Backstage Girl

01 | overture

In Ella's humble opinion, this wasn't her fault.

Okay, fine; it was.

It was entirely her fault.

She jogged down the stairs into the subway, trying to ignore the letter that kept slapping against her thigh. Stupid, bulky letter. If it was smaller, Ella could shove it in her backpack, but the University of Toronto insisted on printing things in elegant cardstock, as if they were issuing an invitation to take tea with the Queen.

God, Ella would kill for tea.

Or a lethal injection of arsenic. Either would do.

She sprinted for the last subway car, narrowly squeezing through the doors as they slammed shut behind her. The carriage was packed, and she was squished up against the wall, crammed between a group of giggling teenage girls and a man eating what smelled disconcertingly like a day-old pile of sweaty gym socks.

Gross.

She tried to shift surreptitiously away, lowering her head and also her expectations. It was official; she'd hit rock bottom. The day couldn't possibly get any worse.

Then Ella looked up, and she realized that she'd spoken too soon.

A blond boy beamed down at her from a toothpaste advertisement, his teeth white and gleaming. The words under him read, "Rory Walker uses Shine On strips on the road!" There was a squiggly outline behind Rory that Ella assumed was his guitar, but in reality bore a strong resemblance to a hula-hooping whale.

She sighed.

Typical. Now she was stuck staring up at her older brother's left nostril for the next 20 minutes.

Across from Ella, the group of giggling girls was staring up at the poster.

"He's so dreamy," the tallest one sighed. "Did you get tickets to the tour?"

"Obviously."

"Do you think he'll sign my laptop?" The tall girl smirked. "That way I can bring it to school. Nancy Peters will be so jealous!"

Ella narrowly resisted the urge to snort. If only they knew that the lead guitarist for The Patriots used to think the word "condom" was short for "condominium." Or that he had a deathly fear of clowns.

She could ruin Rory's life so easily.

But she wouldn't, obviously; she was a good younger sister. Most of the time, anyways.

Ella hopped off the subway at Bloor-Yonge, hurrying past rows of manicured brick buildings into the heart of Yorkville. Girls wrapped in Canada Goose coats hurried through the cold, carrying bags labelled with Gucci or Prada. It was only when she stepped into the glass elevator of the apartment building that she began to feel a rising sense of panic.

This was fine; Ella was fine. After all, Rory was deported from Japan last year after his band accidentally set a sacred temple on fire.

What harm could one little letter cause?

She stopped outside of her parents' apartment. Then she cautiously pushed open the door.

"Hello?"

Silence answered her, and she blew out a breath.

Oh, thank god. They were still out shopping.

Her phone rang, and the noise was so startling in the quiet that she jumped. Then Ella saw who was calling and she let out a groan. Cautiously, she answered the FaceTime call.