When I Look at the Stars, I Feel Like Myself

Nervous energy flows from my finger tips to the stings of my unplugged guitar. Two songs repeat in my head, their notes translating to my Schecter. Those two songs will be performed with such precision tonight that the minds of the crowd and the judges will be blown.

Performing. It's amazing, it truly is. It's almost magical. But that magical experience is nerve wrecking. To go on a stage and bare your soul to a crowd regardless of size elicits enough anxiety to power a large city for a year. Being under those blazing lights, faces staring up at you, expectations higher than the volume of your amp can cause anyone to be nervous.

Or maybe that's just me.

I love the aftereffects of performing. That high you get from being in front of so many people and playing your hardest. There's nothing better than that. No drug, no alcohol, no addiction. Nothing gets you that high, makes you feel like you can't be touched.

I'm sure some druggies, alcoholics, self-injurers, and other addicts would disagree, but the highs you get from those addictions are never the same as performing. Those are coping mechanisms. Performing is something completely different.

Performing is perfection.

"I'm so pumped." The voice cuts through my thought processes, throwing my fingers from the correct strings.

I direct my attention to the owner of the voice, the male sitting in the corner. His blonde and black hair is perfectly straightened. The Jones Soda on the table hops in rhythm with the tempo he creates with his drumsticks.

Who let Dalton have a Jones Soda?

One glance around the room shows me I'm not the only one whose concentration has been thrown off with his sporadic statement. On the couch, both Riley and Elina have their eyes on him. Riley's left hand clutches the neck of the bass in her lap, her right arm wrapped around the body. Elina's eyebrow is arched, corners of her mouth pulled into a frown, fingers halted over her invisible keyboard. Seated on the flimsy folding table, Calvin has his mouth set in a firm line, melodies no longer being produced by his vocal cords.

Yep, our drummer threw everyone in the band off with one statement.

"Dalton, hun, we know you're pumped. You don't need to announce it," I say.

"It was so quiet, though, Holli-bear. I needed to say something," Dalton responds.

"It was quiet for a reason," Calvin snaps, his brown eyes shining with frustration.

"Shut up, Calvin," Dalton returns.

"Would you two not fight before we perform? 'Kay, thanks," Riley says, fixing her hands on her bass.

"I agree. Fighting before a performance, not cool," Elina states, flicking her hair from her eyes.

"If I call it a 'love tap,' is it still fighting?" Dalton asks.

"Yes, Dalton," I sigh, fiddling with a strand of my blue hair.

Having abnormal colored hair isn't that hard to deal with. I mean, it is difficult to get a normal job, but it would seem hard to find matching clothing because it's not a neutral. Electric blue creates its own color pallet. One color misstep in attire and you could easily come off mismatching. But it's not that bad. Not for me at least. My guitar is white with black trim. It matches with everything. That's never a worry. As for clothing, well, I wear a lot of black.

Black is slimming.

Dalton pouts, crossing his arms over his chest and slouching in his chair. Calvin juts his tongue out at him, and Dalton returns the gesture. I sigh again.

Children.

Calvin's the same age as me and he still acts like a toddler at times. Then again, he is barely nineteen, and he did have to grow up pretty fast. He has every right to revert back to a childish stage from time to time.

Dalton, we just blame everything he does on him being gay.

The door to the backstage room opens, revealing our manager. The tattoo that stretches across his collarbones is visible in his V-neck shirt.

"Ross," Dalton exclaims.

"Hey, Dalton," Ross smiles warmly at our drummer.

They're cousins. Ross has been there for Dalton through everything. Even when the rest of his family abandoned him, Ross stuck with him. It only seemed fitting to have Ross as a manager after all he's done for Dalton. He's a good guy, and he's reliable.

"Where's RJ?" Calvin asks.

Calvin's little brother.

