As for Angel, I’d bet anything I own he’s eye-fucking the audience, adding in little pelvic-pop movements and half-kicks at the end of his steps, even though he’s not allowed to. Our choreographer, Valeria, is constantly calling him out in our post-show notes meetings for that. “You’re standing out too much,” she says. But we all know the real problem is that our management team has spent two years branding him as the virginal, innocent guy girls would want to take home to their parents, when really he’s anything but.
After the chorus, we move into our next positions, and I catch a glimpse of Zach. His chestnut-brown hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. They have me and Zach both in jackets, a bomber for me and leather for him. Let me tell you, with the lights bearing down on us and the smoke clogging the air and the body heat from the audience packed into the enclosed stadium, it’s over a hundred degrees up here at the best of times. It’s a miracle our onstage mishaps haven’t included heatstroke yet.
Zach catches my gaze and shoots me a brief smile before turning back to the audience. I realize I’m staring, and I quickly tear my eyes away. In my defense, our hair and makeup artist, Penny, a curvy woman in her mid-twenties, has him growing his hair out for this tour, and it’s the kind of length that’s made to scream sex when it’s slick with sweat. I’m only noticing what most of the audience has already noticed. In fact, the only one who doesn’t seem to notice how good Zach looks is Zach.
I let my mind go blank and allow the music to sweep me into autopilot, spinning and stepping and jumping in a dance my body knows by heart. The song finishes, the lights sign off in a blaze of orange and yellow, and we freeze, panting, as the crowd leaps to their feet. Zach takes the chance to push his damp hair off his forehead, tipping his head back as he does so to expose his throat.
Shit. I’m staring again.
I force myself to focus on Jon making his way center stage, where he directs the crowd to thank the musicians, and the security team, and the sound and lighting team. Then it’s Thank you so much, Orlando, we’ve been Saturday, good night! and we’re waving, and the cheering is so loud it drowns itself out into near silence, and we’re jogging backstage.
And that’s it. The American leg of the Months by Years tour is done, just like that.
Erin, a tall woman in her forties with a rounded figure and long auburn hair, meets us as we step off the stage onto the gray concrete of the backstage area. “Congratulations, guys!” she says in her booming voice, holding a hand up to high-five us all in turn. “I am so proud of you! It’s a wrap!”
As our tour manager, Erin’s kind of the standin for our absent parents when we’re on the road. She’s responsible for our schedule, our rules, disciplining us, congratulating us, remembering our birthdays and allergies, and making sure we’re where we’re supposed to be all day, every day.
I like Erin enough as a person, but, as with all Chorus Management employees, I never let my guard down around her completely. Chorus Management might be the team that markets, promotes, and organizes us, but they’re also the team that molded us into the shape we take today. The team that strictly enforces who we speak to, and what we say, and what freedoms we have.
As far as freedom goes, there isn’t a whole lot of it. So, I try not to give them reasons to limit it further.
We all do.
Zach falls into step beside me as we pass various stage crew. His hair’s fought its way free again, hanging in unruly waves over his still-damp forehead. “Are you okay?” he asks beneath his breath.
My cheeks warm. I’d forgotten about slipping. “Yeah, fine, I don’t think anyone noticed,” I whisper.
“Who cares if people noticed, I just wanna know you’re okay.”
“Yes, forget about it.”
“Why wouldn’t he be okay?” Angel asks, forcing his way between us and throwing his arms around each of our shoulders. Given Angel’s half a head shorter than me, while Zach clears six feet, this isn’t an easy task for him. “We’re done. We’re going home tomorrow!”
“For four days,” Jon says wryly as he falls into step with us.
“Uh-huh, thank you, Captain Obvious, I can count,” Angel says, side-eyeing Jon. “A, I’ll take the four days of downtime if I can get them, and B, within those four days will be the biggest event of your lives.”
“Oh, is your birthday party bigger than the Grammys, now?” I ask.
“And the Billboard Music Awards?” Zach adds, throwing me a smirk.
“Both,” Angel says. “There’s gonna be peacocks.”
Jon snorts, and wipes the grin off his face when Angel shoots daggers at him. “I can still withdraw your invitation,” Angel says.
“No, please, I can’t miss the peacocks.” Jon flips around so he’s walking backward, clasping his hands together toward Angel.
“Thin. Ice. Braxton.”
We reach the dressing rooms, where our team is waiting to undress us. Surrounding us are four portable clothes racks, and as we’re systematically stripped, the clothes get tagged and placed in the right order on the hangers to be dry-cleaned. It’s on them to keep meticulous track of the dozens and dozens of outfits, which of the four of us wears what outfit, and when. They make their jobs look as easy and seamless as we do ours, but I don’t envy them the headache.
As someone who grew up performing in musical theater, I’m used to stripping off costumes after a show. The difference here is that while we’re on tour, it’s out of one costume and into another: we don’t get to dress ourselves anytime a camera can see us. Chorus Management chose our roles years ago. When our stylists aren’t juggling the conveyer belt of ensembles for the shows, they’re compiling and purchasing casual outfits for us to keep us on-brand whenever we’re on duty. And we’re always on duty.
Essentially, our clothes—our costumes—tell the story of our personalities. Just not our real ones.