Okay, so you're at a Panic! at the Disco concert. The fans are screaming in your ears, and now you're getting a huge headache from constant repeats of "Brendon, I looooove youuuuu!!!" or "Ryan, have my baaaaaaaaaabies!!!"
And then, maybe your eyes just skim a little over to the right, over there on the balcony. Do you see a girl of about 17, reddish, wavy hair and weird blue-green eyes?
Well, look again, honey, because that's me.
* * * *
The only thing worse than the acoustics in a live concert (for those a million feet from the stage, the losers with back-row tickets) are:
The fans.
Tiny sweat drops leaked from my pores, my fingers clutched the all-important laminated piece of paper in my small fist. I pushed through gyrating bodies and the must-have PDA-couples that were making out in front of their boyfriends.
"Hey, babe, come'ere..." one hand whipped out and yanked my hair towards him. I yelped and slapped his hand away, disentangling his touchy fingers from my reddish locks. Crap, crap, crap, that hurt.
"Backstage pass?"
I turned around, feeling my mind go completely blank.
"Wha?"
The burly figure sighed, crossing his arms across his massive chest impatiently. "I said, do you have a backstage pass?" he repeated with exaggerated slowness that made it into a worse insult.
"Yeah, I got it..." I looked down, my hair fell into my eyes, and I couldn't see as I fumbled with the pass...
He waved me away. "I believe you," he rushed, obviously not wanting anymore trouble.
I lurched forward- it seemed as if I had lost whatever sense of balance I had left ever since that guy had grabbed me by my hair- and the guy's hand flew out to steady me. "Thanks," I mumbled with a growing patch of heat on my cheeks.
I stumbled a few more times as I looked around backstage chaos. My fingers automatically blocked my face and I ducked as someone threw a pair of drumsticks over my head.
Fingers briefly brushed my shoulderblades in apology, and I turned around.
"Sorry 'bout that," he apologized ruefully with a pointed glare towards the "athlete".
I nodded, blushing as I lurched one way around him.
"Wait-" he put his hand on my shoulder. I resisted the strong urge to shrug off the pale, strong fingers clamped firmly near my clavicle. "-at least let me make it up to you with an autograph or something."
"I don't need your signature, Ryan Ross," I replied quietly. "You've signed plenty of love letters for me."
His face was contorted with confusion as I shrugged out of his clutch, and walked away, without a second glance back towards the boy who'd ruined my life.
How fucking cliche.
"Wait! Who are you?" he called after me, one last desperate attempt.
"Rian," I answered back wthout turning around. "Rian Starr."
