AISHE

I knew they were using the 7-Eleven incident for this skit. I knew they were going to have some harmless fun with us. But the world doesn’t know about my doppelganger, and they have no idea I’m not the one in those photos.

He said he’d been practicing with a different actress for the dress rehearsal. I didn’t care who he’d work with as long as I didn’t have to be the one. But what I’m seeing now is way past anything I could have dreamed up.

Troy’s browsing the shelves at 7-Eleven. In the background, FNL actors open and close fridge doors. They hold up chocolate milk and cans of Coke, discussing their choices under their breaths. Then, there I am, swaying toward him in my typical form. The network has been shopping for the right actress, it seems.

She’s in a flowing red Gypsy skirt that reaches down to her ankles. It’s tight at the waist and topped off with a shiny black bodice that pushes small boobs upward. The actress steps forward in my favorite type of flamenco shoes, high-heeled, black, and with a small band over the top of the foot.

With fluid moves, she approaches him. Hips forward, she clatters layers upon layers of my bangles around her wrists. They go all the way up to her elbows on both hands, just the way I prefer it.

Long and thick, her hair runs to her waist in waves of black and red. The peacock pendants in her ears and as a necklace between her breasts, are offset by matching feathers throughout her mane.

Though I can’t see her face at first, there’s a sensation of doom in my stomach. I can’t imagine anyone knowing me as well as this without having studied me day in and day out. It’s perfect, down to her turquoise fingernails, down to the way she breezily pushes a section of hair over her shoulder and lets it trail down with the rest of it.

“Hey, my darling,” she murmurs, voice lighter than mine. She adds husk to it, and the jitters in my stomach increase.

I send a side-glance to Troll. Does he see what I’m suspecting? What does he know about this person? At my side, he lets bushy eyebrows sink over a steely stare. Suspicion is thick around him too, and somehow that makes me feel better.

“What’s up, Aishe?” Troy murmurs, crinkling a chocolate wrapper in his hand.

She embraces him from behind, and the way she drags her arms up his body is more real than I’d expect from FNL. Isn’t she supposed to exaggerate the moves, clown-style, making people laugh at some superimposed passion?

His back tenses. It’s only slightly, but I see it. That’s not acting. That’s Troy being genuinely surprised. For a second, he hesitates. Then he forms his hand over hers and pulls her close to his back in a dramatic Romeo-and-Juliet move.

“Finally, we’ve found our secret sanctuary in all of Japan. Thank goodness for 7-Eleven,” Fake Aishe murmurs in her husky yet squealy voice. “It’s so important to us for no reason that no one knows we’re together. Imagine what would’ve happened if people knew?”

“I know, my darling. We’re consenting adults. The world would’ve had a heart attack.”

“Come to me, my darling,” Fake Aishe whispers. “Kiss me like you mean it. Kiss me, secret love of my life that no one can ever know about.”

Troy swings around, and she instantly grabs his face and gets up on her toes. Lionel Ritchie’s “Hello” suddenly blasts from the speakers while Troy makes a show of surreptitiously looking around them, making sure no one is watching.

Pastel-colored confetti begins to swirl in the air. Fake Aishe’s mane blows in a sudden breeze, as if in an eighties’ music video. A few doves flap over them and land awkwardly on top of the shelves.

Slowly, they rotate in their embrace, another music video spoof, and her face comes into full view as she swings toward the audience. Eyes wide and painted like mine, lips cherry-red like mine, she stares at Troy with so much love in her eyes, they might as well have been in bed.

My heart stops as she leans against him and pulls his face down toward her. Another half-turn on their podium, and Troy’s eyes, naked with unease, see what I see.

Here she is again, his stalker, my crazy doppelganger, the woman who’s been messing with our lives for weeks straight. She was fired, and yet she’s here. She’s the one playing my role.

I gave up my role to Hailey?

Around me, the audience is laughing.

I twist toward Troll, staring. He turns to me and shakes his head. “I have no idea where she came from. This is fucked up.”

Behind them, three paparazzi dressed as dirty alley cats prowl toward them with their cameras. They’re wearing bandit masks, but I don’t care what’ll happen next. All I care about is the second of hesitation in Troy’s eyes while he makes his choice: should he break character on live TV and not accept her kiss in front of millions of viewers, or should he go through with it?

