Kylie winced in sympathy. She’d been working for Daphne for a week now, and as the Teacher’s Petty tour got underway, she learned that Daphne could either be the sweetest, most fun person in the world . . . or a complete nut job. She’d been warned by everyone in the crew to not take anything Daphne did or said personally, and to just ride out any sort of confrontation. Give Daphne the right of way and the arguments would disappear.

So far, to Kylie, Daphne was decent enough. Some mornings she was snippy, but she liked the job that Kylie did on her makeup, and she liked the skin-care regimen that Kylie had put her on, so she was happy. She still referred to Kylie as “Fat Marilyn,” but Kylie was getting used to that. Apparently Daphne was bad with names and so everyone had a Daphne-anointed nickname. The costume lady was “Ginger Tramp” or just “Ginger” for short, because she was redheaded, freckled all over, and tended to wear tight clothing. One of the lighting crew was called “Hodor,” the sound guy was “Hairy Dave,” and Daphne called her assistant “Snoopy” because she “ran her like a dog.” All in all, “Fat Marilyn” wasn’t so bad of a nickname, really. She’d heard Daphne calling the dancers all kinds of insulting things, depending on if they were getting in her way or not.

“She was nicer before the drugs,” Ginger told her, sewing sequins onto a dance costume for Daphne’s third number. “Used to be the sweetest girl. Funny, too. Now she’s just a cunt.”

Kylie blinked at the harsh language. “She seems okay to me.”

Ginger shrugged. “She’s actually not that bad this week because her new dancer boy toy has the good drugs. Or so I’ve heard.” She mimed snorting a line of blow, then went back to her sewing. “Until he runs out of his stash, he’s her new favorite person.”

Wow. Kylie licked her lips, uncomfortable. “Does, um, the label know?” Should she tell someone that Daphne was getting high before her first performance?

“They don’t care,” Ginger said. “Who do you think started her on the drugs? It’s cheaper to keep them happy when they’re well medicated. And as long as the tour sells out, no one gives a shit.” Ginger stabbed a needle through the shimmery fabric, then tugged at the thread. “I’ve been with her for five years. She goes through this cycle repeatedly. She’s clean, then someone gives her a new drug. She gets hooked, she gets nasty, she falls to pieces, then goes to rehab and she gets clean. Then someone gives her a new kind of nose candy and we start all over again.”

She was so blasé about it. Kylie thought about the track marks on Daphne’s arms. “She doesn’t look so good, though. Doesn’t anyone worry about her health?”

“Not as much as they care about making money.” Ginger bit the thread gently and then shook out the costume. “She’s probably going to need you soon. You might want to surface.”

Kylie grimaced and glanced at the door to Daphne’s greenroom, where the pop star relaxed prior to the concert. Vague crying could be heard from the other side. Her false lashes were going to be hell to stick if Daphne’s eyes were puffy from crying. So with a sigh, Kylie braced herself and headed in to the greenroom to see what was going on.

Sure enough, Daphne was sitting in front of the makeup mirror, crying. She wiped her eyes with one hand and dug through all of Kylie’s neatly sorted makeup with the other. Pinning a smile to her face, Kylie approached. “Hey, Daph, what are you looking for?”

Daphne continued to weep, sniffling loud. “Have you seen Marco?”

“Marco?” Kylie gave her a puzzled look.

“Marco Polo?”

At first, Kylie thought it was a joke. But Daphne kept crying and digging through Kylie’s stack of eye shadows and she realized this must be another nickname for someone. “I haven’t. Can I get you anything?”

This was the wrong thing to say. Daphne’s eyes lit up and she turned to Kylie, a crazed look on her face. “Do you have any stuff?”

“Stuff?”

“Rock? Blow? Pills? Something? I need a pick-me-up.” She rubbed a hand across her eyes again and for a moment she looked incredibly young. “I’m so tired all the time.”

“I don’t have drugs,” she told Daphne softly. Part of her wanted to hug the pop star, and part of her wanted to give her a good shake. She settled for picking a tube of lip gloss up off of the floor and putting it back in its place. “Can I get you a water or something?”

But Daphne began to cry again. “Marco has all the good stuff and I don’t know where he is and I’m so sleepy. I just want to take a nap and I go on stage in an hour and a half.”