"He's almost eighteen, Calvin. He can take care of himself in a bar. Don't have a conniption fit," Ross states, "Plus, our street team people needed help handing out flyers. He offered because he was done setting up equipment."

RJ is good at handling our equipment. I don't think we would trust just anyone to set up everything properly. Sure, we could do it on our own, but when you have to perform, you don't want to focus on setup. That's the farthest thing from my mind at least. I'd probably plug everything in wrong in a nervous rush, thereby making a fool of myself in front of the crowd.

And then I'd run off stage, straight to a restroom.

RJ's here to make sure we don't fuck up, and he does a good job at watching our backs. He catches on quickly, too. If I want my amp settings fixed differently, he makes sure to make it happen everytime after the first correction. He's the perfect kid to help us out.

Not to mention he's uber adorable.

Who wouldn't want to pinch those cheeks?

"Are you sure he's fine?" Calvin asks.

"Yes. You guys, on the other hand, have," he glances at his cell phone, "two minutes before your performance. Get to the side of the stage. Guitarist and bassist, hook up your shit."

Dalton shoots from his seat. "Let's do this," he shouts and rushes from the room.

With a sigh, Calvin stands up, "I swear, I'm going to kill your cousin."

"You're just stressed, Cal," Elina says, "You'll be back to being best friends with Dalton after the performance."

"When was I best friends with him?"

Dalton appears in the doorway, "You love me." With that statement in the air, he rushes away from the room again.

One can only hope he's going the right way.

"You guys should get out there before you get disqualified," Ross says.

"Sure thing," Riley stands, bass situated around her neck.

Elina and I copy her actions, standing from our seats. I make sure my guitar strap is set properly over my shoulder before letting the body of the guitar go. One hand remains tightly around the neck.

I'm not letting my Schecter Hellraiser die. Countless hours worked at the ice-cream shop went into buying this thing. I'm never getting rid of it. If anything were to happen to it, I don't know how I would cope.

I'm sure it would include hours in the bathroom to makeup for the work that went into getting the guitar.

Calvin leads the way out of the room. The walk to the side of the stage is short. This isn't the biggest bar. We were sharing the backstage room with another band, but after they performed, they decided to get drunk.

Probably try to get laid, too.

It's none of my business what grown men do.

Dalton, thankfully, is standing by the stage, twirling his drumsticks in anticipation. I grab my instrument cable from Ross' outstretched hand and plug it into my guitar. I take a deep breath, hoping to calm my over excited nerves with oxygen.

I'm so not ready to go out there.

Ross presses the headset to his ear for a moment and nods. He looks at us, points his finger to the stage and says, "Go."

Still not ready to go out there.

Dalton is the first to scramble onto the stage and take his spot behind his drum set. Calvin follows his lead, turning on his sparkling smile before exposing himself. In a row, Riley, Elina, and I follow after him. Elina takes her place behind the keyboard, and Riley positions herself on her side of the stage.

Riley and I switch places from time to time in the middle of sets, but this stage is far too small to be pulling stuff like that. We'd probably break something or get tangled in each other's wires. Not a smart risk to take at a competition.

At a show, maybe. At a competition, never.

"How are you doing tonight?" Calvin asks in his microphone.

The crowd screams in response. I can feel my heart beating rapidly against my chest, anticipation high. I can't see the faces of the crowd over the blinding lights, but I can feel them. They can see me. They can see every imperfection. I feel like an animal spread out on a table for dissection.

"Who's drunk?" Calvin continues.

Louder screams.

Maybe they're too drunk to notice any of my imperfections.

I glance around the stage, taking in the tiny frames of my band mates. I turn my eyes back to the crowd, unable to look down at my own body. Who am I kidding? Black clothing can only hide so much.

"Well, then, you probably won't remember what I'm about to say, but my name is Calvin Reigh. Over there, on the keyboard, is Elina Burgundy, with her spectacularly teased locks. Blondie on the bass guitar is Riley Wilson. On the drums is my good friend Dalton Baker. The blue haired guitarist to my left is Holland Kingston. And we are You First," Calvin shouts, "Who's ready for a show?"

