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Ian
The whole building feels electrified with anticipation and it’s driving me a little crazy. Okay, more than a little, judging by the path I’ve worn into the carpet with my pacing. I sink into the beat-up dressing room couch and let out a long heavy breath, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose.
It’s just another show. You’ve done this a million times, I tell myself.
And how many of those times were you high as a fucking kite? an angry little voice challenges.
I shove it aside. I don’t need drugs to do my job. Maybe there was a time when I thought it fit my whole “rockstar” persona, but I’ve been clean and sober for five years now and I’m not about to screw that up. Not even for something as important as this event.
Which is a good thing, since this whole gig is supposed to be helping me to rehab my image. At this point, I don’t think there’s anyone in the world who knows who I am who doesn’t know about my struggles with addiction and getting clean. There were some fans that didn’t like my new image—or the lack of touring dates while I spent longer than probably necessary in rehab. But I learned I can’t worry about those people. I can only worry about myself. The fans that really care—the ones that truly want the best for me—haven’t given up yet.
And I’m glad for it. Hell, if I were one of these parents out in the crowd, I’m not sure I’d want my kid screaming and jumping excitedly for some junkie who may or may not be clean according to the tabloids.
But they’re out there. I can hear the crowd, feel the
energy thrumming through the very floor under my feet. I’ve played packed venues, sold-out stadiums in tours, but I’ve never been as nervous as I am right now waiting for my turn up on stage in front of all those sick kids.
Originally, when Merrill told me about his idea to have me perform at the Wish Givers’ benefit, I wasn’t sure they’d even want me. After all, these are really sick kids, cancer and shit like that. It’s bad enough that they’re sick and dying, but to offer them a concert with me? It almost seemed like a really bad, unfunny joke. But my manager knows what’s best for me. He always has. He’s stuck by me through thick and thin, helping me up when I hit rock bottom, being more of a family to me than the people I actually share blood with. So when Merrill said it was a good idea, I decided it couldn’t hurt to humor him a bit. Most likely the Wish Givers wouldn’t even want me in their lineup, right?
Well, Merrill’s apparently better at his job than I’ve ever given him credit for, because not only did they want me to perform, but they wanted me to headline this whole event. It was definitely a surprise, but also kind of flattering. When I first walked into rehearsals a couple of weeks ago, I felt like a big shot, probably more than I had any right to. But these kids changed all that. Every day during rehearsals and sound checks, there were kids coming in with reps from the Wish Givers, kids that wouldn’t be able to come to the show for one reason or the other. I’d fooled around with them, given them each a little backstage tour, and one of the kids told me he hoped he got to grow up to be a rockstar.
That really got me. Not that he wanted to grow up to be a rockstar, but that he hoped he got to grow up. I could barely hold it together when I was showing him how to place his fingers on the guitar frets and he shot me the biggest smile when he managed to strum a few chords together after an hour or so of practice. I spotted his mom wiping away tears in the wings and my throat closed up tight.
Ever since then, I really realized how much this show means to these kids, and I’ve been determined not to let any of them down. Not even a little.
And it’s that pressure I’ve put on myself that has me so nervous I’m afraid to go out on stage. Alaina, my handler with the Wish Givers, has already been talking about future benefit concerts and stuff like that, but I haven’t been able to agree to anything because I’ve been absolutely certain I’m going to blow this whole thing.
Thinking like that isn’t going to help me impress those kids or the people watching at home, though. Thinking like that will make me a complete disaster on stage. So I retreat back into my mind, going back to the time I spent in rehab, in therapy and group sessions, remembering how my counselor taught me to control my breathing and clear my mind. “Meditating” has always sounded like some New Age hippie nonsense, but the practice actually helps me control my impulses and cravings more than I would have ever predicted. I still won’t call it meditating, but that’s basically what I’m doing. Long deep breaths in through my nose, out through my mouth, counting to ten on each inhale and exhale.
Yes, these people are here to see me. And yes, I want to give them the best show possible, but that’s only going to happen if I can get myself into the right frame of mind. At least we’ve been through the rehearsals a thousand times. I could probably manage to pull off this show in my sleep, but that doesn’t do a ton to ease my nerves.
My mind is finally blank, a sense of calm washing through my nerves when a sharp, hurried knock on the dressing room door startles me out of my trance.
“Yeah?” I call from the couch, still sitting with my legs crossed, my elbows on my knees.
The door opens and a wall of sound rushes in with it, the crowd sounding like they’re right at my door even though I know they’re still a couple hundred feet away.
Merrill comes in and closes the door behind him looking down his nose at me. “Doing all right?” he asks, his face stony.
“Yeah, just trying to get my headspace right,” I say, frowning. Merrill’s usually much more chipper pre-show, trying to pump me up and get me ready to go. But his mouth is tight and he looks a little pale.
“What’s up?” I ask, the worry creeping into my voice before I can stop it. I’ve been at this a long time and Merrill’s been with me from the beginning. I know him too well to believe him when he shrugs.
“What makes you think anything’s wrong?” he asks, pushing his gold-framed glasses further up his nose.
I uncross my legs, planting my feet firmly on the floor, and arch an eyebrow at him. I don’t need to say anything else. He knows I know something’s up.
He sighs and takes the few steps to the couch, sinking in next to me. “Julia was in an accident.”
Ice washes through my blood, my eyes going wide. Julia Venn was supposed to join me on stage after a couple of songs for a few duets. I don’t know her all that well, but she’s been pleasant enough to me through rehearsals and the thought of something happening to her doesn’t sit well. “Shit. Is she okay?”
Merrill holds up his hands as if to ward off my worries. “She’s fine, fine. She’ll make a full recovery.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and nod. “That’s good. So…” I lift my brow at him again.
“She’s not going to make it to the show,” he says, letting that sink in. I’d already figured as much, but the confirmation sucks. We worked really hard in rehearsals to make our duets absolutely perfect, but now those kids will never get to enjoy the fruits of our labor.
“We’ve got a replacement for you, though,” he says, forcing himself to sound chipper. I know it’s forced, because he uses that fake smile that he normally reserves for journalists like Kandy Florin.
