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One

Resa

The evening sun is shining, the crowd is buzzing, and tonight, I’ll see my favorite band of all time. The venue looms above us as we pack close together, chattering and squealing and hugging complete strangers; it’s a stadium, sparkly silver and round, like a UFO about to take off. Pink lights stripe the dome walls, and tonight feels unearthly already.

This is real!

The band ishere. In New Orleans. Oh my god.

At least three fans have already fainted from excitement, then been ushered to the side for bottled water and a medic check. One girl is ugly-crying, raccoon-eyed, with glossy snot on her upper lip, and you know what?

I know how she feels.

Because it’sSoul Obsession.The band I sang along to every day after middle school, bouncing around our tiny living room. The band I nursed my first crushes on, daydreaming about all the guys one by one with indiscriminate passion. The band whose lyrics I doodled around the edge of my school papers.

This is not a drill.

I mean, I wallpapered my tween bedroom in their posters, and covered my day planner in Soul Obsession stickers. Hell, I met my best friends of all time through fangirling over these guys.

This band is so important to me. Don’t care if their songs are cheesy; don’t care if it’s notedgyto sing along, loud and proud, and know every single line. Cut me open, and you’ll find Soul Obsession lyrics tattooed on my rib cage.

Eeeee!

“They’re here,” a girl says next to me, clutching at my elbow. “They’re actually here! In our city!” She sounds dazed, and her grip is painfully tight but I don’t mind. We beam at each other, perfect strangers with so much in common, before toppling into a hug.

Don’t need to know each other’s names in this line. Don’t need to act cool. We get it. We’re all kin.

We’re Soul Obsession fans forever, bitches.

“Meg!” someone calls over my head, followed by a whoop in response.

“Holy shit, Clem!”

I’m so jittery my teeth are chattering, never mind the hot, sticky evening. The sound of the crowd presses on my ear drums—and hey, I’m used to the press of people, used to jostling and caterwauling, because I pour drinks in the French Quarter on Friday and Saturday nights, and I’ve seen exactly how messy humanity can be. But even I find myself fanning my cheeks, edging away from the worst crush of the crowd, and praying that the doors will open soon.

My lanyard scrapes my bare skin under my cropped band t-shirt. It’s a VIP pass, arranged by my girl Shelby who’s working on the tour—my golden ticket to the backstage experience.

It’s a warm, tickly secret. Mine, all mine.

Because I may understand these fans, may feel just as emotional about the band as they do, but if you think I’m gonna show them my backstage pass, you’ve got another think coming.

Every single fan here would tear me apart to get their hands on this pass. We’re talking limb. From. Limb. They’d strangle me with my own lanyard, apologizing between their thrilled screams, and I wouldn’t even blame them.

Nah. I’m not risking it.

I’m gettingin.

Whipping my phone out, I check our group text to see if any of the other girls are here yet, but there’s nothing. Signal’s winked out for some reason; zero bars. Nothing but old messages to scroll back through, and the slew of crazy gifs and emojis that have been non stop since the video chat that changed everything.

The Soul Obsession reunion tour is a go,Shelby had said, grinning as we fried our microphones with our squeals.But try not to completely embarrass yourselves meeting them, okay?

No. Freaking. Promises.

I’ll find the girls inside—for the best night of my life.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, I’m flagging, draped over the crowd barrier with the hot metal burning into my bare arms. Sunglasses perch on my nose, protecting me from the worst of the evening sunshine, and I’m slathered top-to-toe in sunscreen. Two empty water bottles are already stuffed in my yellow backpack, drained through the day, and I’ve done everything right but I’m still thirsty.

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