Pathway to the Northern Lights

The Rhythm of the Rain

The air backstage at the Bridgestone Arena didn't smell like music. It smelled like industrial-strength hairspray, expensive espresso, and the panicked sweat of thirty production assistants carrying clipboards.

"Don't breathe," Julian hissed. He was hovering over me with a pair of silver tweezers, adjusting a cluster of Swarovski crystals that had been glued directly onto my collarbone. "If you expand your ribcage more than an inch, the structural integrity of the bodice is compromised, Darlene. Do you want to compromise the integrity?"

I looked at myself in the mirror and didn't recognize the girl looking back. I was encased in what Julian called 'High-Fashion Galactic Cowgirl.' It was a dress made of stiff, iridescent silver panels that felt like sheet metal, draped in ten pounds of rhinestones that pulled at my shoulders. My hair was teased into a structural marvel that made me four inches taller, and my face was painted with enough glitter to be seen from the moon.

"I feel like a museum piece, Julian," I said, my voice sounding tight because of the corset. "I can't even reach my guitar strings properly in this. The sleeves hit the bridge."

"You don't need to play the guitar, darling," Julian said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "The track is high-fidelity. Just look iconic. This is the New Nashville. We aren't in Monroe anymore."

"I noticed," I muttered.

A headset-wearing woman popped her head into the dressing room. "Darlene, thirty seconds. We're cueing the pyrotechnics. Remember, stand on the mark for the spark-fountains, or you'll singe the hem."

I stood up, and the dress groaned. I felt like a knight in sequined armor, heading out to a battle I wasn't sure I wanted to win.

As I walked toward the stage, I saw Akemi and Courtney standing by the monitors. Akemi gave me a worried look, her eyes scanning the metallic cage I was wearing. Courtney, who had spent years mastering the 'perfect' pop-country look, just gave me a sympathetic wince.

"You okay, Dar?" Akemi whispered as I passed.

"I'm a skyscraper," I said. "I'm just trying not to topple over."

Then the lights went black, the crowd roared—a sound like a jet engine—and the floor began to rise.

The performance was a blur of neon and heat. The pyrotechnics went off exactly on beat, the bass was so loud it rattled my teeth, and I sang every note perfectly. I hit the high C in 'Neon Horizon' without a tremor. I smiled where the script told me to smile. I waved where the stage manager had placed a piece of blue tape.

But as I looked out at the twenty thousand people, I felt a strange, hollow coldness in my chest. I was singing about the red clay of Georgia while standing on a motorized platform surrounded by laser beams. It was technically perfect. It was a "spectacle." And it felt like a lie.

When the lift lowered me back under the stage, I didn't wait for the applause to die down. I started walking.

"Great set, Darlene! The Twitter metrics are spiking!" Sam, my manager, shouted, trying to keep up with me as I marched toward the dressing room.

"I need to get out of this, Sam," I said, my voice cracking.

"The after-party is at the rooftop bar," Sam continued, checking his tablet. "The label executives from Phoenix Records are flying in. They want to discuss the 'Glass & Grit' rollout with Sabrina's team. You need to be in that dress for at least three more hours."

"Get Julian," I said, reaching the door and slamming it behind me. "Get him in here with the industrial scissors if you have to. I'm done."

It took twenty minutes to deconstruct the "iconic" look. When I finally stepped out of the silver panels, I felt like I had lost twenty pounds. My skin was red where the crystals had been glued. I scrubbed the glitter off my face with such force it stung, until I could finally see the girl from Monroe again.