Quite a few people rushed to get out, hoping that Cassie would sign autographs. To be fair, she often does, just not at these kinds of venues. There are just too many people. Others dash for the merch stand, hunting for post-show discounts. Personally, I think it's just the venue quietly removing the "showtime tax" they sneakily added before the concert.

The thing is, Cassie gets a cut from each sale. So does the venue. She'll still make money off website sales, but the venue won't, hence the rush.

I watch as the stage crew carefully dismantles the drum kit, while the musicians carry out their guitars like proud parents escorting their kids home from school. Well, those that still do. I think most kids use the bus now.

The people around me don't bolt out the door, but they don't linger either. They're just waiting for the crowd to thin. That's the problem with sitting up front: best view, worst exit strategy. I hear the girls on either side of me, absolutely ecstatic. Their post-concert joy is contagious, like glitter: impossible to avoid and sticking to everything.

I stay seated since I know the crowd will take a good half an hour to thin enough for me to start figuring out where to go.

When finally I felt alone enough, I spotted a security agent and asked where the backstage area was. After checking my ticket, he agreed to escort me.

It didn't take long to be in a room not unlike any other backstage lounge. My heart starts pounding again from being close to Cassie. Yet, the only way I can know where she stands is to locate the group of backstage fans huddled around her.

To my surprise, Cassie isn't actually actively talking to the fans. She's signing autographs and posing with them, but she is mainly answering questions from journalists. Always multitasking, that girl. I wish I could do that instead of having to offload my mental load onto notebooks.

"No, the crew was spot on," she says. "I heard the concerns about the show last week, but the management assured me that the employee who caused issues had been promptly fired. I look forward to tomorrow's show."

One of the journalists raises a hand. "One of the fireworks seemed off tonight. Any comment?"

"Beverly, you know I never comment on the excellent work of the stage crew. Pyrotechnics can be a bit unpredictable at times, but before coming backstage, I was assured it was only a minor deviation. The dancing in the previous act threw off a sensor. We'll tweak it for tomorrow."

Another journalist cuts in. "Rumor has it you're recording a new album. Anything you can share?"

"Now, you know I do record songs between albums, so yes, I have recorded new material, but nothing official. Actually, everyone, fans, can you just make a little space? Journalists? I know you usually cover showbiz only, but I have to introduce my best friend, Ernie, who's here to see me. Today, you are all about me, but give it a few years, and you'll be begging for an interview with the best inventor on the planet. Ernie, come closer."

She spots me and waves me in. I feel about a thousand eyes turning toward me. She's not wearing the last dress from the show. This is one of her personal ones. A very sexy, shoulderless bra-top dress that perfectly shows off her silhouette. The kind that screams diva, but with a wink.

She walks over as flashes go off. I'm glad I wore clean clothes. Her fans follow her, but the journalists seem confused.

"You came," she says, offering both her hands. I take them, feeling their warmth and a little dampness from the stage lights. I can almost sense the buzz of adrenaline in her fingers.

"I wore your dress," she whispers. "I felt you in the audience before I saw you."

It's the one I got her for a friend's wedding, where we were each other's plus-one. She never wore it back then. "I don't want to outshine the bride," she said at the time. But now, it's perfect.

She lets go of my hands just as the journalists catch up and the cameras turn my way. They're clearly filming, probably wondering who I am and if they should care.

"Guys, Ernie is a genius," Cassie says to them. "He just completed installing a revolutionary quantum heat exchanger he invented. I don't totally understand how it works or what it does, but it will drastically make factories using it more efficient, enough to bring some manufacturing back to the USA."

Great, she read my last email, and she is letting me know that.

The journalists glance at me, unimpressed. I can see it on their faces. It's like they were only interested because she was pointing at me, and as soon as her focus moved on, I became background again. It's like they were happy to be pointed at something for a second, but now they're already thinking about their next headline. And I wasn't it.

She puts a hand on my shoulder and turns back to the crowd.

"Fans, this is my best friend since I was a kid. If you've got a best friend, take care of him or her. Now, I will go sit at the table there, and you will all be able, one by one, to come sit next to me for 1 minute. Don't push; everyone but the journalists and Ernie will get a turn. I want people in order of the backstage ticket number. If you are with a friend, they can wait their turn. I want this one-on-one. Journalists? Maybe you can leave us all alone and go write your reviews, telling everyone how much you loved the show?"