Drunken cheers bombard the stage. Dalton taps his sticks lightly three times, just loud enough for us to hear, and our set commences. As we perform, my movements feel almost choreographed. Each smile, step, hand motion during pauses. We've practiced these songs so many times, by now all my moves would seem choreographed. Certain movements stick during practice and get replicated on stage, even if you are performing to the fullest with adrenaline surging through your veins. Those actions become habit.

This is why instructors tell you not to practice the wrong thing.

It feels as if seconds have passed, but Calvin is bidding the crowd farewell, wishing them happy drinking, and thanking them for listening. We're piling off the stage, smiles on our faces, sweat glistening from our skin. Our two songs are done. All that's left is to have the judges decide who the winner is, and for me to run to a bathroom. Regardless of how high my adrenaline is, I'll need to go there.

It's one of those habits that stuck.

"Good job, guys," Ross compliments.

"That was amazing," Dalton says.

"Dude, I know," Calvin says, joining us backstage. He drapes his arm over Dalton's shoulder.

"What did I tell him? Right after the performance, he's back to being friends with Dalton," Elina says.

"Calvin doesn't listen to anyone when he's nervous. You should know that by now," Riley states.

"Hey, I'm going to the restroom real quick," I say, handing my guitar to Ross.

"But we're about to go on stage for judging," Riley protests.

"You guys can go up there without me."

"What if the judges don't recognize us without your blue-haired, pale self standing on stage with us?" Dalton asks.

"You'll be fine," I state, "Let me go to the restroom before I pee on myself."

I don't really need to pee, but they'll believe it.

"Okay," Dalton huffs.

"Thank you. I'll meet you guys backstage."

"Hurry up."

I roll my eyes and walk through the small backstage area to the bathrooms. I found out where these were the second we got here. It's always necessary to know where a bathroom is. You never know when you're going to need it.

The woman's restroom sign is like a beacon of hope. I push the door open, step inside, and let the door shut behind me. There is no noise coming from the stalls, no women standing about. With quick movements, I check under each stall. Finding no feet dangling below the stall doors, I walk to the sinks and lean against one, facing the mirror, studying the image it flashes back at me.

Chubby, chubby, chubby.

I take a shaky breath and pull my blue eyes away from the mirror. There's nothing remotely perfect about what I saw in there. There never is anything perfect in the mirror.

I walk to the stall farthest from the door of the women's restroom, the handicap stall, fingers tracing the ever-present gum packet in my back pocket. I lock the door to the stall behind me and turn to the toilet. The grime coating the tile flooring is a sign that I'm not kneeling on that tonight. The stains that would appear on my knees would give away everything I'm going to do.

A few short steps bring me to a safe distance in front of the toilet. I search my mind for a moment, trying to remember my food marker.

Cheetos.

It normally is Cheetos. They're orange and easy to identify. Not to mention perfect for binges. I haven't eaten anything besides that today, though, so the food marker is pointless.

I take one more shaky breath before leaning over the toilet. Out of automatic nature, my index finger shoves itself down my throat as far as it can go without causing my knuckles to push too hard against my teeth. A few wiggles of the finger and the Cheetos are traveling through the system in the reverse of which they entered. I pull my hand from my mouth to keep it safe from the oncoming food. Orangey substance spews from my mouth and splatters into the toilet, the force causing tears to perch in my eyes. Over and over, I repeat the process until I'm sure the food is out of my system.

Food collecting in my body cancels out how good I feel after a performance.

I spit the remains of vomit from my mouth and straighten, grabbing a chunk of toilet paper from the dispenser and dabbing my mouth. I toss the paper haphazardly, watching it drift into the orangey mess in the toilet. A vibration runs through my pocket, distracting me from getting rid of the evidence of what I've done. Flushing the toilet, I fish my cell phone from my pocket and hold it up to my face. "1 new message from Riley" fills the small box on the touch screen. With the hand I didn't use to vomit, I tap the "read" button. The message opens on the screen within seconds.

