Like a Sister(37)

She kept the door wide-open for five minutes of small talk between me, her, and someone who looked like her exact replica. Exact same weave. Exact same makeup. Exact same amount of store-bought cleavage. The overall effect was like one of those statues outside Madame Tussauds. It didn’t help that Erin 2.0 had just as much forehead movement as a wax figurine. She had a name: Starr. Erin said she was the best “MUA”—makeup artist—east of Nashville. Since my own routine consisted of a dash of lip gloss and some eyeliner when I was going fancy, like today, I had to take Erin’s word for it. We shook hands, and Starr got into a waiting Uber, probably off to create someone else in her image.

I watched her car head toward 23rd, then turned back to find Erin giving me a once-over. I’d forced myself to put some effort into my appearance, pairing my best sneakers with black jeans and an ironic gray T-shirt that read EQUAL RIGHTS FOR OTHERS DOESN’T MEAN LESS RIGHTS FOR YOU. IT’S NOT PIE. I’d even Googled “How to make your eyes look less tired” and done my best to get rid of the bags.

“You look cute,” she said, because that’s what women say to other women when they’re going out together. It sits in the linguistic library next to saying “Fine” when asked how you’re doing, even if you’ve just lost your dog and been diagnosed with pinkeye.

“You too,” I said, because that was the only correct answer, with “You think?” a close second.

I wasn’t lying either. She did look good. Amazing, even. A dark silver tank minidress that shimmered and shined more than a cartoon. She smiled. “You think?” She looked back down the street. “Where’s your car?”

“I don’t have one.” Then I realized what she meant. An Uber. “I took the subway.”

“That’s, like, two whole blocks.” She looked impressed.

When I glanced down, I got why. She was balancing on four-inch heels. There were no telltale red bottoms, but they were probably made by some trendy designer nonetheless. One who didn’t have a marketing genius behind him like Mr. Louboutin. “It’s not that bad in flats,” I said.

“I don’t own any.”

I believed her. Desiree had been like that too. Their lifestyle was one that didn’t require a pair of sneakers. You didn’t need them for Pilates and yoga—or a trip to the plastic surgeon.

“We can get a cab, I’m sure,” I said.

But Erin already had her phone out. “I’ll take care of it.”

Five minutes later we were in the back of a black SUV with a guy named Arjun pointing out USB ports and the bottles of water he’d thoughtfully left in the cup holders. Ten minutes later we were stuck in traffic on Eighth Avenue while Erin and Arjun swapped life stories. They’d both spent time in India. Only one of them was actually from there. Twenty minutes later we were finally at our destination.

As a proud Jersey girl, I’ve spent a lot of time in Penn Station, but I can’t begin to tell you how to get into Madison Square Garden. I don’t think out-of-towners realize the Garden and Penn Station are one and the same. Most commuters probably forget themselves, the onslaught of jersey-clad Knicks and Rangers fans so common they might as well be part of the architecture. A true case of Upstairs, Downstairs. Fans crowded into one space. Tired commuters heading to New Jersey and Long Island into the other. Both paying far too much, whether they’re staring at Billy Joel or a departure board.

There is a reason why every movie set in New York City has a scene in Grand Central and why, in Hollywood, Penn Station doesn’t exist. It has all the bullshit and none of the ornate architecture. No arched windows. No ceiling murals. No artwork. Instead it has chain restaurants, endless construction, and the occasional lost bird. The only thing it has going for it is Krispy Kreme, and that’s only if you like donuts. It’s not the first time New York has decided to shit on New Jersey. And it won’t be the last.

When we got out of the car, I felt more lost than Gretel after she let Hansel convince her bread crumbs were a foolproof plan. Luckily, I had both Erin and an All Access pass. She’d wanted to come, and I’d realized having someone fluent in “rich and famous” would be a good thing. Once our credentials were picked up and placed around our necks, I followed her up and around and up again until we were gliding toward a Black woman security guard.

I double-fisted the pass, ready to present it like an ID to a bouncer. But she didn’t stop us, barely even glancing our way as Erin glided by. I took more tentative steps until we were through a set of black curtains and into the “back of the house.” It felt like more people were backstage than in the arena proper, and it was way more diverse than I’d expected. Gruff white guys in dirty jeans hauling instruments like furniture. Cute young blondes clutching walkie-talkies like pearls. Overdressed couples, the women in too-high heels and the men in too much cologne.

A music caste system, and I didn’t fit in anywhere. Too female for the roadies. Too brown for the event staff. Too broke for the VIPs. Erin didn’t have that problem. We could barely get two feet without someone stopping her to trade air kisses and promises to meet up in LA. Unfortunately, none were Free.

I’d been fine until we’d gone through the curtains. But then my nervousness kicked in. The plan had seemed foolproof. If you’re going to ask one of the most powerful men in music if he had anything to do with your sister’s premature death, a public place seemed the spot to do it. Now that I was here, however, backstage just felt full of secrets. Doors and curtains and people so self-involved they wouldn’t notice someone getting shot right in front of their eyes. But I’d come this far. I needed to talk to Free, and I was going to talk to Free. Even if I had no clue where he was.