Susane Colasanti - Now and Forever

We watch Sunset Victim start a new song. This time, the girl on keys sings the lead. They’re good. Like, really good. Hearing hot bands that are unknown despite their tremendous talent makes me realize how hard it is to break out. How many awesome bands are there in the world? How many bands stay together for five, ten, even twenty years, refusing to give up on the dream? The fact that so many bands like Sunset Victim exist makes it even more amazing that Ethan is finally blowing up.

“So you’re a big Ethan Cross fan, huh?” the girl asks.

“I’m his biggest fan.”

“Don’t all fans say that?”

“Yeah, but in my case it’s true.”

“Prove it.”

“Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“You’ll see.”

We push our way through the crowd. Ethan showed me the side door that leads backstage when we were here for sound check. He said I should tell the guy guarding the door that I’m on the list.

“You on the list?” the door guard wants to know.

“Yes. I’m Sterling—that’s me.” I point to my name on his list. The glare he gives me makes it clear that this guy does not appreciate people poking at his clipboard. I’m just so excited that my name is on a backstage access list. How cool is that?

He opens the door for us.

“Thanks,” we say.

“Enjoy.”

We go down a dim, narrow hallway to the dressing rooms. I try to ignore the scribbled sign on one of the dressing room doors marked PRIVITE. The marker in my bag itches to be set free. But I don’t want to look like a dork at Ethan’s biggest show ever.

“Um . . . how did we get backstage?” the girl asks.

“You’ll see.”

Ethan is in the last dressing room. The door is open. He likes leaving his dressing room door open so people can feel free to drop in. Ethan is getting pumped, tossing a foam football around with the band guys, who are lounging on the couch.

“Hey, baby.” Ethan comes over and gives me a big hug. I can feel his heart hammering with adrenaline. He gets nervous before every show.

“Hey. It’s packed out there.”

“I saw.”

“Some kids from school came.”

“Who?”

“I think they’re sophomores.” I reluctantly pull away from him. “Ethan, this is . . . Sorry, I don’t think I asked what your name is.”

The girl is staring at Ethan. “Holy crap.” She bugs her eyes out at me, mouth hanging open. “You’re Ethan’s girlfriend?”

“Told you I was his biggest fan.”

“Holy crap.” The girl is incapable of elaborating. And I still don’t know her name.

The stage manager knocks on the open door. “Ten minutes,” he says.

Ethan goes over to his bag and looks for something. I know it’s the mati his grandfather gave him after his fifth-grade talent show. A mati is an eye symbol that protects against negative energy. His grandfather was given this mati in Santorini when he was little. The old man who gave him the mati had survived cancer and many years of poverty, and outlived his entire family. Now it’s Ethan’s good-luck charm. He puts it in his pocket before every show.

“We should let you get ready.” I kiss Ethan on the cheek. I’m not a shy girl, but something about kissing Ethan on the lips in front of the band is awkward. Sometimes the guys watch us instead of looking away. “I’ll be right up front,” I tell him, taking my camera out of my bag. Ethan wanted me to take pictures tonight for his fan page.

“Thanks for doing this,” Ethan says.

“No thanks needed. When you’re the most famous rock star in the world, you can thank me then.”

The guys laugh. But I know what Ethan’s thinking. He wants to be that rock star so badly it hurts. He can feel it. He can taste it.

Ethan knew he was going to be famous when he was six. That’s when he started taking guitar and voice lessons. He told me about that day he was at a guitar lesson. He was strumming a new chord when he suddenly knew he was meant for insane fame. He was too young to understand the scope of his epiphany, but he knew in his heart what it meant. His fate was undeniable.

He was six .

Ever since then, Ethan’s been working hard to turn his big dreams into reality. His philosophy is that if you have a strong vision of what you want and you do something every day to work toward that goal, you will eventually achieve it.

As the guys laugh at the possibility of backing up the world’s biggest rock star, I wonder if that’s exactly who Ethan will become.

[223,879 FOLLOWERS]

“I hate that I missed it!” Georgia wails.

“Your cousin got married. I think that’s a bit more important than a show.”

“As if it was just any show.” Georgia shakes her head miserably at the orange bell peppers she’s chopping. We’re making a big, fresh salad in my kitchen. We have the apartment to ourselves. As usual. “I should have been there.”

“You’ll be there next time. And it’ll be even better. Trust me, Ethan is blowing up.” Ethan was amazing last night. The Space crowd was electric. When he came onstage, girls screamed so loudly my eardrums buzzed. They were fangirling hardcore the whole show. They couldn’t get enough.

“I was reading comments after the show. Your pictures were fabulous.”

“Thanks. But we can do better. I’m thinking of asking Marisa to take pictures at the next show.”

“You should. Her pics are mad profesh. She could seriously sell them.”

“Zeke has been talking about setting up a merchandise page on Ethan’s website. Maybe he’ll post some there if she takes them.”

“Girls will be on them faster than you can say ‘door poster.’”

Looking at Georgia sitting across the kitchen counter, it hits me how funny time is. How funny and weird and bittersweet. Two years ago, Marisa was the one sitting there. She was my best friend. And now Georgia is.

Georgia moved here at the beginning of last year. I reached out to her in Earth Science to make her feel welcome. Being the new girl at a small school must have been excruciating. I wanted her to know that I had her back from the start. We both had lunch after class. I asked if Georgia wanted to sit at my table.

“Oh my god thank you ,” she said. “I was up all night worrying about sitting alone. You totally saved me.”

We instantly bonded over Rachael Ray.

“I love her,” I gushed when Georgia took a Rachael Ray collapsible sandwich box out of her lunch bag.

“She’s so talented,” Georgia agreed. “And cute. And funny. How is that fair?”

“I think it’s inspiring. She proves that you can have it all.”

“She makes a seriously delicious cookie.” Georgia took out something wrapped in aluminum foil. She opened the foil to reveal four of the most appetizing chocolate chip cookies I’d ever seen. They looked almost as good as mine.

“Did your mom make those?” I asked.

“No, I did. I love to bake.”

“So do I!”

“That’s so cool. How did you get into cooking?”

“My mom can’t cook. I took over the kitchen when I was twelve. I even take cooking classes.”

“There’s a cooking class? I didn’t know that.”

“It’s an outside class. You could still sign up if you want. It just started.”

Georgia joined my cooking class. Then she showed me how she tweaked Rachael Ray’s chocolate chip cookie recipe to make it even better. We’ve been inseparable ever since.

“Should I mix a dressing?” Georgia asks when the big salad is done. We never use bottled dressing. Bottled dressing is for amateurs.

“Sure.”

“What do you feel like?”