Our tour bus sped down the empty road, cutting through the sandy air of the desert. I was laying in the back with Dennis, reading an old Anne Rice novel. I had to adjust my reading glasses after the bus took a small bump and bounced them down my nose.
Dennis sat to my left, causally leaning up against the cushin of our black, velvet couch. He flipped through the withered pages of his old copy of "A Tale of Two Cities" for the twenteth time. All he had to do was skim down the page for a second or two and move on. He practically knew that book by heart. He read it once in English class one year and has been re-reading it ever since.
I, on the other hand, was too busy day dreaming to pay attention to the small print in front of me. I think I just flipped through the pages to make it look like I was reading. I didn't want Dennis asking questions. He'd ask me, "Whats on your mind?" and "Are you okay?" and say, "We don't have to go. It's just an award show. If you're worried, we can just skip it and do something else,". Because I didn't want to do something else; I wasn't worried or upset.
It's been three years since we put this band together. It's been one year since we got famous. My dreams came true in a way. People knew my name, they knew my band, and they sang along to my voice on CD's, digital downloads, Youtube videos, and at concerts. I was only eighteen when our first single went big. A song called "What Lovers Say" off of our debut album "All the Wrong Things". Long Live the Dead wasn't something practical. No one expected us to get the recongnition that we did. We were just a small rock, metalcore band from Livonia, Michigan. Over night we went from small town rock band to front cover musicians with a record deal. We were even on our way to the VMA's in Los Angeles.
It all came as a numbing shock, really. I was aware of everything that was going on. The tours, the CD's, the television interviews, and what not, but I hadn't really felt it yet. Nothing seemed real yet. It was as if I was living inside of a dream. No matter how many fans reached out to touch me or cameras flashed in my face, blinding my eyes, I had convinced myself that it almost couldn't be real.
Somewhere, I was laying in a bed, dreaming this all up while my parents stood behind my bedroom door, muttering about how foolish my dreams where. Somewhere I was still a fifteen year old girl with my whole life ahead of me, but nothing to look forward to.
Until the day I woke up, I'd have to live out this vivid, realish dream with my friends and bandmates. I didn't really mind.
I peaked up at Dennis, who peaked up at me at the exact same time. He gave me a small, half-smile and went on reading.

"How can you be so calm?" I asked as I closed my book and tossed it aside. I crossed my arms and waited for a replied.
Dennis took off his reading glasses, like an old fashioned dad, tucking them back in his case, softly closing his bookmark between the pages on his book, taking a deep breath, and then looking at me like an afterschool special.

"I'm not that calm," he said truthfully. He then smiled like he was about to explode with laughter and joy and shouted, "I'm freaking out! We're going the VMA's!"
Him and I both jumped up out of our seats and hugged eachother. We had accomplished something that we could only hope for.
Not only were we attending the VMA's, we were also nominated for "Best New Artist" along with some rapper from Washington DC and a pre-teen girl who plays piano. Dennis had high hopes that we would win, while I was just happy to be there.
Our other members, Kyle, Connor, and Dakota, were indifferent about the whole thing. Connor couldn't care less, Dakota was calm, but happy, and Kyle hated everything mainstream about MTV. I didn't want to hear him whine about his hatred for Nikki Manaj, Lady Gaga, and other pop stars. That's why I moved to the back of the bus with Dennis. If we did win, Kyle wasn't allowed near the microphone. He'd just rant and rave about how MTV lost it's morals and didn't understand the music industry anymore. Then he'd probably go on and on about conspiracies in the music industry and get us kicked out. I wonder if Kyle knows that he's not Axel Rose. He's not allowed to rage about things that don't matter.

Dennis hugged me as tight as he could and rested his head ontop of mine. He had about a foot on me, so he was able. He stood at six feet tall while I was only at five. I knew he wanted to say something because I did too, I just couldn't find what to say. I had invisible words stuck in my throat. I couldn't make out what they were trying to say, so I kept them quiet. Dennis did too. We just stood there in a silent embrace for a moment or two before sitting back down.
Connor casually walked through the door and informed us that we were just outside of Los Angeles, so, if we wanted to bring anything to the venue then we should pack it up.
At shows like these, they usually have outfits waiting for you in the dressing room along with a makeup artists and hair stylists. They have everything planned out for you when you get there. If you want to wear anything then you have to bring it with you before hand. I had a necklace that I like to wear at every show. It's sort of like a signiture that no one really notices. It's a necklace that Dennis bought me with his first paycheck he got from the record company. It was a thank you for being there for him when things got rough.
It's a small silver heart-shaped key with black and white diamonds outlining it. It sparkles and shines under the spotlight. I keep it safe in the box he gave me. I can't wear it all the time because I'm accident prone and it would surely break. I wouldn't forgive myself if I ever damaged it.
I dug into my duffle bag to find the long black box. I pulled it out and clasped the necklace gently around my neck. After, I went into the small, cramped, tour bus bathroom and washed my face. I starred at myself in the mirror for a minute to find any flaw on my face that the makeup artists would need to fix. I noticed my faint freckles that you could still see on my pale face. They'd cover them up with foundation and consealer. They'd bring out my aquamarine blue eyes with smokey gray eyeshadow, thin black eyeliner, some mascara, and whatever else they could throw on my face.
They dressed me in black, of course. I'm in a post-hardcore rock band. I need to dress the part. They gave me a short, strapless, black, thigh length dress with lace that covered my chest, shoulders, and ran down my arm. I had black, suade, five inch high heels, trapping my feet in their painful grip. They styled my crimson red hair so that it was straight, spikey, and punkish. They left in my black spiderbite lip rings, my right nose ring, tongue ring, and clear 00g plugs in my ears.
Once the stylists would done giving me a few braclets for accessories, they lead me and the others to a limo so it would look like we just arrived. One by one we stepped out of the long, black limo and smiled for the cameras. Interviewers stopped us for a few questions about the night and then we'd carry on until we were in the theatre. Our seats were relatively close to the stage. A guide told us where to sit, but not who we were sitting by. We were allow for a while, so the boys and I chatted amoung eachother with excitement. Well, Kyle didn't. He just in his chair with his arms crossed, pouting, and complaining. He spotted Katy Perry or someone that looked like her and began spewing negative comments.
I leaned over Dennis and 'psst' at Kyle. He looked over with an angry look.

"Seriously, Kyle. I love you and all, but if you don't shut up about how much you hate everyone, I'm going to bash your head in," I threatened him. He gave me a stern look, rolled his eye, and went back to being quiet.
Soon, the lights dimmed and the host took the stage. I leaned back in my seat, ready to enjoy the show. I rested my elbow on the arm rest and accidently knocked over someone else's.
I quickly apologized and turned my head to my right to see the boy sitting next to me. Our eyes met and like lightning, I was stuck in my seat, shocked, and trembling.
He smiled at me with a dorky smile, saying, "No it's okay. It's your's,".
No. No, you take it. I'm so sorry to have bothered you," I quickly splattered as my words rambled out of my mouth.
That cheeky smile, those lovely blue eyes, and messy combed over hair. I'd recognize him anywhere. He was all over the magazines, tevevision, and internet. Him and the four other boys sitting next to him. This was the first time I ever really felt star struck, because I was sitting next to Harry Styles and One Direction.