"My name is Paulie B. I'm your host. And this is The Tour. See you after our commercial break," the host gives a toothy smile at the camera with a pose. His sharp suit and smile could not hide his rutty face filled with obvious irritation. "Smile!" Paulie whispers emphatically under his breath to me. My face contorts itself into a shocked smile. The sing-songy tagline comes on over the speaker system. "This is The Tour."

"And we're out," says a tired eye stage manager. Her name tag is at a crooked angle. And the nametag title, Stage Manager Megumi, is about to fall off at any moment from her chest. She presses the name tag back in place. Then pushes her headset mic out of her face, and speeds past me without acknowledging my presence. I take careful steps backward on stage, scanning the area for my best friend, Zoey. A wormy feeling in the pit of my stomach settles in. It's as if any sudden movements might spark something bad happening. They picked me for the show? What the fuck?

Zoey and our eyes lock on each other. She gives me the thumbs up from off stage, but her long black hair shakes no. I take another step and she shakes her head harder. She gives me a cheerful smile, her creamy cheeks a little flush. Well, damn. I don't know what the fuck to do with myself.

A stagehand in black rolls the piano out as the set changes. The lights come up. A dark arena sky of phone light stars becomes genuine people and the stage's spell is broken. The lights come up, signaling that the concession stand is open. Bars, bathrooms, and all the amenities on offer from the Arena have the audience moving. The all-day event is close to its end.

"Three spots left," the stage manager tells the auditioners. An aww breaks out from the group of invited singers. "Fifty minutes until we're back from break, for places," she speaks into her mic headset. She asks, "Can I get some refreshments for the talent?"

"Are we done yet?" A blonde woman steps out from behind the dark silhouette. The team pop sign still lit up for the show under her. She's one enormous ball of pretty face frustration. Her cute cupid bow lips are like on the cover of magazines. Her face was almost unreal to look at. A fair complexion that not even the highest definition of TVs could crack.

It was a quick process of the semi-familiar face in one big, oh shit junk. Is that ex-Disney pop star starlet Camille Fren? She's a pretty big name. Whoa. I've never been good with faces, but Camille Fren I could pick out. Her voice is a more classic style but they wrap a pop beat around her that complements her voice. Camille Fren always feels one song away from taking over the world. She's just missing the lyrics and not quite into an original sound of her own. Camille does one small vocal thing all the time. But her sound isn't more than the simple signature vocal riff. She doesn't have the high notes like Mariah Carey. Even if she did, she can't dance the high notes like a dove. Mariah Carey could slide into the note-bending it like a toy but Camille doesn't have those bars.

Maybe her team doesn't let her. I've listened to more than my fair share of her albums. I read somewhere how music executives want to make sure that listeners can sing along with the song. The result means fewer diva bars and more simple singing with catchy hooks. If the album has some storytelling, I'd still like it, but hers doesn't. It's like she's got two hits on an album and filler. Again, not my thing. I'm more about the storytelling of the album and that's a dying breed of listeners and artists. I've not heard a song by Camille I've liked yet, but my taste is weird and it could happen. That's the feeling about her. The interesting album could always happen, but never does.

"Oh, Camille my dear," Paulie purred. The man could have found a less slimy way to say the woman's name. It had this moist quality that grossed me out. "Molly, moo, meg..." he snaps his fingers at the stage manager. Her name tag says Megumi, it's obvious. I send her good vibes. I'm in the different name club too. Sabali, Sa-Bali isn't rolling off anyone's tongue. "Where are the refreshments?" He waves his hand to go along with his insistence, as if that would make the stage manager move faster.

"On the way," Megumi says as she reports to Paulie. The stage is almost empty except for Paulie. The emptiness of standing at the center of the stage is getting to me. I don't know what to do. It's like, hey you're on the show, and then what? I wasn't supposed to make the show. I'd sing the song. It wouldn't be half bad, hopefully, then school on Monday. Professor Cloudon's class Music sound engineering 5b seven am. Then the week's worth of classes is the normal plan. That's not what's going to happen, though. What's next?

