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Waverly Sweet, aka a top pop queen who still can’t hold her nerves, especially when old flames are involved
There arebutterflies in my stomach.
You’d think after this many years in the biz, nerves would be one of those things I’d have mastered, but there they are, whispering some of my unshakeable, ever-present fears.
What if you fall off the stage?
It’s been six months since you had anything close to a wardrobe malfunction—maybe tonight will be the night!
This would be a great show to forget the words to “Home Run” again like you did when you spotted you-know-who at the American Music Awards, wouldn’t it?
TheWaverly Sweet: Honey and Sasstour, my eighth full tour, sixth as a headliner, started about a month ago. We’ve been on this tour long enough to fall into routines.
I shouldn’t be getting nervous.
Especiallyright now. I’m a pro. I’ve got this.
Right?
Thirty seconds ago, I was fine. But then, thirty seconds ago, I was posing for pictures with members of my Waverly’s Braverlies Fan Club at my normal backstage pre-show meet-and-greet. There’s nothing like meeting people who are more nervous than you are to make you put your own stress on the backburner while you assure them that yes, you’re a normal person like them, and yes, you honestly are thrilled to see them.
One-on-one?
I genuinely am. I love my fans. I wouldn’t be here without them.
But when you put thirty or forty thousand of them together in an arena? Or even more in a stadium?
Crowds are a totally different beast.
It’s easier to apologize to a group of five people in a private setting for accidentally stepping on some toes while you get in position for a picture than it is to appease them if you get obviously out of rhythm with the backup dancers or forget the words to their favorite songs.
If I couldonlydo meet-and-greets and skip the show portion, I would. In a heartbeat. But that’s not how this business works.
“Have a great time at the show,” I call to Sabrina and her parents as they exit the room.
Sabrina squeals and waves one last time as my security team subtly shuffles her out and closes the exit door.
And then chaos explodes all over the room.
It’s organized, streamlined chaos, but it’s still chaos, and I recognizethischaos.
It’swe’re latechaos.
I glance at the clock.
Dammit.
Under an hour until I’m on. Should I change my wardrobe?
Wait.
Did we take “Gone Yesterday” out of the setlist for tonight?
I shoot a look at Hiramys, my lead assistant, who’s more harried than usual. She’s roughly fifteen years older than I am, with olive skin, dark curly hair that’s perpetually tied back in a bun, and a pantsuit wardrobe that never stops.
But despite tonight’s amazing pantsuit, I can tell something’s amiss.
