What Comes With It

Chapter 1

I rush offstage in a sea of dancers. I am immediately covered in hands. Someone rips my earpiece out of my ear and un-Velcros­ my mic pack from its built-in pocket. I feel a set of hands unzipping my bodysuit.

After three hours of performing, I want to rip the suffocating corset off, but know I have to carefully shimmy out of it. Someone who will never meet me spent hours hand-beading it and its many bejeweled cousins that I don throughout the tour. I have to respect their craft, just as I hope they respect mine.

From the audience, I must look other-worldly, like a human Barbie doll. But here, behind the stage, I guarantee it is anything but that.

I balance my hands on the shoulders of two dressers as another tugs, and I mean tugs, my knee-high, red-soled boots off my sweaty legs before helping me peel my two pairs of tights off. They will go straight into the trash.

Someone slips a robe over my arms and puts slides on my aching feet, then hands me a 40-ounce water bottle chock full of ice water and electrolyte powder.

I haven't peed in hours. Despite me burning about the same number of calories as a marathoner, my team decided that it's in my best interest to limit fluid intake during my shows. Avoiding bathroom breaks is how we can fit over 40 songs — not to mention 15 costume changes — into the show. I basically run on dehydration and adrenaline. My nutritionist hates me.

I've been in hundreds of venues and they all have the same low ceilings, cold cement floors, and buzzing fluorescent lights. It's already chaos as the crew starts activating teardown and carts swerve around one another. There's an incessant chirp of walkie talkies. I know above ground, dozens of janitors are already busy cleaning up sequins, glitter, and garbage as tens of thousands of fans leave the seats they never sat in.

My bodyguards form a tight circle around me. We're off.

A few minutes later, I'm finally alone. Released to the confines of a makeshift green room, I'm greeted by more water and a warm mug of throat coat tea. I'll wait here until we get the all clear for my caravan to take me to my jet. Since this is the last performance of the weekend, it means I'm mere hours away from being home. I ache for my couch and trashy shows.

I run to the bathroom and take a cursory stab at removing my makeup. My hair, always protesting my daily blowout, has once again lost its battle to the Midwestern humidity and is returning to its preferred, natural wave. Someone else will deal with it later.

I put my feet in a foot massager tub, tea in one hand, iPhone in the other. I immediately open TikTok. One of my favorite after-­show hobbies is reliving it all through the fans' perspectives, studying myself, the dancers, and the band, taking mental notes for where we can tweak next week. Seeing the show through their eyes reminds me of my why. And it makes me feel less lonely, too.

I'm a few minutes into someone's stream of my acoustic set. I'd surprised them with a song from my vault. One I'd carried with me for years before sharing with them just a few weeks ago. I love finally letting them into these secret songs. They of course already know all the wo­rds.

I toggle to my messaging app to respond to the dozens of texts I've missed – some good luck texts from my friends, but mostly questions (demands, really) from my publicist. I put my tea down to respond.

There's a quiet knock at the door.