“Trouble in the arena?” I ask Scott Two, a beefy, balding white guy in his late forties who is—you guessed it—the second guy named Scott on my security team.
He hands me my glittery pink water bottle as he points me toward the door behind the tour screen that we use for photos.
“No.”
“No loose monkeys?”There you go, Waverly. Be ridiculous.It helps the butterflies.
“No.”
“Secret nooky happening in a closet?”
“No.”
“A diamond heist happening under our noses because no one told me I was the distraction?”
“No.”
“You’re not even going to ask why I’d think there would be diamonds hidden in Mink Arena?”
“No.”
Scott Two has four divorces under his belt, three daughters in my general age range, one grandson, and a secret addiction to eating Junior Mints while playing Mario Kart. He’s been with me for a few years, and everything I know about him, I’ve found out through gossip from other people on my team.
Sometimes I wonder if this is what having a father would’ve been like. Lots of scowling, lots ofno, very little opening up to offer personal details, and never enough answers to my questions. And for the record, I only wonder because the people in my life who knew my mom tell me that Scott Two would’ve totally been her type.
Clearly, she knew what she was doing when she went the sperm bank route.
Far better to not have a father than to have a disappointing one, even if it sometimes makes me wonder where I came from.
“What’s up, Hiramys?” I ask while we wait for the next security team to give us the all-clear for my exit to the green room. “I asked The Steel Trap here, but he’s not giving me anything.”
She clips her pen onto her clipboard, puts a finger to her earpiece, and says, “Yes, tell Zinnia everything’s under control.”
I wince.
My Aunt Zinnia has been my career manager from day one. Usually she’s here with us at every stop of the tour, but she had to dash back to LA for a face-to-face meeting with the brass at my record label.
She can be a lot, so it’s nice on occasion when she’s not here.
Tonight, though, I’m too stressed that I’m late for my voice warm-ups, meditation, habitual three Haribo gummy bears, snuggles with Hashtag, my cat, and the normal dash to the bathroom right before my cue that it’s stage time.
“What about the last group?” Gus, the cameraperson, says to Hiramys.
She shakes her head. “No-shows.”
He nods and lifts his camera tripod, shutting the legs and tucking it under his arm in less time than it’s taking Kiva, my security lead, to work with arena security to clear my exit out of the room. The team printing pictures at the small table near the exit door close their laptop lids and unplug the printers.
And that’s when I hear it.
“Wait! Wait! We’re here!”
My team doesn’t toleratelate, which has always created a mixed bag of emotions for me. Much as I need my time to settle my nerves with my pre-show rituals, fans pay a lot of money to come to a concert and meet me. I know how I felt the day I met Shania Twain, and no matter how big of a goober I personally think I am, I logically comprehend that I am to them what Shania was to me.
And I know how disappointed I would’ve been if Shania hadn’t waited those two extra minutes when traffic slowed us down that first time I had a chance to meet her, after my mom was gone and before I launched my own musical career, and when she had no idea that Evelyn Sweet’s daughter was the kid who was running late.
Aunt Zinnia always says the good of the many outweighs the good of the few, and it’s more important for me to be on time to the stage than it is for me to make sure one last person isn’t disappointed when they can’t get here on time.
But Aunt Zinnia isn’t here, is she?
