Chapter 19
Mia and I stand shoulder to shoulder, our breath mingling with the evening air as we wait in line for our turn on the Grammys’ red carpet.
A pathway stretches out before us, flanked by a row of bodyguards who stay close to the throng of celebrities, their colorful outfits shimmering under the bright flashes.
“You nervous?” Mia asks, linking her arm with mine. I glance at her, taking in the elegant sweep of her silver gown, her skin shimmering with specks of glitter.
As they pose, I catch glimpses of stars I’ve admired since I was a kid, singers and musicians I would love to collaborate with. In different circumstances, I’d be jumping with excitement, but I can’t feel anything past the nerves in my stomach.
“I guess I’m a little anxious.” Terrified. “But I’m ready.” I smooth my hands over my dress, tracing the delicate black lace gauze that drapes over my neck and arms. The fabric hugs my waist before gracefully cascading all the way down my legs. “What face do I make for the Glambot?”
My fight-or-flight instinct kicks in during red carpets, and I never know what face to make, but I’m supposed to strike a pose for the Glambot—a camera that moves fast and then replays the clip in slow motion.
“Just smile,” Mia says.
“Okay, but do I smile like this?” I mimic a tight-lipped smile, then a wider one. “Or like this?”
Mia looks horrified. “You’re overthinking your facial expressions again. Hmm. Maybe just give them a smoldering look. It goes with your vibe.”
“Pose with me, Mimi,” I beg, grasping her arm tighter, the pressure in my chest easing. I’m glad she was able to come with me. I don’t think I could do this without her.
“For the Glambot? I would love to.” Her face lights up as she bounces on the tips of her heels.
“You look ethereal as fuck, Mimi.” I raise my hand, inviting her to do a twirl.
“Thank you. You look badass.” She beams, and I hold her hand until a man with a sign with our names printed on it beckons us onto the red carpet.
The moment we step out, myriad photographers push forward, barely missing one of the suspended cameras filming the event.
My heart races as Mia and I get separated so I can pose alone.
I square my shoulders and force myself to endure the barrage of flashes without blinking too much or making a weird face.
“Sassy, to your right!”
Flash.
“Sassy, how are you doing after the breakup?” someone shouts.
Flash.
“Sassy, how does it feel to get cheated on?” someone else calls over the crowd. I straighten, keeping my expression neutral. They don’t mean for me to answer. They just want a reaction.
Flash.
“Sasha! Sasha! I hope you win tonight!” A guy my age points a phone at my face.
He’s live, struggling to stand his ground as the mob of journalists drags him around, pushing him against the fence.
He rearranges the shoulder pads of his tuxedo jacket, looking both elated and absolutely out of place among the throng of fortysomething photographers. “When can we expect new music?”
I fix the hem of my dress and wave at the screen. “Tonight.”
Tonight, everything changes.
A cacophony of screams echoes from outside the venue. Some of my fans are out there, filling the streets to the brim, but I wasn’t allowed to sign autographs due to security concerns. They must be following the red carpet via the Live.
“Sassy, to your left.”
Flash.
“Sassy, over here. Have you talked to Kai?”
The mention of Kai sends a pang through my chest. I walk away from the red carpet, the rest of the photographers’ questions drowned under a sea of light and noise. My ears ring as I’m waved into an indoor area by the staff, welcoming the darkness after the flash storm.
Sassy this, Sassy that. If only they knew they came to witness her funeral.
“Mia! Did Asher cheat on you, too?”
I turn around to watch Mia pose next. I wasn’t expecting her to get any questions, but she looks unfazed, flipping her hair with a grin.
“Asher and I never dated. I am single and not looking to mingle. Leave me alone.”
“Sweetheart, give us something, huh? You’re just a nobody.” The same photographer is shouting. “Who are you wearing?”
“Your mama.” She waves at them and struts away. Which, iconic.
“Sasha, what message do you have for your fans who’ve come here to support you?” The guy doing the Live manages to break away from the journalists and photographers and sprints toward me. He looks thrilled, his eyes sparkling with awe as he scans the place, like he can’t believe he’s here.
“That I’m thankful for their love, and that I hope they continue supporting me after tonight.” I turn to him. “Who are you with? A news outlet?”
“No, no. I’m a creator on social media. I was invited. It’s my first time at this event—or well, at any event.” He beams. “I can’t believe I’m talking to you. I’m your biggest fan. I … I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but I made that audio with your song that went viral, with the—”
“With the animation! I saw that! You’re so talented.”
