Lost in You

having my fans wait. They expect me on the stage at eight and that’s where I’ll be.
    Alex holds my hand as we walk the long hallway. The chanting gets louder the closer we get. She squeezes my fingers. She gets so excited before each show. Me, I just get nervous. Not the butterfly nervous – no, I’ve never felt that – but the I’m-going-to-hurl nervous.
    We stand on the side of the stage and I can see some of the fans. There are signs that say I love you, Hadley hanging from the second floor seats. Little girls are standing, looking for any sight of me. Sometimes I just want to run out there and sit on the stage and talk to them. Each and every one of them, but I’ll never get that opportunity.
    The lights go down and the crowd gets louder. ‘Hadley, Hadley’ echoes throughout the venue. My band starts up and that’s my cue in this tight leather contraption and hair sticking out everywhere to get on stage, all for my first three songs.
    I kiss Alex and give her a hug before doing our secret handshake. I can barely see it’s so dark. I count the steps I took earlier, remembering my movements so I don’t trip or walk off the front of the stage. When I’m in center, I take a deep breath and count to three. My foot starts moving to the beat of my song.
    When the spotlight comes on, it’s just me and the light. I sing with my eyes closed. When the first verse is over all the remaining lights come on and I can finally see my fans here to sing with me, and I’m reminded why I’m up here.
    I love it.

CHAPTER 3
    Ryan
     
    The things I do for friends. Well, actually just one friend. If anyone else had asked me to attend a concert where there are five men – or are they boys? – dancing around and gyrating their junk in our faces, I would’ve given them a resounding hell no .
    Yet I stand here, for Dylan, while she paws at these dudes in white pants. What guy wears white pants anyway? She freaks out each time one of them touches her and yells loudly in my ear that she’s never washing her hand. I want to remind her that she has other peoples’ germs on her because they’ve touched a lot of people and themselves throughout their performance. Watching Dylan sing the lyrics while I stand stiff-legged, being jostled between her and the girl on the other side of me, is a bit annoying. I should step out into the aisle and allow them more space to get closer, but Dylan would freak.
    It’s times like this that I want to be different. I want to be in the center of the crowd, jumping up and down and singing along. I want to be able to walk out to the concourse and buy a hotdog or even a t-shirt to remember the night like every other teenager in the country. Why my parents are so strict about money, I’ll never know. Both of them work, so where does all their money go to?
    When the group leaves the stage, Dylan grabs my hand with the hand she said she was never going to wash, sharing the boy band germs with me. She pulls me through the crowd, saying “excuse me” each time we bump into someone else. Once we clear the row, she turns and faces me.
    “Are you having fun?”
    “Of course,” I lie.
    “Isn’t the front row the most amazing thing ever?”
    “Yeah, it’s pretty cool.” I will give her that. Being in the front row at a packed concert is definitely an experience. Something I would’ve never had the opportunity to do if it wasn’t for her. “Are you thirsty? You were singing your little heart out.”
    “I am,” she says, pulling us through the entryway. Instead of turning left where the concession stands are, she turns us right and we smack into security. She shows him the lanyards that hang from our necks and he signals for us to go through. She drops my hand as soon as we come to another door with another security guard. With our lanyards shown again, we enter.
    The room is bustling with people. I look around and notice it’s the group we just watched, the white pants boy band . The guys are loud and animated. There’s a table full of food that Dylan leads me to. She hands me a plate and takes hers and starts filling it up.
    “Are you sure this is okay?”
    “Totally, it’s part of the package.”
    I follow behind her, trusting that what we’re doing isn’t breaking any rules. When our plates are full we find a place to sit down. We’re eating just finger foods, but I don’t care; everything tastes amazing when you’re hungry.
    “Do you want to meet the band?” she asks in