32. Famous-Famous
Famous-Famous
BETTY
Iwasn’t famous-famous at Miragelite. Entering through a VIP gate, arm looped through Jaz’s, I was merely the girl who came off my biggest win in a year.
I was starry eyed over Dory’s triumphant cross-country run and epic stadium ride.
Cici always said a rider’s ability to make a catch ride into something bigger was the biggest testament to her overall capability.
“It’s just so… fucking cool!” Jaz gazed at her special badge. “Is this real life?”
“Right?” I asked. “It’s brilliant.”
“Now what?”
“Your Royal Highness, right this way!” A documentary’s PA called. “We’ll take you to the lounge. You can get drinks before you go see 4l?t.”
I caught up. “Hey, can we just… call me Betty? And to her as Jaz? I just want to feel… normal.”
“Sure, sure,” the PA agreed.
My scheme worked. I called Kaldi and asked if I could stop by.
I promised to let them film me and Jaz. They thought it was great and got us passes lickety-split.
So, wearing gladiator sandals, a mini dress that looked like Anthropologie dressed Holly Go Lightly.
I’d been limited on what we could buy but the drag queen at the brunch place we hit up on the way over said I was “on fire”.
We entered the VIP room, spotting pop artists, an aging rockstar, and an EDM genius all in the first few seconds. Boho-chic people paraded around successfully and effortlessly. I tried not overreacting.
“Is that… who I think it is?” Jaz asked.
“Christelle?” I whispered. “Pop super star? Yes.”
“This is amazing.”
“We’re not in Norway anymore, are we?” I joked.
“Fuck no.”
“We’ll come get you when the Swedes are going up,” the PA said. “Until then, enjoy.”
She left and we filtered to the bar. Between two industry types talking about streaming royalty rates and a popstar with a woman I assumed was her assistant, we ordered their signature cocktail—a clean, fruity vodka number.
“So, where is Mary?” Jaz asked.
I looked at my watch. “Mary is… doing a press event with the Swedes and the Germans. We won’t see the Germans, though. They apparently did well yesterday. If I see them, I’ll say hi.”
Jaz grinned. “And so… do you get to spend any one-on-one time with the girlfriend? You’re dating a rockstar. Does it feel real?”
“Sometimes, yes. Most of the time, no.”
It was unreal to be attached to the Woman of the Hour even if two days ago, it felt like nothing at all. We were just Betty and Mary. We spent time with her dad and ate from a fair food truck. Now, I was here in a VIP room very aware of the status of a woman I adored.
I was now in the thick of it.
Before long, Kaldi approached with a mic, making it clear it wasn’t just about Mary’s fame, either. “And here you are!”
“I’m back,” I said.
“This is so cool! You had such a good idea!”
I blushed.
“So, Astrospectre wants to go, too. And to our surprise, the Zamboneys are going.”
“The Germans and the Brits are going to support the Swedes?”
“I suppose so,” Kaldi said. “A stunning act of solidarity. A must-see moment.”
After topping up with a beer, we followed Kaldi to the stage.
As 4l?t finished their quick soundcheck, I settled in backstage.
Across the stage, a man laughed and gestured.
It was Max Mixxon, the man who hurt Mary.
I tried figuring out what his game and deal were until Astrospectre arrived with the Zamboneys.
Play it cool. Play it cool.
In truth, I wanted to punch that man. Mary hadn’t gotten into specifics, but she also didn’t need to. I watched enough documentaries on child stars to know people preyed on talented young women. The way he stared at Alia and directed her every move spoke volumes.
When Mary arrived, I noted her expression upon spotting Max.
She set her jaw the way she did when deeply uncomfortable.
Ignoring him, she busied herself with finding a chair for her dad, who braved the steps roadies ran up.
He nodded my way, but didn’t act overly familiar.
While he got prime real estate, he stayed off camera.
I figured Mary was protective of her dear father.
I wondered how he felt about Max being there.
Thankfully, there were no blow-ups, and everyone kept to their sides. It was as if for the set, everyone called a truce as Mary and company took the high road. I sighed relief as Mary and Clarice took their place by me, keenly aware that the cameras rolled. At least we had each other.
“So, what are you most excited about?” I asked in my official voice.
“I just want to support them,” Mary answered. “Alia is so young.”
A tenderness in her voice shed light on a sense of protectiveness I’d not seen before. All the while, her gaze remained on Max. If looks could kill, the swarmy Swede would have been dead twice over.