“Thanks. I’m Peter.”
“Peter, nice to meet you. Thanks for your hard work.” When I give him a hug, he shakes in my arms. He reminds me a little bit of myself when I started.
When it was just me and my camera in my bedroom.
“Listen, I don’t know if you got tickets for the awards ceremony, but if you ask that person over there, the one with the badges, she’ll give you a pass. Tell her I sent you.”
Peter squeals and thanks me before taking off toward the coordinator. Mia is escorted to our seats inside, and I’m whisked away into a quieter area where different outlets are allowed to ask me a few questions before the ceremony begins.
“Are you open to finding love again, Sassy, or are you taking a break from dating?” a man in his thirties asks me. “Your love life fueled the success of your first album. Do you have a new muse?”
I can almost hear Marissa’s touch in his question. I know she’s looking for ways to get back at me, and even though it’s only been a few days since I fired her, she might have fed the journalists questions.
“I have more than enough love in my life,” I reply.
“I know this isn’t your fault, but that’s sort of a stupid question to ask.
Do you really want people to derive their sense of worth from whether or not they’re dating someone?
My music is nominated tonight. Not my relationship.
And you’re wrong. My love life did not inspire my first album. ”
The reporter’s face falls. I don’t wait to see his reaction as I move inside the auditorium, where Shirley and Mia are waiting for me.
Shirley and I are both nominees, since they’re up for Producer of the Year and Record of the Year, so the three of us are at a table right by the stage.
A surge of nerves and anticipation courses through me as I look at the stage.
It’s bathed in warm lighting, which casts shadows that dance across the floor.
Soon I’ll be up there, performing for … I crane my neck to look at the end of the room.
It seems endless, seats and tables stretching into every corner of the space.
“How are you feeling? Ready for your big night?” Shirley asks. They look amazing in their designer pants and blazer with a loose salmon bowtie.
“Yeah.” My hands are shaking, which isn’t good. I’ll be performing in less than thirty minutes. Fuck—I can’t afford to ruin this.
“Remember, it’s just you and the piano,” they say. “If you get nervous, look for me in the audience. Pretend we’re at the studio, okay?” They give me a hug, and I slump against their shoulders, letting out a sigh of relief.
“I’d wish you good luck, but you’re going to be awesome, and you’re going to win everything you’re nominated for,” Mia tells me, before joining the hug until I’m uncomfortably squished between them. I laugh, pushing them both off me.
“I doubt it,” I say. I mean, my plan sort of hinges on me getting one Grammy. Best New Artist, since Shirley thinks it’s likely I’ll win in that category. If I don’t, it’s not important. I move to Plan B. I already have a video in my drafts, ready to be posted.
The other Grammy categories—Song of the Year, Record of the Year, Best Pop Vocal Album, and Album of the Year—are almost a sure miss since this is my first year.
“Sasha?” Mia prods. She shoots me a look, as if she knows I’m planning something. I haven’t told her about my plan, though, at least not fully.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, giving her a grin.
It’s not like I’m about to destroy my career in front of everyone.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, a text from Kai.
KAI
good luck tonight.
My heart lurches. We haven’t talked yet, because I still can’t face him, and I was worried he’d figure out I was up to something. If I had, he and Asher would have stopped me. I actually had a dream the other night that Kai tackled me offstage mid-speech.
Thanks. I miss you. I wish you were here with me, I almost reply.
My phone vibrates again. It’s a picture from Asher of him holding Muse, who’s wearing a crocheted party hat and looking displeased. The text reads: Muse is ready to go to war if you don’t win.
A smile pulls at my lips and, soon enough, my hands are no longer shaking. Even if they’re not here, they have my back. It’s strange, but I feel the same way about my fans. They’re out there, rooting for me, even if I can’t see them. I hope they’ll stay after tonight.
I navigate to my social media and watch a few of their reactions.
MOTHER IS HERE.
she deserves to win best new artist.
it’s 4am my time but I WON’T SLEEP UNTIL I SEE HER WIN.
There are pictures of groups of friends gathered for a viewing party, and it warms my heart how they’re able to find community through each other. I think of María and Zoya, of everyone I’ve met and talked to, everyone who my music has been able to help somehow.
Another row of comments catches my eye.
her dress? is she mourning her breakup? OMG, HEARTbrEAK ANTHEM CONFIRMED.