every now and then during the hustle and bustle of this lifestyle. I sing to shape and heal people with the same songs that’ve shaped and healed me. This is what fills me.

Some wigs make it on the stage, followed by hats and what I’m hoping are fake necklaces. Laughing, I have to dodge a few, kicking chunks of false hair out of my way so I don’t slip and fall on my ass.

Julian steps in front of me, his body replacing the rest of the superdome. He motions over my shoulder for the DJ to play some background music, then I flick the power button on my mic to OFF.

“Watch your step,” I warn him, clutching one of his taut biceps before joking, “It’s slippy out here.”

With a grin, he asks, “You got some Pittsburgher in you?”

“Not currently, but I did last night.”

He licks his bottom lip, flicking his piercings with his tongue, the memory of feeling the metallic balls on my pussy leaving me feverish.

“Fuck, Collette. Lemme fix that for you.”

He leans in, and I warn, “Don’t,” quick as lightning, just as harsh. The way Julian blocks everything out with his presence, it may feel like we’re all alone up here, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. We are literally surrounded in every direction.

His gaze runs the length of me, and he asks, “Anything hit you?”

“Nothing physical.”