Prologue #2
The pressure in her chest returns with a vengeance.
Before the show, she did the whole five things you can see, four things you can touch…
method her therapist taught her, but it was no match for the anxiety that’s been steadily growing since she left the UK, when the end of the tour suddenly felt like a tangible thing.
She swipes at the zipper at the back of her shorts.
Tugs it down a little, in case that’s what’s preventing her from getting a proper breath, but her clothes have only ever been a symptom of the real problem.
The disease is the whole fucking industry.
She wasn’t going to do this tonight. But between her parents and the cold and the way she can still feel the press of Thaniel’s palm on her ass, she can’t help it.
She cracks.
“There isn’t going to be a next album.”
DeeAnn doesn’t even glance up from her phone.
“You don’t want to write with Milo again?” Beck asks. “Fine. We could always get Greg and Liza back. I’m sure they could help us find a more mature sound—”
“No,” Ramona says, straightening her posture. “I’m done. With all of this. I want…to retire.”
The word is so ridiculous she almost laughs. Retire. At age twenty-six. And yet maybe it’s the only way to get them to understand what she means.
Because god, she really doesn’t want to be onstage singing a song called “Never Be Prom Queen” in her thirties.
Finally, DeeAnn must realize her daughter is serious, because she puts down her phone and scoots to the edge of the couch.
Her natural blond hair is dyed dark to match Ramona’s—she loves it when the two of them pose together and everyone remarks on the resemblance that’s really only there if you squint.
“Ramona Jane. Are we really doing this again? The whole woe-is-me shtick?” DeeAnn dramatically pinches the bridge of her nose.
She was the one who wanted to be on TV, whose auditions never led to anything beyond a role as a dead body in not one but two episodes of CSI, who foisted all her ambitions on her daughter.
“You’ve just had the most successful tour of your career.
Now’s not the time to slow down. You know how many people would kill to be in your shoes? ”
Obviously. It’s what’s made Ramona so wary of complaining.
But the sleeplessness and the early flights and the protein shakes and the sound checks and the plain chicken for dinner for the fifth time this week, the fact that sometimes she just wants a plate of lasagna bigger than her face but not while we’re touring, you know that.
She does know that. As well as she knows that after the tour, there will be another photo shoot, another music video, another reason to deny her body the joy it so desperately craves.
“How about some time off?” Beck suggests, trying to play peacekeeper between mother and daughter.
Ramona and DeeAnn aren’t just oil and water; they’re oil and whatever hazardous chemicals were in that lip gloss.
Oil and fucking uranium. “We could do that. A couple weeks in Hawaii, or we could book that resort in Big Sur again if you want to stay closer to home?”
“Hawaii sounds perfect.” DeeAnn holds out her arms, frowns down at her pale skin. “I could use some sun.”
Beck gives Ramona a pat on the knee, as though the whole matter is settled. “We’ll discuss it in the morning, yeah?”
Now they want to let her sleep.
Her blood thrums with frustration. She wanted to stay calm during this conversation, but maybe the truth of it is that she doesn’t have the energy to fight them.
Hawaii could be okay, as long as she doesn’t have to do any spa days with her mother, who loves schedules so much that she creates a “relaxation itinerary” for every vacation.
But Hawaii would only be temporary.
Someone knocks on the dressing room door. Suzette. “There’s a crowd of people waiting by the bus,” she says. “Security could send them away, but we didn’t know if you’d want to come out and say hi, with it being the last show? A couple reporters are there, too. Billboard and People.”
“Ramona’s pretty exhausted,” DeeAnn says, rubbing her daughter’s shoulder, a fake nail getting caught for a moment on the strap of that leather bra. “We did the meet and greet last night, and we’re flying home tomorrow morning. I think our girl just wants to rest!”
And that’s what does it. The subtle but persistent reminder that she is not the one with the power.
That none of this has ever been hers.
With a sudden burst of adrenaline, Ramona shoves aside the blanket and leaps to her feet.
Combs fingers through her hair. “I can talk for a few minutes,” she says, and she doesn’t pause to hear her parents’ protests as Suzette leads her down the hall, bending to whisper in her ear that her shorts are unzipped.
Before she steps outside, Suzette hands her a sweatshirt.
She barely has time to utter a thank-you before the screams hit her eardrums, Milwaukee’s chilly air biting at her cheeks.
The fans are wearing puffer jackets and wool coats over their concert outfits, and she can’t explain why it’s so incredibly endearing.
One of the reporters makes eye contact right away. She looks kind. Young. “Ramona, hi,” she says, fumbling to open a voice recording app. “I’m Astrid at Billboard. Amazing show. We’d love to get a quick statement—how do you feel about the Wasted Potential Tour ending?”
Ramona grins, feeling in complete control for what might be the first time all tour. “Hi, Astrid,” she says. “A lot of mixed emotions, definitely. Mostly because…” An are you sure about this? shiver runs up her spine—because what she says next could alter the course of her entire life.
And that’s exactly what she wants.
Right before all hell breaks loose and she’s swallowed up by the crowd, she takes a deep breath, her heart pounding to the beat of a song she’s never heard before.
“That was my last show. I’m leaving the music industry.”