"We need to cancel the meet and greet," Elton, my manager, says.

His voice is muffled and it comes from somewhere outside the closed door of the green room, where I'm being transformed into a teen pop superstar through the magic of makeup and wardrobe. Cayden Indigo is a creation, to a degree. Bright wigs, glittery eyeshadow, stylish clothes, bubbly and larger-than-life stage personality—my life in front of the crowds is a vibrant, candy-like confection. Away from the stage and the cameras, I'm just Deni Reese, a girl who would rather be wearing jeans and a T-shirt with my hair thrown back in a messy bun.

Elton is probably talking to my mom. I raise my hand, the signal for Brynn, my makeup artist, to pause. She stops fussing over highlighter and moves the brush she's wielding away from my face.

"Can you ask Elton to come in here?" I request.

Brynn nods, which causes her dark curls to bounce around her shoulders. She crosses the room and opens the door. "Elton, Deni is asking for you."

She returns to my side again, squinting while she inspects my face. Satisfied, she sets the highlighter brush down on a table.

Elton walks in a few seconds later. For someone who spends his time behind the scenes in music, he has remarkable presence when he enters a room or is in front of an audience—more presence, even, than some of the musicians I've performed with. There's no missing him tonight with his spiky ginger hair, cobalt-framed glasses, and bronze leather jacket.

"The line outside is crazy," he greets me. "Ready to make some magic?"

"Right after you tell me why you just said we're canceling the meet and greet." I fold my arms in front of my chest and offer him my best don't-mess-with-me expression. "You know that's a big deal for me."

"Your safety is a bigger deal," Elton replies. "Security was stuck behind an accident on the freeway and just got here. They still need to do a sweep and make sure everything is locked down, which means the doors are opening late. They can't do your meet and greet without everything else getting even more delayed."

"I'm meeting a fourteen-year-old fan and her mom," I remind him. "Do we really need security for that?"

"We do while you're on my watch. You know that's not negotiable. Besides, the limo driver for the meet and greet winner called ahead and said they're running behind because of traffic, too. They're not even here yet."

"Can we at least move the meet and greet to after the show instead of canceling it?" I plead. "I'll pay for security to stay later if I need to. This is important."

"I'll check on it," Elton agrees. He takes his phone from his pocket and starts typing on it as he turns and leaves the room.

"Just lipstick and then we're done," Brynn tells me. She applies something that looks like the color of a watermelon popsicle to my lips, followed by a layer of gloss that gives my lip color an iridescent shine. I hop out of my chair the second she finishes, already restless after sitting for the time it took to have my makeup done.

My wig for tonight is a vivid pink, shoulder-length bob, adorned with a rhinestone hairband that will sparkle on stage. I'm wearing my favorite gold ankle boots, a black fringed skirt, and a sleeveless gold top that catches the light as I move. Between the hair, clothes, makeup, and false eyelashes, I'm almost a cartoon caricature of myself, but I like having the separation between my public persona and my everyday life. It's helped make me difficult to recognize on the occasions I've wanted to blend in and do something normal since I became famous, like go for a hike at Runyon Canyon or take a walk on the beach in Malibu.

I don't do these things with Bowie unless I'm dressed up as Cayden. There's no separation between public and private life with him, and he doesn't disguise himself when he goes out. His platinum blond hair, aviator sunglasses, athletic frame, and apple red Maserati convertible make him instantly recognizable, which means I'm also easy to recognize when I'm with him. The colorful wigs, makeup, and Cayden-style clothes go on when we're together, since the paparazzi are our constant companions. I'd like to keep the ability to go out without Bowie and not be noticed for as long as I can, so it's better to not have photos of me as I really look splashed all over the internet.

Knuckles rap against the doorframe, and then Mom pokes her head in the room. She's checking on me like she always does before a show. Looking at her is like gazing at an older version of myself when I'm not getting ready for a concert. We share the same eye color and natural hair color, and we have the same smile.

"Is everything all set?" she asks.

"Mmm-hmm," I answer. "I'm just about to do some warm-ups, and then I'll be ready for the show."

"No warm-up vocals without your opening band," Sawyer calls out from the hall. "Get out here, already."

"So this is what the tour is going to be like," I call back, teasing him. I head for the door. "Who knew my opening act would be so demanding?"

"Someone has to keep things running around here." A grin lights up Sawyer's face. Like me, he's also exchanged his sound check clothes for a flashier look, complete with a black fedora and patterned button-down shirt. "Let's do this."

* * *

I listen to Sawyer's performance from backstage, careful to stay out of the wings so I remain out of sight from anyone in the crowd. Sawyer's band deserves the spotlight and everyone's full attention while they're on. My moment will come soon enough.

The familiar pre-show butterflies are starting to take hold of my stomach. I've performed more times than I can remember, but the ripple of nervous anticipation before I sing never fully goes away. I've learned how to transform this into high energy once I'm on stage, which is something almost anyone who performs in front of people has to figure out how to do.

Every nerve ending in my body feels like a live wire by the time it's my turn to go on. I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, then square my shoulders. I stride across the stage and take my spot in front of my band, listening to the cheers that have already begun.

I'm at center stage when the curtain opens, singing the opening lines of my first song a cappella before my band joins in, one instrument at a time. The roar of the audience hits a new decibel level and, as always, it seems as though I'm in the middle of a dream. I feed off of their enthusiasm and become a blur of motion on the stage. My band and I flow seamlessly from the opening number to the second song, which is one of my hit singles from the last year. Just when it seems like the show-goers couldn't be more into it and alive, their energy soars to new heights.

I'm at the final verse of the second song when something changes. The shrieks of excitement don't sound excited anymore. If anything, the voices I hear sound terrified. I try to ignore it and keep my focus on finishing the song, but then I catch sight of a group of teenagers near the center of the club. Two of the girls have pink hair similar to my wig, and they're wearing tank tops I recognize from my merchandise table. They turn their backs to the stage and their movements are frantic as they try to push through the rows of people behind them.

I hear it before I understand. The explosion rings in my ears, a force so powerful and loud that it nearly knocks me off my feet. A flash of light momentarily blinds me, and then there's the smoke, the debris, and the disbelief. I stand frozen in place, my screams lost amid all the others echoing into the night.

I can't move, I can't gain control of my senses, and I can't look away. I stare out at the crowd, floaters from the flash of light still dotting my vision, and I'm able to make out people lying crumpled on the floor. They're kids like me, and they're covered in blood. A sickening tide of crimson is everywhere. My knees buckle under me, and then everything goes dark.