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Chapter Six
Show two, Portland, was just a short hop down the coast, but Remy was asleep by the time they pulled in. When he finally rose the next morning, David and Michael were already awake, sipping coffee in the galley and talking about going out for lunch. Remy made himself a cup of coffee, while Michael rose and parted the blinds to peer outside. “Fucking hell, man.”
“Huh?”
“Look,” Michael said and stepped aside so Remy could look for himself. In the streaky predawn light, a thick row of teen girls and, Remy presumed, their mothers stood along the fence that separated the loading area from the Portland arena’s parking lots. They had signs—VIVI I’M 15 TODAY, or ALL THE WAY FROM TEXAS—WORTH IT FOR VIVI, or just VIVI SWAN 4 LIFE. They even looked like her—sundresses with cardigans, long hair in side braids, a few with her trademark cherry-red lipstick.
“I can’t believe they didn’t wake you up when we pulled in,” David told Remy. “They were screaming so loud, I thought it was the apocalypse. Every tour with her, they get bigger and louder. Last year they realized she couldn’t have her name on her bus anymore—they used to swarm in front of it and chant, and it was a nightmare.”
“Least it means she’s selling?” Remy said.
Michael gave him a look. “Yeah, yeah, and you don’t care about the gender of the baby as long as it’s healthy, right?”
The show went well—so identical to the one the previous night that for a moment Remy felt turned around, unsure if they’d already performed a song or not. This never happened with Quiet Coyote; every show was different and alive and its own indigo child. He paid slightly more attention to her conversations with the audience this time, trying to pick out how they were different from the night before. The words all had the same shape, but there were different pauses, different laughs, hallmarks that her words were genuine. Things that made all fifty thousand people feel special, like she was a close friend rather than someone they’d paid dearly to see.
When it was over—there were fireworks that lit the sky at this show during the finale, since it was an open-top arena—the lights faded, the audience filed out, their voices hoarse and raspy from shouting lyrics. Unlike the previous show, though, security held the crew in their dressing rooms.
“What’s the problem?” Parish asked as Remy made another turkey sandwich from the craft services table.
“Half the damn arena filed to those fences on the exterior to see her load up,” one of the enormous security guys said. “We’re trying to get her bus to the front so she doesn’t have to walk by the fence.”
Michael nodded, stretching his hands behind his head and stifling a few curse words. It was already two hours after the show; arena security, rather than just Vivi’s team, was starting to file back and forth in the hallways on golf carts or Segways.
“I can just run. I’m capable of running.” Remy heard Vivi’s voice. He rose and went to the doorway, along with the rest of the band. The dancers were all in hoodies and sweatpants, their faces scrubbed clean of makeup and hair knotted on top of their heads. They were clustered together; the five girls that made up the show’s opening band looked more excited at the drama than weary.
“We’d really rather you not do that, Miss Swan,” someone—a member of arena security—said. “They’re not thinking straight right now. If the fence gives, we’ll have injuries. Even if it doesn’t give, we don’t want anyone to get stepped on.”
“It’s not going to stop until I leave,” Vivi said. “What if we just say I took a private car out earlier?”
“We’ve tried that. We’re trying to scramble the buses so yours is in front. Probably something you want to do at future concerts,” the security guy said rather pointedly to Walter’s assistant.
“I’ll just get on whatever bus is in front, and we’ll switch somewhere, then,” Vivi said.
“We can try, Vivi,” Walter’s assistant said as calmly as possible, “but it’s eleven fifty. If the drivers stop after midnight, it constitutes a full day, and we’ll have to either wait for them to sleep or wait for new drivers. Also, there’s a load of paps out there too, most of them on motorcycles—you’ll have to deal with them if you switch.”
Vivi took a big breath then blew it out. Her makeup was still flawless—so much so that Remy suspected she’d had it touched up. She’d changed, not into overnight riding clothes like the rest of the group but into heels and shorts that made her look impossibly leggy.
“So we just wait…forever?”
“Give us some time,” the security guy said.
But an hour later, the crowd was still there—smaller but still there—and now it was nearing 1:00 a.m. The busses had shuffled a bit, getting Vivi’s as close to the door as possible. Walter’s assistant stood on a chair and announced the order the buses were in.
“Get on them, don’t turn on the lights, don’t try to put anything underneath. Got it? We just need to clear out,” he said. The crew, who by this point was exhausted, nodded. The opening band, Kitten Kitten, ran out first, then the dancers, who were instructed to keep their heads up lest the crowd mistake any of them for Vivi in disguise. They were spacing out the exits so there wasn’t a sudden spike in insanity.
“Alright, band, move,” a security member said. David, Michael, Parish, and Remy gathered, bags slung over their shoulders. They waited for a nod from one of Vivi’s security team guys then pushed through the door.
It was like walking into a wall of soprano sound, which was really saying something given the show he’d just played. On the stage, though, there was some degree of space between him and the screaming; here, they were separated by the width of a bus and some chain link. The crowd started pounding on the fence, signs waving, eyes lit up in glints and bolts and sparkles, and Remy, for the first time in his entire career, found himself afraid of fans. They looked like they’d eat him whole before they even realized what they’d done.
The bus door swung open, and for a second, Remy thought it odd that the regular driver wasn’t the one at the wheel. It wasn’t until he’d filed on behind the other four that he realized why. Despite matching exteriors, this bus was very, very different—because it was Vivi’s bus. They’d gotten on the wrong one, somehow. They’d been told to get on the wrong one; there must have been some mistake amid all the chaos. Remy spun around and took the stairs two at a time—their bus was probably the next one in line, a simple mistake. He winced under the noise of the crowd and ran to the other bus, leaping on board—yes! His normal driver was in the driver’s seat, looking as overwhelmed as Remy felt.
“Where’s the rest of them?” the driver asked. Remy turned to look behind him and realized the rest of the band hadn’t followed him—they were on Vivi’s bus, which was pulling away, through a tunnel of blue-jacketed security guards pressed against the fence. The door to the arena opened again, and the crowd grew somehow louder, and the fences pitched precariously forward. Remy watched as the people in the front—a position that had probably been hard-won—went from excited to frightened, as the weight of the people behind pushed them into the chain link. They were girls, probably Remy’s little sister’s age, and their eyes went wide with fear. Remy’s stomach lurched—
“Wait, this isn’t right!” a voice said—Vivi’s voice. Remy spun to face her. She looked at him, then the driver, then shook her head. “Forget it, just go!”
“You sure, Miss Swan?”
“Go, hurry, before they crash the fence!” Vivi said frantically, pushing past Remy and dropping her purse into one of the galley seats. The driver nodded, closed the door, and urged the bus forward. Vivi lunged for a switch to turn the lights on and waved goodbye, smiling happily at the crowd as they passed. Her makeup was still perfect. There was no indication—not even a hair out of place—that gave away how anxious her voice had been moments before.
