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rehearsal.
    â€œI am never
ever
drinking again,” Stella says. “But this Big Mac really is making me feel better.”
    â€œTold ya,” Dylan says. “The first time I got drunk was at a kegger off campus, and I felt like y’all did this morning. But a buddy swore to me that greasy food and a sugary soda would turn things around, and he was right.”
    â€œWell, I wouldn’t say it’s turned things around,” I respond. “I still feel like tiny elves are chiseling my eyeballs and worms are eating my innards—”
    â€œBird!” Stella protests. “Weak stomach up here.”
    â€œRight, sorry,” I say, my mouth full of fries. “But I’m seriously never ever
ever
drinking again.”
    I roll the back windows down and let the cool desert air whip through my hair. Cool desert air, except deserts are hot. That’s funny.
    â€œUh-oh,” I say, leaning forward between the front two seats. “Can you be drunk the day
after
you were drunk?”

    Rehearsal is actually a blast. If you’d have asked me this morning, I’d have told you there was no way in the world I’d be able to perform tonight, let alone rehearse. But I guess I caught a second wind because I feel okay, even if I have missed a few cues.
    â€œI drag the sleep from my bed, I shake myself in my head,”
I sing, then start laughing when I realize I goofed the lyrics to “Sing Anyway.” “Oh my gosh, y’all, sorry, sorry,” I say as the band stops playing. “Let’s go back. Sorry. I’m a little tired. Sorry.”
    I see my fiddle player and drummer exchange an exasperated look when the music starts up again, which is so lame. I messed up a few lyrics in
rehearsal
, big deal. Ignoring them, I start the number again, dancing with a few of the guys in the band and even walking through the crew in the wings, giving this sound check a fun vibe for once as I sing through this song for the bazillionth time.
    â€œBird, are you going to mark the quick change?” Monty asks a few minutes later. I turn around and realize that the band is offstage, mocking their costume changes, and I’m still standing at the front of the T, zoning out at a spot in the upper decks.
    â€œMy bad,” I say, running back to the main stage and then to the wings, where Stella waits.
    â€œRip off,” she says, pantomiming pulling off my dress from the previous number.
    I gasp and cover myself as if I’m really naked. “Excuse me, miss, but you have to at least buy me dinner first.”
    Stella laughs and rocks back on her heels. Then she grabs the imaginary shirt I’m wearing next and tosses it at my face. I swat my hands around and say, “I can’t see! I can’t see anything!”
    My flailing is making her laugh so hard that she’s shaking and people are starting to stare. I can barely control myself, either. “Step in,” she commands. I mime one foot stepping into the leg hole. “Other leg,” she says. “And up!” She jerks the imaginary shorts up, and I grab my crotch and bend over, crossing my eyes. At this point, she falls back against what she thinks is a wall but is actually a curtain, and she lands flat on her butt.
    â€œStella!”
    She is laughing so hard now that she’s not even making any sounds. “I can’t get up, Bird,” she barely ekes out. “Can’t. Get. Up.”
    â€œBird!” Dylan shouts. Everyone near me backstage looks up as he storms toward us. “Are y’all done goofing off over here? Some of us actually want to practice before playing in front of a sold-out venue, if you don’t mind.”
    I look at him like he’s crazy and say, “Sor-ry,” with as much sarcasm as I can muster.
    â€œOh yeah, you sound real sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “You think you’re so grown-up, but if you want to be treated like an