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1KALLISTA
The paps are at it again. It’s not enough that they’ve successfully chased me out of my penthouse with their pap-bots, spooking me in the middle of the night while I was sleeping. Now they’re playing downright dirty. The roar of Tara’s blow dryer can’t compete with the sound of my heartbeat thundering in my ears as I scroll through the latest deluge of bullshit on my holodeck.
HAHA Entertainment’s headline reads: “Is Kallista queerbaiting everyone? Star princess seen out canoodling with a man!”
I suck on my plasma juice packet (supposedly it’s orange flavor, but it tastes like shit) while Tara reads over my shoulder. She’s been my stylist ever since I launched to stardom three years ago, so I don’t mind her reading over my shoulder. I tell her everything, anyway.
“Kal, can you sit still for me, babe?” she asks over the scream of the hair dryer.
I sit up straighter in my seat and sling the holodeck across the dressing room, letting it shatter on the ground.
“Kallista, seriously? Those things are expensive,” Tara scolds me as she sets the hair dryer down on the counter, then moves to inspect the holodeck’s busted screen.
It doesn’t matter. I bought the thing with my own money a week before the Terminal550 was released, making the holodeck obsolete. Then I got my assistant, Elizabeth, to make a few calls and get me one of those instead. For free, of course. What’s the point of being a star if you can’t even use it to get free shit?
I slurp down the last of my plasma juice and toss the packet into the trash can. “So, they see me out with a man once and the conclusion they draw is that I’m lying to everyone.”
Tara leans over to clean up the glass on the ground.
“Tara, don’t,” I say. “The staff will get it. You’ll hurt yourself, hun.”
Tara winces at me. “I just feel bad. They don’t get paid enough to clean up glass all over the floor….”
I lean forward in the chair and smirk. “I heard from Ted, who has a friend who works at one of their other venues, that they get paid sixty-thousand credits a year.”
Tara stares up at me, eyes wide. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
My stylist immediately drops the glass onto the ground, stands up, then leans against the counter. “They’re getting paid more than me?”
Bile rises in the back of my throat as I stare at myself in the vanity mirror. Despite all the technological advancements of the past decade, no one’s been able to figure out how to make a dressing room that doesn’t make you look sickly pale. But Tara always does a fantastic job, at least on my hair.
I smile up at her. “I’ll talk to them again. You deserve more. A lot more.” It’s always bothered me that my team can barely afford their rent. Despite what the media says about me, I do know what it’s like being poor, and I don’t want anyone going to bed hungry.
For a second, I swear Tara’s going to start crying as her bottom lip trembles. Then she breaks into a wide grin and takes a step toward me to envelop me in a warm, snuggly hug. I can’t remember the last time anyone’s hugged me. Not in a sincere sort of way, at least. Not even Margot, my manager and best friend, hugs me.
“Thank you, babe.” She pulls away and plants a kiss on my cheek. “I can’t believe I can’t come with you for the rest of the tour! I’m going to miss you so much.”
“Likewise.”
Out of the twenty-four planets on my universe-wide tour, I’ve only checked off six so far. Six, and I’m already exhausted and looking forward to sleeping for a month. Not like that’s going to happen. Not when I’ve got an album that still needs to be recorded, the typical meet-and-greets, talk shows … the list goes on.
Tara pulls a lip gloss out of her makeup bag and swipes it over her full, dark lips. She’s always been so beautiful to me, with her doe-like brown eyes and black braids that drape down to her lower back. So beautiful, in fact, I often wonder why she’s relegated to doing everyone else’s hair when she could be a model herself.
Compared with my natural, mousy brown hair, and gangly limbs that pop constantly while I move around the dance floor during rehearsals, Tara is a knock-out. She plants another kiss on the top of my head, brushes my faux-blond curls away from my face, and takes a step back to look me up and down. Last minute inspection before show time.
“You look great. Go knock ’em dead,” she says. “And call me! I want to know how your tour is going. I want all the gossip, you hear me?”
I laugh and hop out of the chair. The sequins on my teeny-tiny dress shimmer in the light as I make my way to the door. When I look over my shoulder, Tara is still smiling, but there’s a hint of sadness that’s impossible to ignore.
“I’ll call you every other day,” I say as I place my hand on the doorknob. “That’s a promise.”
Drawing in a deep, cleansing breath, I head into the hallway where I’m promptly flanked by a couple of security guards ready to escort me backstage. The cacophony of cheers floods my ears and ignites my veins, setting my heart on fire. No matter how many shows I’ve done, I’ll always be a bundle of nerves. But once the music starts, I’m totally fine. It’s just the pre-show jitters. There’s always a few seconds where I want to turn around and run back to Luna and hide underneath my bed, but the cheers from the packed stadium remind me why I got into this business in the first place. My fans. Their energy, their love, their screams make me rush down the hallway like I’ve been injected with rocket fuel, my blond curls bouncing behind me.
Tonight is going to be a good night, I promise myself. Tonight is going to be electric.
* * *