They nod and start to disperse.

I just stand where I was, looking at Cassie standing next to me, with infinite patience, talking to each of her fans who bought a backstage ticket. Most have a minute, but for some, she extends it. Notably, she was the one who got the ticket after she visited her children's hospital. The poor girl looks frail and sick.

When a fan is done, a security agent gently escorts them out, giving them a goodie bag with, I presume, trinkets.

When the last fan is gone, we are left, just her and me, as the last security agent has left with the last fan. The room feels twice as big. Even the hum of the crowd in the corridor seems far away.

A girl about our age gets to Cassie with a top from a bikini from her show.

"I fixed it. It should be okay for the next show."

"Thank you, Anita; it didn't fall, so we are okay. You can go to the hotel."

Anita leaves, and we are alone again.

She comes closer and jumps in my arms. My pulse goes haywire. I never know whether to hug her back or just stand there and let her hug me, so I do a bit of both.

Now that it's just us, she doesn't have to keep smiling so wide. She still looks happy, just a little tired. I can see it as she pulls away, looking for her breath, like she's been holding it in all night.

"I am so happy to see you," she says, looking at me.

"I am so happy too!"

She gestures to the table. "Come sit. How did you like the show?"

"I loved it. You must have suffered with so many costume changes."

"It's all Velcro! I swear, if I move just a little too fast, my dresses will fall apart. But Anita is a wizard with dressing me up. Still, it's why I need to change after the show. Hey, how did you get here? Did you drive? Didn't you have to work today?"

"Oh, I found a way to make it. "

She laughs. "That's so you. Answering the question and adding more questions in my mind." She puts her hand on my shoulder. "I am proud of you, you know?"

"And me, of you."

"Who would have said that the two little kids in kindergarten we were would make it that big?"

"You more than me," I say.

She laughs. "For now. In 5 years, they will all forget about me, and you will be on every scientific magazine cover. So, the training went well? I didn't get an email about today."

"Oh, you rarely reply during your repetitions, so I didn't send one since we were going to see each other."

She lightly hits me on my shoulder. "But I didn't know that. I was worried!"

"You were? You rarely reply."

She looks at the floor, sad. "You know, Ernie, I don't like being on tour. It's me on tour, but I'm not me. How can I email my best friend when I am not even here?"

"What do you mean?"

She stands up and begins pacing.

"These people, they don't know me. You do. They don't connect with me, just you. I mean, look at those security guards. Did you know that I learned all their first names and know which ones are married and which ones had a wife in the audience? And yet, when they look at me, they don't see a person. They see the character I play on stage. It's why I didn't want to be called Cassie for my artist name. Because now, I don't even have a name for myself anymore. You know I never really connected with Cassandra, so now it's like they robbed me of my inner self."

"I know. We've talked a lot about it. Maybe I could call you Cas?", with a z sound.

She looks at me. "Not Cass?"

"Too close to Cassie. And it's your high school friends who called you that."

She looks at me. "I would like that. Cas. Well, Cassie wants to go to sleep. It's a rough weekend, but Cas? She would like to go get hot dogs with her bestie. Are you up for it?"

"Sure." My light supper feels gone now. It's like it was eaten in another century. Before I got close to Cas again.

"Follow me. I can't go out like that, as I flash too much. That's one hell of a dress. I have my jeans in my dressing room. I'll let you pick the shirt."

I don't even have the chance to follow her as she grabs my hand and pulls me with her like so many other times when I was focused on a project. Now, or back in school.

Her dressing room is immaculate and has a jar of Swedish raspberry gummies. She grabs one and offers me the bowl. I take two.

"I once said that I like them in an interview, and now, they give me a huge bowl at every show. Like, do I look like I eat a lot?", she says, pointing down at her slim body.

She laughs and picks folded jeans from a pile. "And they actually fold my jeans up." She pulls her wallet and throws it to me. I catch it. She doesn't like to carry a purse, and I usually end up with it in my pockets.

To my surprise, she unzips the dress and carefully steps out of it, revealing her nude body. As if we've done this a hundred times before. Well, I had seen her nude often, but rarely this casually.

She grabs a pile of shirts and gives it to me.

