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Chapter One
Ariel
"Her, that one, with the purple top." I point my finger from behind the curtain offstage at a tiny, teenaged white girl who's being bounced around the mosh pit like a pinball between guys twice her size. Her purple top is a near match to my nail polish, the T-shirt a classic throwback. A picture of me and the rest of my Devil May Care bandmates from our first concert tour so many years ago.
"Ariel's made her pick, stage left, purple top, female, dark hair." The stage manager relays my selection into his headset, alerting the security team.
I take a last sip of my room-temperature water and wipe the sweat from my forehead. We've been performing for the last ninety minutes, priming the crowd to the point of exploding. I've stepped offstage to gather myself for one last song.
Our final song.
I'm never nervous about performing, yet I fight to catch my breath. The moment is too big to ignore, even for me.
A stagehand lifts the strap of my purple and yellow guitar over my head, and I mouth thank you. She disappears, and I take a deep inhale. This concert isn't even over yet I already miss it. All of this.
My hand squeezes the neck of the guitar. I brush my dark hair from my eyes and step from behind the curtain back onto the stage.
An enormous eruption of screams greets me, forcing a smile a mile wide onto my face. This is why. This right here is why the stage is my home. Surrounded by my best friends and the people who love what we do. A community of acceptance I never thought I'd find.
I wave to the crowd, still in disbelief. This is my life.
"We love you, Ariel," a young African American girl in a mini-skirt, fishnet stockings, and a black tank top screams over the music.
I step to the microphone center stage and shout out to the crowd, "I love you!" My voice catches as I twist to face my band. My six best friends. "All of you." I sweep my hand at them. Who would have thought me and the six guys I hung out with in high school would travel the path we have? Fifteen years together. Eighteen tours, and our last three albums all breaking into the Billboard top fifty.
The guys return head nods, blow kisses, and form hearts with their hands.
"Well," my fingers find the strings on my guitar, and I join the instrumental melody the band has been entertaining the crowd with. "We've come to that part of the show, the final song." It's not just our final song; it's the last song on the last date of our tour.
A wave of bittersweet nostalgia tugs at my soul, and I fight to remain present. There will be time later for me to sit with the wistful ache of changing times.
My eyes seek a distraction, and it's easy to spot one. The two security guards in their bright gold T-shirts stand behind the tiny girl, who's oblivious to their presence—her attention locked on the stage. I give them a head nod, and they tap her on the shoulder and point to the stage.
"You know what that means." I force a giggle out with words, half the crowd pointing at the security team and the other half at the girl. She finally realizes what's happening. Her screech reaches the stage. I wave her forward, and she presses her palms against her chest. This close, I realize she's younger than I had pegged from backstage. Seventeen at the most, the same age I was when we formed the band. "Welcome to the stage. What's your name?"
She leans toward my microphone with a goofy grin. "Oh, my God. I can't believe this is happening. I'm Nicole."
"Well, Nicole, have you been to a Devil May Care concert before?"
She bounces on her toes and tugs at the bottom of her T-shirt. "This is my third one." She spins and waves to the band. "Dax freaking Jones just waved to me. How is any of this happening?"
Dax is our drummer. African American with the body of a gym rat and the smile of an angel. "Yeah, I've had that same reaction for twenty years now." The girls in the sold-out audience whistle and cheer. Dax is a fan favorite; I've lost count of the number of all-female Facebook groups dedicated to him.
Dax takes a curt bow to the appreciative audience, and with a smirk on his face hands Nicole a tambourine with our band's logo. I lift the microphone and tease, "I think he wants you to play with him."
Shrieks and suggestive whistles fill the auditorium. The scream of one woman, pierces through the noise, "he can play with me anytime.” I giggle and shake my head. Each show we pick one lucky fan to join us on stage for our encore song.
We've argued in the band as to the origin of the routine. We can never settle on whether it was a slow, rainy night in Evansville, or the time we needed a distraction after a fight broke out in the mosh pit in Akron. It doesn't really matter; for the last five years, it's become a concert tradition.
Nicole takes the tambourine in one hand and wraps her other hand around Dax. He's nearly twice her age and gently leads her to the raised spot next to the drum set. From her perch, she'll be able to see every member of the band and the audience.
The song has yet to start yet she's already bouncing and rocking her head from side to side in anticipation. I feel it too. The stage is my happy place. My home.
I raise my hand to pull the focus back to me. "There's no place I'd rather be tonight. I'd like to thank every one of you." Tears of joy mix with the sweat dripping from my forehead. I'm stalling, not wanting to let this moment slip away. I have no idea the next time I'll be here like this, with everyone.
"Nicole, will you do the honors and count us off?" I give her a wink and twist to face my bandmates. Dax raises the drumsticks and whispers something to Nicole I can't hear.
"We are Devil May Care, and this song goes out to you. Here is 'Never Too Late’." I hear the quiver in my voice and don't hide it, not tonight.