My heart works again, and it’s pounding, pounding, pounding. It cascades blood through me, filtering my vision until all I can see is red.

I can take crazy fangirls. I’ve been there. I’ve seen them. Fan letters. Stalker calls. Nude photos and promises of having the guys’ babies. It’s what the girlfriend of a rock star has to deal with. But this isn’t something I can take.

The woman who stole my look, who outed me to the mob in Boston. Who repeatedly tried to get between Troy and me, inventing and reinventing a faux relationship with him. She’s here, now, and when she efficiently steals Troy in front of all of America, then it’s finally too much for me.

I sit frozen, staring at them until Troy’s fight vanishes from his eyes. Safari-greens settle into acceptance, and there it is, how he leans down to her, holds her face too, fingers burying into her locks like they do to me.

It’s the same, so, so the same, when his beautiful mouth shapes a cinnamon kiss and meets her cherry-red lips.

I watch while she licks the seam of his mouth until it opens enough for her to tip her tongue inside and he doesn’t pull away. The trance I’m in claps together like cards when the paparazzi assault them.

“Aishe. I didn’t know Hailey would be here. I’m going to find out exactly what happened, and—” Troll’s words disappear as I stand and run down the aisle toward the back exit. People howl with laughter at a punchline, but I don’t care anymore.

My heart is aflame under my ribs. It doesn’t stop swelling, and I know it’s infected. It’s going to burn up. I’ll be my great aunt. I’ll be locked away forever with a lovesickness too big for anyone to survive.

It’s not a big deal. Not yet, it isn’t.

My feet find the way out, past checkpoints, through elevators that aren’t for me. It’s okay, though. It’s okay.

Everything will be okay.

TROY

I kissed Hailey on live TV.

Hailey.

My stare goes to the empty seat next to Troll. Troll is getting up too. Moves to the center aisle, and from the shadows, I see him whip out his phone with his healthy hand. He pushes buttons with the one in a sling and glues it to his ear. He talks fast and low into the receiver as the applause erupts and the set goes dark.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I growl to Hailey. It’s no surprise to me when her stare goes wide and innocent in that fake, fake way she has. Where did the concrete color of her eyes go? They’re as dark as Aishe’s now.

“What are you talking about, Troy? I’d do anything for you, and that’s what I’m doing right now. You knew this was the plan, right? Since Aishe turned down FNL, your management office accepted the sacrifice of my anonymity in favor of your fame.”

“Horse. Shit. Who told you to say that? You don’t even talk like that. Is there ever an end to you destroying our lives?”

“What lives, Troy?” She blinks at me, whipping fake eyelashes up and down in rapid succession. “All I do is fix lives. I’m here for you. I will never let you down like she does. What kind of a person would leave her man hanging like that? All the others girls came, but no-o, Aishe is so special, she couldn’t even do this tiny little thing for you.”

“Just leave me the fuck alone. That’s the biggest favor you can do for me.”

“Troy. Sir? The band’s waiting for you on stage four.”

“Thanks,” I clip out to the producer.

“See you after, Troy Armstrong,” Hailey says. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll be leaving right now.”

On stage four, I get behind my drums on autopilot. Rob hands me my drumsticks. “I’ve got a couple of extras, just in case, even if it’s just one song.”

My response is unintelligible. I slam my foot down on the drum pedal, making sure it agrees we’re about to raise hell. It does.

Dude, what the hell was that? Elias mouths over his shoulder as the set turns and faces the audience.

I have no idea, I mouth back.

Fucking fucked up. She’s pissed, huh?

Yeah.

I count them in. Then, Emil opens “Deep in You” in a soft, suave pitch. We build this song. It’s what makes it explode in the end, ripping emotions into pieces and making people stand in ovation from their seats.

There are two types of drummers. The finesse player who focuses on technique. Then, there’s the caveman drummer, who needs no further introduction. Caveman-style is why I typically have to ice my arms down after hard sets. Caveman is how I am, and tonight, my drums are right where I need them and the drumsticks my weapon of choice.

