“I’m so happy, everybody.” My voice sounds hollow even to me, the lie tasting like rubber on my tongue. “Thank you for being here. Thank you for”—I swallow hard, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack my face—“making my dreams come true.”Dreams? Nightmares? Both?“We’re going hard tonight! All your favorites!” The crowd erupts in whoops and screeches while my heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.Where the fuck is it? Where is the melody?
Forty thousand sets of eyes, cameras demanding composure, noise loud enough to drown out an airport runway—this would break any sane person. But after seven years as Charlie Riley, America’s sweetheart, voice of a generation…am I even sane anymore?
I feel a large hand on my shoulder and breathe out in relief. Omar, the production manager, dressed in black head to toe, blending in with the darkness of the midnight sky, finds my eyes. He gives me a kind smile as he makes quick work of popping a new earpiece in. He takes a deep breath, instructing me with charades to do the same.
“I got it, I got it,” I whisper-shout with my mic pointed at my shoes. I give him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. The moment my earpiece is back in, it’s muted bliss. I find the melody, just in time for the chorus, and belt it out like I was born for this very moment.
Midnight kisses, our tongues twisted
We’re frozen in a sunset,
Where the sea meets the sky
And all I see is you and I
Oh, no, shit.
The line is all I see isyouin my mind.
Dammit. It’s fine. I was a little disoriented. I catch the chorus on the song title.
It was all perfect, in hindsight.
Shit. Another blunder.
The line should beit was picturesque in hindsight.
What is wrong with me tonight?Hindsightis my most popular song. My first platinum record. The lyrics every one of my fans has etched into their hearts. Oh, they are never going to let me live this down. The impending social media roasts start flashing in my mind no matter how hard I try to block them.
It’s clear she doesn’t write her own songs. She can’t even remember the lyrics.
All that money and Charlie didn’t even sing my favorite song. Such a waste of money.
I’m not sure why I was ever really into her. She’s not even that good live.
And that’s when the ringing in my ears begins again. This time, more aggressive; a high-pitched drilling craters through my skull, drowning everything else in its metallic trill. My right knee buckles like wet cardboard, sending me stumbling three steps to the left, my ankle rolling outward, barely contained by my knee-high Barbie-blue boots. The spotlight catches my falter in merciless white clarity. Forty thousand faces gasp in unison, their collective “ooooh” rolling toward the stage like a wave, their phones raised higher to capture the precise moment Charlie Riley’s performance derails into spectacular, shareable disaster.
It’s all right. I can salvage this. You know what? We’ll run it again. I’ll tell the band we’ll run it from the top.I. Can. Save. This.
But my lungs seize, each breath coming in tiny gasps that don’t reach my chest. My knees wobble and my legs are pasta-soft. The stage seems to tilt five degrees left, then right. My fingers tingle, numb at the tips. The ringing pierces higher, drowning the bass line, the roar of the stadium, until all I hear is that silver needle of sound. The mic slips in my sweat-slick palm. Shit! The choreography…what comes next? The lyrics…what song is this? The crowd’s faces all blur into a single gaping mouth, teeth bared, ready to swallow me whole.
“Fuck!” The word explodes from me like a grenade, thankfully not into the mic, though I can already imagine the slowed-down TikToks dissecting my lips forming that four-letter bomb. Front row, third seat from the left—a girl, maybe eight, wearing my tour shirt, clutching her mother’s hand. Her innocent face slams into my conscience. America’s sweetheart doesn’t curse in front of children. America’s sweetheart sings radio edits and smiles through pain and never, ever lets them see the cracks in her perfect plastic veneer.
“I’m so sorry, everybody,” I say, pulling the heavy mic to my dry lips. “Bear with me…um…we’re just going to try this again…”
I pull out the earpiece again, wanting relief from the alarm assaulting my skull. It’s in this moment I realize the ringing isn’t coming from my earpiece. I can’t escape the sharp, persistent wail breaking through the barrier of my own self-control.Breathe, Charlie, breathe.Dark spots cloud my vision like ink splotches blending together to completely blind me. I can’t blink them away.
This time when my knees buckle, I can’t ground myself. My hips meet the wooden floor so hard the pain reverberates up my spine. I try to get up, but my legs won’t listen. Dripping tears find the droplets of sweat and mix together in a cruel cocktail of helpless chaos.
No, no, no. Get fucking up. Finish the damn thing.
And for a minute, I think I’ve willed my body to move, but it’s not of my own fruition. Strong arms scoop me up, and I recognize the smell of Omar’s soap. We hugged earlier and I thanked him for everything. He promised me it was going to be a legendary show. One for the history books. His promises were wrapped in sandalwood and amber and just two hours ago I felt like I was on top of the world.
Omar marches down the runway, away from my center mark.
“Put me down,” I plead through broken tears and chattering teeth. “I have to finish the show.”
“Charlie, you’re ghost white and shaking out of control.” He looks down, meeting my eyes. I see panic and fear in his chocolate irises. “It’s over. You’re done.”
