Page 4 of Brown Sugar
When you’re a worldwide superstar, people practically do your walkingforyou.
I’m guided into my dressing room where Amari and the rest of my style team attack. They begin stripping off my sparklingruby-red ensemble and stuffing me into my next outfit. I’ll be performing in twenty.
The wig I’m wearing is slid off and replaced by the one I’ll be wearing for my performance—long, wavy tresses the color of sapphire jewels.
My face is painted by my head makeup artist, Tai. He works his magic like no other. By the time he’s finished with me, I’m glancing in the mirror with a perfectly beat face. Whereas I usually go for more natural looks day to day, for the stage, we go all out.
Amari steps in front of me for the final appraisal.
“Monica! Pax!” she yells. “These boots are wrong! I wanted the metallic stretch leather over-the-knee thigh highs! Not the slouchy patent leathers! How the hell would she dance in those?”
Two panicked assistants bum-rush me clutching armfuls of boots. Amari supervises with hands on her hips, barking orders at them ’til they get it right.
Amari smiles wide in approval, kissing me on the cheek. “Body that shit, K.”
I can’t help laughing at the sisterly parting words. I’m whisked off again, immersed in another swarm of people guiding and escorting me along. All around me, chaos ensues.
Assistant producers speaking frantically into their earpieces. Stage directors yelling orders at their minions. Cameramen rushing off to make it to their stations in time. Backup dancers gathering in wait for me at the stairs leading up to the stage.
The last few seconds before a performance are always the most nerve-racking of your life.
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve done it.
How many arenas and stadiums I’ve sold out across the world.
As my name’s announced and the crowd goes wild and the first music note plays, my stomach drops like I’m on a rollercoaster.
But on the outside, I couldn’t look more confident.
I strut onto the stage backed by my cadre of dancers, ready to put on a show in my glittery leotard and silvery thigh high boots. I do what I always do the second the stage lights flood me and my music plays, I lose myself to the routine.
Despite the mess that’s become of my personal life and my break up with Shawn, I’m able to tune it out. Every aspect of the performance rules me.
My lyrics that I sing live into my headset microphone. Dance steps that I hit in sync with my backup dancers. Energy that I put on to the excited screams and cheers from the audience.
The first song is a fast-paced banger about hitting the club with my girlfriends and meeting a guy on the dance floor.
If you’re gonna step to me, you’ve gotta keep up with me.
Rock with me, move with me, dance with me
Rock with me, move with me, dance with me
Rock with me, move with me, dance with me
The dancers and I slip into a dance break as we reach the chorus and the addictive beat picks up. Exhilaration rushes me, pushing me to dance harder, shaking my hips as I work up the crowd.
They erupt in deafening screams as I smile and sing through the next verse. You’d never know, hours ago, I suffered the worst heartbreak of my life.
Minutes ago, before I took the stage to accept another Grammy, I was on the verge oftears.
But I’m a performer first.
The mess that’s my relationship with Shawn will come later.
The performance ends with thunderous applause and the camera panned in on me and the backup dancers striking our final pose. I’m breathless as my heart pounds in my chest and I come out of my trance.
Amari practically tackles me with a hug the second I’m backstage. “My sissy’s a fucking beast! You killed it!”