Hey, Ho, Why Can't We Go?

I glanced in the mirror for the millionth time, and ran my fingers through my long, rusty-red hair once again. My lips curled into a frown at the reflection that stared back at me, with it's liquid green eyes, criticizing every nook and cranny of my face, shape, and outfit. "It's not perfect yet," I insisted, and took off the leather jacket that draped my shoulders, replacing it with a black, levi jacket that reached down to my waist. My nose scrunched up, and I, once again, threw the jacket across the room. "Nothing is good for the sodding show!" I complained, slouching into the blue couch backstage.

My eyes traveled around the setting, taking in all the details of the new area. It was nothing special - quite boring, really. There were two small couches and several cushioned chairs, a couple small tables, and stands for musical instruments. The four walls were a very light blue, contrasting with the black cushions and couches. Every time we had a new gig in a new place, the setting was totally different. This was New York - wasn't it supposed to be glamorous and beautiful? Of course it was! Yet the backstage in London was much more promising.

I stood from my seat and walked over to the wardrobe we'd brought in once again. I scowled at each piece of clothing, and sighed irritably. "I guess there's just going to be no jacket," I concluded, and looked down at the white tank top that hung loosely on my upper body, and the ripped, black skinny jeans that hugged my legs - all topped with a pair of black boots. "Well, you're so very creative, now, aren't you Ayria? Black and White. Honestly - you need to start getting some color in there," I muttered, and looked at the rest of the band members.

"I really hope you guys are ready. Tonight is a big night. Our New York debut!"