"I need to stretch my legs, Paulie," yawns Adam Bens. Omg, I try not to go into full music student mode on the Tony Award-winning Broadway star Adam Bens. He looks just like on the Tony Awards warm, friendly face with brown hair and a cute blush over his rosy skin tone. As if he stepped out of a small rural town tourism brochure with a snowfall in the background. My weak attempt to shut my closet musical loving fangirl ass up is slow failing. I'm losing my battle to resist the urge to squeal. Music nerd boner calm down! They gave us the VIP invitation to this event directly from the YouTube creators' studio. No one knew the judges or much to go along with the project. Those invited to the Tour were from an audition list in the thousands. They turned half of the social media worldwide into a kid eagerly awaited for a Hogwarts letter. You could be a creator with a following under a million like Zoey and I and get a VIP invite. If you sang on the internet and they wanted to see you live, you got a plane ticket. And you were at The Tour. waiting for your chance to shine. The line of people behind me is proof they weren't playing around to make this contest big. But Adam Bens isn't social media almost famous Z listers he's the real deal.

"Nice performance," the bearded Broadway star compliments me. He has that ahh shucks down-home appeal without it being over the top. He smiles at me with all curls and kindness. I stupid, slow wave at him. I need to get off this stage like now. The people in the audience continue to flow to the concession stands. And the noise follows the crowd out of the arena doors. People blur by me as I scan the auditioners for Zoey again. When I spot her, she's in her own world stage left trying to stay performance-ready.

The guitar played over the sound of the audience's intermission noise. On the downstage monitors, an electric guitar play weaves through the first lick is from the 2:2 album by The Kells. I squealed without reserve. I slap my hand over my mouth and ruin my lipstick. Shit... it's not. No, no, no.

It's Asher Kells, it's Asher fucking Kells from fucking the Kells! Billboard chart-topping, eight times Grammy award-winning, can't put the guy into a genre, rock, hip-hop, punk. He simply doesn't fit. ASHER MOTHER FUCKING KELLS. Don't you squeal again! I scolded my brain. You are in your last year of college already, so adult it up, don't you squeal, damn it.

"Asher, take pictures with Camille for Instagram," encourages Paulie. As if in an invitation, a camera crew and a few photographers come from stage right. The crew passes me by like I didn't exist. Asher Kells steps off the judge's seat, the lighting that partly blocks his face is gone. He whistles the song, and it's hypnotic.

Asher puts his guitar down next to the judges' chair. Those blue-gold eyes I barely saw from my last note of the song Hymn of Joy were still striking. Leader of Team Rock Asher Kells no! Even in his black suit, Asher Kells couldn't hide his sculpted body. The tattoos, confidence, and sex appeal that came off him in waves. Asher Kells was big, like a boxer big. He had tattoos on almost every visible inch of him except his face. The tats clash with the suit and worked at the same time. Although, the suit gave him an older presence, but not older in the face, older in stature. He was only twenty-three years old,poise, but there was something about it. No matter how bespoke the suit is, it's still twenty-three in a suit. He looks more like a young corporate music mogul than a rock star. It was the slick back hair with a skin fade hairstyle. The style spoke frighteningly expensive without saying it too loud. The type of haircut you see in boardrooms, not in 17,000 plus seat arenas doing concerts. He was the dichotomy of urbane poise, yet urbane all the same. With this screaming reckless Rock & Roll, abandon without a word spoken. A goddamn walking Rockstar contradiction. My brain didn't know what to do or how to process it.

The cherry on top of the cake was his vulnerable blue-gold eyes. When I was younger, my mom had me write everything down in my journal. At first, I hated it. Getting four years old me to sit still was a challenge unto itself. And then to get me to either draw or write something in my journal. My mother's epic determination was the stuff of legends she brought up all the time. With the same pride as telling me how she spent twelve hours in labor with me. I realize how horrible it was to get me to do that later in life. But I grew to love writing in that journal, especially in middle school. I would draw deep space and then stars with dust onto the page. After, with a gold pen, write whatever music, poetry, or lyrics that were halfway decent onto them. When my journal entry was done, it would look like a nebula with swirling lyrics and music.

I was as drawn to those nebulas as any I could find in my journals. It pretty much guaranteed I couldn't look away from Asher Kells. I couldn't even breathe properly. Asher Kells, whirling hazel blue-gold eyes, had me.

Black and white polka dots, then a sharp pain.

Blackness.