Sweat sank through my wig and onto my forehead, and I was bouncing up and down as I was ushered to my dressing room. All I wanted to do was get back to the hotel room, wash my hair, wash the wig, and sleep. Unfortunately, I had to wait. I stood outside my dressing room door, trying not to let the sweaty wig gross me out too horribly, and watched as fans were set into a line. They were as bouncy as me, however different their motives were. Luckily, I only had to see the people with backstage passes. The line was long, but not as long as it would be if I had to do a real autograph signing. The first two girls were ushered forward to me. They gushed about how much they loved my music and how my lyrics were so deep and they felt like they new me on a deeply personal level because of them. Yea, right. They knew nothing about me. Maybe they knew a little bit about Jackson, but they knew nothing about me. Nothing at all. I smiled at them anyway and said, "I'm glad you enjoy them." They swooned at my accent and I signed their posters of me before they were sent on their way. I signed for a few more and then one girl was ushered up to me. She held no poster, no CD. Just herself and a tattered band shirt. Not my band, mind you. I rose an eyebrow and she said, "I love you. I'm going to marry you." I laughed outright and said, "Well! Good to know!" She seemed very excited that I did not deny our future marriage, and before I knew what was going on, she leaned forward and kissed me. The guards pulled her back immediately and pulled her away as she screamed out my name. But it was too late. I was scarred.
"Dude, Jackson," Luther said, raising an eyebrow, "I don't get what your deal is. Fan kisses are annoying, sure, but it's not that big of a deal." Of course it's not. If I wasn't wearing a wig, if the world knew I was girl, and that fan had been a guy, then it wouldn't be a big deal at all. In fact, I would be flattered. But this-this was just wrong. Not just because the whole thing grossed me out, but also, more so, because that girl-she thought she was kissing a guy. How could she possibly think otherwise? She thought she was kissing the man on her walls, that boy who made her heart pound with his accent and his milky singing voice. Everything she knew about me, everything she probably spent hours finding out about me, reading every magazine article with my name on it, watching interviews and paying all that money for a backstage pass, leaning forward and placing her lips on mine and thinking that her life was complete, that she has just kissed the one person in her life that had always seemed more fiction than fact. But she hadn't. She had just leaned forward and kissed a girl with a wig, a wicked tenor voice, and a huge weight on her back. I was lying to everyone. To the nation, to the world, to all those girls. To my band mates. To the people who did my make up, to the magazines that photographed me. To the driver who hauled me around for countless hours. To my grandma, my cousins, my uncles and aunts. To every one of my friends except Jeanette and Katherine. And the worst part about it, about all this suddenly hitting me like a pound of bricks, was that nothing was going to change. I was in over my head. I couldn't back out.
Not yet, at least.
© 2010
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