"So, which one?"

I look at her, stunned. She is standing completely naked in front of me.

I can see her small, perky breasts, her well-trimmed pubic hair, her slim waist, and the total absence of skin imperfections. To me, Venus de Milo holds no candles to her beauty.

"Don't make that face. We skinny-dipped all the time when camping," she says, laughing.

I pick one of them as it's perfectly her color. She grabs it and pulls it over her head. I quickly learned that as an adult, she prefers not to wear bras, other than for interviews or sometimes when meeting fans, as she is afraid a journalist or a groupie will find out.

She slides into her jeans, not bothering with underwear either. "I always tell them not to touch my things, and they never listen. It's like, once I am outside the room, my words no longer matter."

"It's challenging to find good help."

"Tell me about it. I am blessed, though, as most of the local crew here is almost as solid as my touring one."

She slides into very comfortable shoes that don't need socks.

Opening a drawer, she picks a bright pink hair wig and puts it on her head.

"That's my new incognito disguise."

"What happened to the blonde wig?" I ask. She naturally has deep, brown hair.

"A stupid paparazzi. They tend to leave me alone, but this one didn't know better, and I didn't see him, so I couldn't just slip the wig off to hide it."

"Oh wait," she says, grabbing a keycard from the desk. "Without that, I can't get to my hotel room. Well, I suppose I can, but better not take chances," she says, smiling and giving it to me.

We end up in my car, since she arrived in her tour bus.

"So, what's your next project?" she says after I put on my Android Auto the coordinates of a local greasy restaurant joint that is open 24/7.

"I don't know," I say, pulling out of the parking spot. Everyone else is gone, so I presume the remaining employees have their own parking lot.

"You still don't know what you are working on for Monday?" she says, surprised.

I do know what I will be working on. Getting a portal in place for her next show, but I am not yet ready to open up about it. Maybe if, after hot dogs, we make it to my apartment.

"I don't think I have anything pending."

"Bullshit," she says, grabbing my phone.

She types my PIN. Of course, she knows what it is, perhaps even more than I do. 1021, as in October 21st, her birthday. Granted, I know hers too, but it's not as obvious. As far as I know, 0412 isn't anyone's birthday. Not her parents, not mine, and not any of her siblings. She doesn't talk to any of them anyway.

She plays on my phone as I drive. Am I nervous? Not at all. I trust her.

"Irvin Talon wants a meeting for a project. A conference call will do, for Monday morning," she says.

"Whom?"

"How should I know? It's your email. He works for Cintec Engineering."

"Oh, right. I remember him. Anything else?"

"A few headhunters"

"I am not taking a job."

"You better not. If you accept to sell out, I am taking a private jet, and I will come spank your ass. You have a bright future, so don't chain yourself to a boss."

"You hate private jets."

"I would hate it even more if you took a job. What does Irvin want?"

"His employer makes fracking equipment, and he wants me to find a way to reduce the amount of water needed for the extraction."

"Yuck, I hate fracking. I hate oil."

"Yeah, it's why I keep pushing him away, but maybe I can save some aquifers from being drained underground by fracking."

"I suppose. Will you take the gig?"

"He offers a 200,000 signing bonus just to look at their data sheets."

"Holy shit, Ernie. That's... a lot of money."

"They have a lot of money."

"Maybe they shouldn't," she says, pouting.

I decide to change the subject.

"So what will you do between this set of shows and the next one?"

"Oh, there is no time! We need to dismantle everything, from the rigging, including that flying rig you made, to the pyrotechnics. We'll leave like a day after the last show, and then it's a day of travel to Los Angeles. Then, we set up in LA and basically have to rush to get ready."

"No, I know that. I mean you. Personally."

"Oh, right. Almost nothing. I sit on my ass, or I do Pilates exercises, cardio training, and I do some choreography."

"And do you practice your songs?"

"Oh hell no. From the moment we arrive in California, still while on the bus, to the moment I start the sound check, I can't talk at all. Not even to ask for food or anything. "

"You need to rest your voice?"

"Exactly. I'll take honey every few hours, and someone will follow me from room to room with either a humidifier or a dehumidifier to make sure the room is at the perfect humidity."

"Wow. I didn't realize it was that strict. You never mentioned it before."

"Did you explain to me how your quantum heat storage works?"