'Get 2 bckstge rm now' the message reads.

Why do they need me in the backstage room? Riley even misspelled words. She never does that unless she's in a rush. Dalton, on the other hand, has a habit of taking all of the vowels from words when he texts.

So what is so important that Riley is the one sending me the misspelled command?

I slip the phone back into my pocket, unlock the stall door, and walk to the sinks. I don't look in the mirror this time. I can't bring myself to.

I go through my normal cleaning routine: washing my hands, swishing water in my mouth to get rid of vomit remains, and sticking a piece of mint-flavored gum into my mouth.

Can't have my breath smelling like vomit.

My cell phone vibrates again. Rolling my eyes at the impatience of my band mates, I take it out of my pocket, pressing the "read" button without comprehending the words telling me who sent the message.

'f u dnt gt hr nw, ill rp ur gtr strngs.'

Dalton.

I don't even know what that says. Some threat directed to my guitar strings, I assume.

Does that say "rape"?

Whatever. If there's anything on my guitar when I get back there, Dalton and I will fight.

I type a quick message telling him I'm coming, and leave from the bathroom. The backstage area is so small it takes mere minutes to get to the room we were sharing with our competition.

No one would have heard me vomiting, though. What the backstage area lacks in size, it makes up for in wall thickness.

The lockless door opens with one push of my hand. Various bodies are seated around the room. I don't take time to analyze them before opening my mouth to speak.

"Alright, what's so important that you had to threaten to rape my guitar strings?" I halt once the statement has left my lips, jaw hanging open, eyes stuck to the men taking up the couch.

Is that The Maine?

It can't be.

But they are from Phoenix, and we're in Phoenix. It has to be them.

I just accused my band mate of threatening to rape my guitar in front of The Maine.

Kill me now.

"I said 'rip' not 'rape.' Learn to read," Dalton states.

"What's going on here?" I ask, disregarding Dalton.

"John found me while you guys were receiving your reward and asked to speak with you all," Ross replied.

"Which is why we were telling you to hurry up," Dalton says.

"Oh." I can't say much more than that.

"Take a seat," John O'Callaghan pauses, "Holland, right?"

They know my name.

"Yep," I squeak, walking into the room and taking a seat next to Riley and Elina.

Their eyes are filled with as much excitement as I'm sure mine are. The Maine wants to talk to us. Nothing is more exciting than that.

Except for stepping on a scale and finding I lost ten pounds.

If that happens today, I can die happy.

"Well, as Ross said, we wanted to talk to you," John starts, "You see, we're co-headlining a US tour coming up, and we need an opening act."

"That's where you guys come in," Pat Kirch says, "We watched you perform today, and we'd like you to be our opener."

"Of course, we'll send all the information to your manager. We just wanted to ask first," Kennedy Brock adds.

"Don't you need to run this by the other headliner first?" Calvin asks.

"They should be fine with it," John answers.

"Who is the other headliner?" Riley asks.

"All Time Low."

Dalton releases a short screech. "Jack Barakat is so fine."

Elina groans, her star struck haze broken, "Don't start."

"I'm going to lock him in one of the backrooms and do dirty things to him," Dalton continues.

"We'll do the tour," Calvin cuts in, "And we'll get Dalton a muzzle."

"Awesome. Our manager should send the paperwork either tonight or tomorrow morning," John says. As a group, they stand. "See you guys on tour. Have fun with your prize. We have to head out."

Waving, the group leaves the room. It's quiet, each of us too busy taking in the situation to talk.

We're going on tour with The Maine and All Time Low.

"Wait," I say, breaking the silence, "We placed?"

"First place," Calvin nods.

And we have a five thousand dollar prize.