She tricked me again. Again, Hailey hosed me, and Aishe stormed out. Finally, she was mine. How long was she really mine for? Fucking hours before the nightmare enveloped us again like a pus-filled cloud?

Fury rolls through me, my drumsticks blurring over the hi-hats and snare drum. I speed us up on purpose, causing Bo to send me a dark side-glance.

With discreet signals, he gets everyone on my track. Bam! Bam! I punish the cymbals, hitting them sideways. Get up on my drum throne and roar into the limelight during my solo. I don’t care that it lasts too long. I don’t care when my drum pedal snaps and Rob falls to his knees in front of me, replacing it while I play.

Faintly, I catch people already on their feet in the audience. I lose myself, beat, beat the shit out of my impotence, my fury, my frustration, my need to wring Hailey’s neck like the venomous little chicken she is.

I fling my sticks in the air. They’re both cracked and don’t feel right anymore. Rob’s here again, exchanging them as my thunder rages on and through the room.

Emil shouts, “Wooh yeah!” the sound drowning in my punishment. My bandmates turn, lift their palms to me, and bow in veneration as my second set of sticks fly across the stage and Rob hands me a third.

Bo points at Elias, then at Emil, and on four, they’re back in, smoothly running my amok one-man show back on track.

“I’ve missed you so, so. Don’t ever go.”

I smack the cymbal sideways, again, again. Rob sends me a warning look. I want mayhem, and I don’t quit until the spindle flies off and the cymbal sails into my lap, its stand toppling over and hitting Elias’ amp.

I keep on playing, the cymbal bouncing in my lap as I rush my kicks with triple beats, making my thighs bounce with the jerky moves.

Elias’ guitar tech removes the fallen stand and adjusts his amp, while Rob swoops in again, fishing the cymbal out of my lap before it clangs to the floor. He rises another cymbal stand with new hi-hats. I’m blazing, sweat pouring down my face. I rip my shirt open, buttons scampering off like roaches. I’m a wild animal, and when the song ends, I barely do.

“Intense much?” Emil asks as we walk offstage.

My arms burn like a motherfucker, and it’s so much better than nothing. With both fists cramping, I use one to stretch out the fingers of the other, grimacing.

Minutes later, Troll’s backstage with a bucket of ice water. I moan with relief as I press both arms elbow-deep and hold them there despite the new type of pain setting in.

“Ibuprofen?”

“No,” I snap.

“You have another song to play.”

“Why would I want to do anything more for these bastards? Look what they did, brought in Hailey behind my back and made me break Aishe’s heart in fucking public. Why. Should I play another song?”

“Listen.” Troll leans in, holding up four Ibuprofen and water anyway. I let him pop them in my mouth and chase them with water. “I’m getting to the bottom of this afterward, but for now, let’s not commit popularity suicide, here, when we don’t even know whose fault this is. You’re playing ‘The Mask’ next, and judging by your mood, you’re going to kill it out there.”

“Where’s Aishe?” I ask.

“Not here. I don’t know.”

“You just let her go?”

“She left, Troy. That’s different. It has nothing to do with letting anyone do anything. Besides, Irene is on it. She’s checking with the hotel.”

“And Hailey?” I ask.

“Gone. We’ll hunt her down soon enough. We’ll have a talk with our lawyers first thing tomorrow and get her on everything we can.”

I don’t even answer him. It’s all turning to shit around me. I pull my phone out and call Aishe’s number. It goes to voicemail. I call five times straight, and then I leave her a text message.

Call me right away. It’s important. I love you.

“Guys, sandbag all his hi-hats to the riser so he can’t tip them over again,” Troll calls to someone as I stalk to the dressing room. “No, I’ll get him out there for the last song,” he adds, “but he’s going to raise holy hell, so you better be prepared.”

I walk back onstage last. Dripping from the ice bath, my arms jerk along my sides, fingers trembling with the urge to destroy.

Oh it won’t be “The Mask” I’m playing. We’ll run with the horses tonight. We’ll gallop the shit out of them. I’ll turn them into devils—diablos—Diablo SVs—I’ll make this tune roar across the stage, transform into a pack of race cars on methanol. And if I cause riots out there, I’m fine with that.