4l?t began with their newest single, Caroline, a single about a mean girl that had a great chorus. The crowd was into it.
“She’s slaying,” Clarice said.
“Ja! She’s got it!” A German added.
As much as Jason, her DJ counterpart, tried to upstage her, Alia was in her element.
They played another upbeat song about a high school boyfriend.
The crowd bounced along. An awkward pause took over as there was a shuffle on stage.
Max raced out to hand a guitar to Alia. He whispered something that made her face drop.
She argued—mic off—as Jason worked the crowd.
Finally, as if she’d just lost a war, Alia nodded nervously and looked back at the crowd.
“Leave her alone, asshole,” Mary muttered in Swedish. Then, in English, “He’s about to ruin her set.”
Alia picked up her guitar and tried to play it off. “Uh… we have some friends backstage in the house!”
She turned, hand raised to us. “We have Astrospectre and the Zamboneys, who are playing later!”
The crowd erupted.
Alia looked more nervous, continuing. “And in tribute to a Swede backstage—as a Swede—I thought we would play a classic written by one of them.”
Her voice broke up.
“Don’t do it. Don’t do it,” Clarice said.
“Do what?” I asked.
A German muttered something. Their faces looked on in horror as the band began. “Aww! Denne Vibe.”
Confused, I furrowed my eyebrow. “From 4Tune?”
The song was a huge hit in Sweden when I was a child. I remember the girl power group’s vibrant outfits—a bunch of teen girls who felt aspirational to young women and lusted after by my bevy of brothers.
“So, obviously, we’re doing an ode to Swedish music history with this one. Do we have any Scandinavians in the audience?” Jason asked as Alia continued to strum the intro chords.
I shouted along with the impressive contingent of audience members.
“Well, represented,” Jaz noted.
I wasn’t surprised. And while I understood there were dozens of top-notch Swedes and Scandinavians everywhere, I had little knowledge of Swedish pop music history—something that was about to bite my ass.
I turned to a silent Mary whose eyes settled on Max.
“This is a tribute to Mary and 4Tune,” she said, nervously.
I turned to Mary, who squinted, as if about to cry. She walked off. I assumed she was leaving, but she inched closer. She waved at Alia who was melting down like a deer in headlights.
“What is she doing?” I whispered.
“Going to save her,” Clarice answered.
I finally put it all together in my memory.
Mary was MJen, the teenage lead singer of 4Tune.
This childhood song my brothers all loved, but I didn’t quite care for was the foundation of Mary’s career and pain.
And now, here was the baby popstar being forced to try and outplay Mary before she played her own set on the main stage.
Alia didn’t want this bad blood, and she was worried the crowd might crucify her.
Mary was being fucked with by a man who only hurt her.
Anger bubbled up at the puppet master smirking across the stage.
I watched Mary gesture, pointing at herself as she walked out.
“What is Mary doing?” I gasped.
“I don’t know. Mary does what she does. You know that,” Clarice whispered.
I grasped it. Alia was waving Mary on. Jason held out a mic, confused, and Mary took the stage.
As she appeared, the crowd went crazy. If Mary were dying inside, she didn’t skip a beat and showed no sign of discomfort.
Alia played them in and they sang—a sappy, comforting song of old I hadn’t heard in at least a decade.
“She’s just a class act,” one German laughed. “So sweet of her. I wouldn’t have it in me.”
“She is so sweet when she wants to be,” I said, overly familiar. “She always says she’s prickly, but not now.”
Mary and Alia sounded unstoppable. With Mary’s abundant confidence, Alia came alive. They covered the song with ease and even I began to sing along. Jaz looked at me like I was insane, but she’d never get it.
When the song finished, the crowd was completely beyond help. Mary gave Alia a big hug, then handed her mic back to Jason and exited with a small wave. The queen left the castle with a mic drop. As Alia took on her big number, Mary settled next to me. And that’s where the trouble began.
Instinctively, I looped my fingers in hers, “I am a baby, so I totally didn’t know you were MJen—”
“Please never bring it up again,” Mary said. “I don’t like to talk about MJen. She’s dead, okay?”
I cocked my head. “Are you okay?”
Marit shook her head. “No. But I didn’t relish the idea of Alia out there having the same thing happen to her that happened to me at a festival in Denmark—all because of him.”
“Well, that was the kindest thing I’ve seen in an eternity, Mary. I’m so proud of you.”
She shrugged. “I just want to survive the evening.”
That was the most I’d get from her and didn’t pry. I knew pushing buttons on the day of a major performance was the least kind thing I could do.