"I did," I say as I pull into the parking lot of the place. It seems empty.

"Wait, you did?" she says, surprised.

"3 months ago. You were in town. I was already working on it, and I explained the principle."

She laughs. "Right. And I understood nothing. Ok, fair enough. I didn't talk about it because, well, it's boring. I want to have fun with you, Ernie. Not talk about voice work."

"And now you can talk?"

"Yeah. Now, zero pressure. I can be all by myself until tomorrow morning. Granted, if the security agents knew I was away, they would freak out, but I am a grown adult," she says, leaving the car after I parked.

"I want a greasy hotdog with onions, mayo, and mustard in it. Just like you hate them," she says, teasing me.

"Take what you want. I am paying."

"No way. If you are paying, it's from my wallet. You had to pay for gas to get here. I am already rich, but you are only about to be"

"You don't have to pay for me."

She presses her elbow into my ribs. "What if my retirement plan is to remind you of all the hotdogs I paid for you so that when you are rich and I am a has-been, you take care of me?"

I look at her.

"As a friend. Only as a friend."

"Ok, I'll let you buy for you all the hot dogs I want then."

She laughs and pulls me in inside.

She gets to the counter and says,. "My friend and I want a booth and 4 hotdogs. Add bacon, lettuce, tomatoes in small cubes, a thin slice of mayo, and American cheese under the sausages. Two per plate, with a Sprite and an orange juice."

I look at her. It's precisely how I love my hot dogs, and I converted her a long time ago.

There is something about taking a conventional hot dog, deconstructing it, and turning it into a Cheese BLT atrocity. Fine, we each contributed elements to this creation to the point where both of us would be in the credits, though I suspect it's not unique to us. I've seen restaurants offer exactly that combo, but in our youth, we were naive enough to think it was an original idea.

The female employee pointed to a booth at the far end, and we sat in front of each other.

"Where did we go wrong, Ernie? We barely see each other anymore."

"You moved to San Francisco."

"Like it was my choice! You could come. It's where Silicon Valley is. You would make a killing."

"I don't know. I guess I have my habits."

"And I could make more of an effort. Maybe I will spend a weekend at your place when I am in town for my tour."

"I would like that. Thought..."

"What? Don't tell me you have a girlfriend?"

"No, you would be the first to hear about her. No, it's that Irvin, the fracking guy? Well, he is North of LA, near Berkeley. I could get an Airbnb or an apartment to rent and be close enough for the show and close enough to visit you in San Francisco."

"What a great idea! My place is too far away for you, however. I'll go to you. I don't even like San Francisco."

"Suits me"

Our food arrives soon enough, and we both eat with appetite. My heart had been racing all evening, and my early supper was lighter than I anticipated.

Plus, how can I say no to Cassie? I mean, to Cas?

We ate mostly silently. When we are done, I work on my Sprite, and she works on her orange juice, smiling. But it's not just a happy smile. It's more like a complicity smile. It's the same smile as when we were kids, playing in the mud, finding weird rocks or bugs.

The female employee, whose position I am not sure of, comes to pick up our plates and requests permission to ask a personal question.

"If I could have a picture with you and an autograph for my teenage girl, I can offer you the meal."

Cas immediately removes the wig. She was burned by the previous one being in a picture, so she didn't want to lose this one, I suppose.

"That is unacceptable," she says, out of character. I am confused, as she is always generous with fans. Always willing to go the extra mile. Is it because I am here? Or is showbiz getting to her head?

"Oh, sorry," she says.

"My friend will take our picture, I will sign your autograph, and I can even video call your daughter to wish her a good night. But I intend to pay for the food we ate, and I will leave a generous tip. I do not sell my autographs, not even for free food," she says, smiling.

Ah, this sounds more like Cas. She never wants to take advantage of anyone.

"That... is wonderful!", says the lady, almost crying.

I take the picture with the lady's old phone. Cas apologizes for not having a picture to sign, but she does sign on a piece of paper, adding, "Sorry I couldn't hug you in person, Lorie," before putting her artist signature. It's not the same one she uses for signing contracts. It's more elaborate, with the C looping around the other letters and the top of the e in the shape of a heart. I helped her refine how to draw it faster, but most of the look is 100% hers.

