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adult, you have to act like one.”
    I roll my eyes. “Good point,
Dad
. I’ll take that to heart, I truly will, just as soon as this young lady down here zips me up.”
    I reach my arm out to a giggling Stella and pull her up, but Dylan explodes. “Zips you up?! It’s not a real costume change! Just fake it like the rest of us and let’s play some music already!”
    Now all eyes are on us. Everybody, from the catering team to the grips, is staring holes through us, and I feel my face flame. “Listen, Dylan. This is
my
tour, and if I want to have a little fun once in a while, I don’t need one of my
band members
coming down on me. Got it?”
    He looks like I slapped him in the face, and then I see his nostrils flare. But before he can respond, Monty steps between us and suggests we all take five. Dylan storms off, and I turn toward the onlookers and say, “Sorry you had to see that, folks. Just a little sibling spat. Let’s all take five.”
    And true to my word, I turn to my best friend and say, “Zip me up?”
    Which she does. “Ow.” She pouts playfully. “My pinkie got caught in the zipper.”
    Grinning, I kiss it. Then we throw our arms around each other and head for Craft Services, where we each pound a Gatorade before getting on with the show.

    â€œTammy, can you please stop jerking at my hair?” I complain in my dressing room later. My hairstylist looks at me with surprise and nods crisply. “And Sam, seriously, my eyes are really sensitive, and you’re practically gouging them out with that shadow brush.”
    â€œMm, mm, mmm,” he murmurs. “Somebody’s in a bad mood today.”
    â€œSorry,” I say, reaching for the aspirin bottle Marco just brought me. My tour manager is cool. I think my parents were hoping he’d step in as a sort of chaperone, but he rides with the band and lets me be. He didn’t even ask questions about last night—just brought me the pills and got back to his job. “My head is pounding.”
    I take two aspirin, drink some more Gatorade, and check my cell phone again. Anita is trying to squash a story about me “partying hard with playboy Colton Holley,” and her constant judgmental texts aren’t helping my headache. Luckily, he was spotted with a tall, redheaded model in a skimpy bikini this morning at the pool, and the images they do have from last night are too grainy to confirm anything. Anita is threatening libel if the rag mag links him to me. I think I dodged a bullet, both with the story and a fling with Colton.
    But I still feel stupid.
    There is a knock at the door, and I look up. “Come in!” I shout, but then I wince from the effort.
    â€œHey, it’s me,” Dylan says, stepping inside. “When you have time, can we talk a minute? In private?”
    â€œSure,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Can y’all give us a minute?”
    My styling team exits the dressing room, and I swivel around in my chair to face my brother. He doesn’t look as angry as he did before, but he doesn’t look apologetic, either.
    â€œBird, I know you’re eighteen, and you can make your own decisions,” he starts. “And I know that this is your tour. Believe me, I’m aware. It’s awfully hard to forget when your face is plastered on billboards across the country.” He points at me. “But
you
have to remember that, too. This is
your
tour.
You’re
the boss.” He steps back and opens the door, and the sounds of equipment rolling by and crew conversations fill the dressing room. “Look around. All those people out there? They depend on
you
for a job. For some, like Stella and me, who are just starting out, our
careers
could be based on the success of this tour. Don’t you feel some responsibility for us? For everybody?”
    â€œYes, Dylan, gah!” I swivel back around and lay my head down on