The employee confirms again that Cas wants to make the call and then makes a video call to her daughter.

"Mom?"

"Hey, sweetie. Were you asleep?"

"I was trying to, but not yet. Is there a problem?"

"I have a customer who would like to talk to you."

"One of my friends?"

"Not really. Let me pass her to you."

She passes her phone to Cas, who just says, "Hey Lorie, cute room. Love the poster."

Sadly, I can't see the screen, but I can fill in from the context that she has one of Cas's posters.

"Wait, Cassie? ", she screams in joy. "Oh my God, I am, like, your biggest fan! I was so sad I couldn't get tickets."

"Sadly, I don't have any extra. It's all sold out."

"I know. I learned all your choreographies. I want to be a dancer when I grow up."

"Well, show me."

"What?"

"Put the phone against a book or something and show me."

A few seconds pass. Cas smiles at the phone.

"Ok, do you have a summer job or something this summer?" says Cas.

"Not really"

"I have a summer camp for underprivileged kids in Tennessee. I'll leave the coordinates in your mom's phone. We can arrange transportation too. I hope to see you there next summer..."

She laughs. "I am a little too old for that."

"I don't think you understand. I am offering you a job as a counselor. I usually go at least a few days during the summer."

"Wait, seriously? Are you saying I could work at Camp Cassie?"

"If you want"

"This is the best day of my life!"

"The best day so far, Lorie. You are still young, so you'll have a lot more best days. I have to go, but I look forward to meeting you in a few weeks. Have a good night," and like that, she hangs up and types something on the phone.

"I have put in a contact for "Camp Cassie Recruitment." Have her call there next Monday and leave her email and coordinates. Tell them I offered her a job in a video call. They will confirm with me if I didn't get to talk to them," she says, giving the phone back to the employee.

"You are so kind, Mrs. Cassie. She really looks up to you."

"She seems so sweet and caring. And sorry for not checking with you first."

"Don't worry about it. She is the sweetest. She wears her heart on her sleeve and always takes more care of others than herself."

"I'll give her a chance to follow her dreams. It doesn't pay that much, but it has room and board, and she'll learn to dance, despite being a counselor. It will do her a lot of good."

"Thank you so much."

"So how much do I owe you?"

"Nothing, really."

"That wasn't the deal."

"I'll ring you up then."

Cas ended up asking me to pay from her wallet a twenty-dollar bill to more than cover the meal and a hundred-dollar bill as an extra tip.

As we leave, walking toward my car, she says. "You should have seen the room. From that and her mom's old phone, it's clear they are struggling financially. I want to do so much for my fans."

"I trust you. You did the right thing." I know she didn't have it easy either.

"But that's the thing. I can't help everyone. Like, what if she was horrible? What if I am wrong and she yells at the kids?"

"You are a great judge of character, Cas."

"Thanks. I think I needed to hear it. Want to drop me at my hotel room? I both desperately need to sleep and want to spend hours talking to you. If you really are going to California this week, perhaps I can spend time with you then? I have a small pause in my tour, and we'll be able to truly have time just you and me."

"I would like that," I say. I really would. She put a conditional in there. Could it be that she doesn't really want to see me? That she is just being polite?

"And maybe you can make me some of your perfect sandwiches," she says. I nod.

Does she really like them, or is she being sarcastic? I know that despite her public persona being so refined, Cas is a down-to-earth girl. Never afraid to jump in the muddy lake or race in a dark forest. She gets invited to the big restaurants for promo shots and prefers greasy diners for a time to relax.

Cutting my thoughts, she smiles and hugs me. I hug her back. My heart is still racing. It's crazy how it occurs each time I am with her. I wonder if she feels the same way toward me.

At the hotel, we meet her tour manager, Lois, who was panicking. "Where were you? You left your phone in your dressing room," she says, giving Cas a phone, which she gives to me.

"Lois," says Cas. "When I am with Ernie, I am safe."

"And how could I know that? I was handling your band.

"True. I'll pay more attention."

She turns to me. "I had a great time. Let's stay in contact on my secret Facebook for when you get to California." Of course she has a secret Facebook profile for just her actual friends. All 3 of them, all from high school or earlier. It offers no pictures and has the strictest privacy settings.

She hugs me one last time. I give her back her phone and wallet and get on my way, smiling.