DAY TWO – Seattle, WA

thirty minutes outside of pdx. a little girl stares at her from between the curtains that divide first class from coach. T.S. lowers her phone and looks at the girl. she smiles. the girl, perhaps four, is startled and runs back to her seat. T.S. goes back to her phone. 9 selfies are taken.

arrived at pdx. T.S. stands, along with three other parties seated in three separate rows in first class. They gather carry-on items. T.S walks to the curtain and peers through. the little girl is asleep. her parents, gathering their myriad of bags, toys and devices, have yet to wake her up. the mother carries an infant. T.S. exits the plane.

T.S. walks through the airport swarmed by casually dressed but serious-looking handlers. her assistant J. and two bodyguards complete the circle of human beings that surround her like wasps, crawling over a fragile paper nest. T.S. stares at her phone as they make their way to the exit. a blind queen.

SUV arrives at The Nines hotel in downtown Portland. T.S. is ushered immediately to the elevator.

T.S. enters hotel suite. Three suitcases are stacked in the open closet. Dresses and outfits hang on the rod. Her makeup and toiletries have been carefully arranged in the bathroom. The walls are a papered in a tasteful, muted gray and all of the artwork has been removed. Two acoustic guitars sit in stands along the wall in the living room, under the flat screen TV. T.S. opens her purse and removes a protein bar, opens it and takes one bite.

T.S. climbs into bed, having gone through her nightly routine. Showered, teeth brushed, face cleansed with multiple applications of chemicals, plastic retainer in her mouth, white silk pajamas. She is asleep within minutes.

cell phone alarm chimes and T.S. opens her eyes and sits up. The covers are almost exactly as they were when she laid down. She climbs out of bed and slides her feet into slippers. She picks her phone up from where it was charging on the nightstand and logs into her secondary profile. There are thousands of messages in at least seven different social media accounts. Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, the message board on her website and email. She logs back into her primary account and looks at the messages curated for her by J. There are a total of thirty-two messages she needs to read. T.S. browses messages as she brushes her teeth, archiving each one with a swipe of her thumb

T.S. selects one of the selfies from the plane and posts it to Instagram, which cross-posts to Twitter, Tumblr and Facebook. In it she wears a hoodie and appears to be half asleep, leaning against the plastic window. It is both cute and humanizing. The caption reads “In Portland! See you in 13 hours! XXOO”

The selfie has accumulated tens of thousands of likes, favorites, reblogs and replies on each of her social media accounts. People tell her she’s amazing. People tell her she’s a worthless cunt and should kill herself. People tell her they are crying because she is so beautiful. People tell her everything.

T.S. answers a knock on her hotel door. a Mexican woman stands with a silver tray, covered by a hard plastic dome. T.S. smiles and steps out of the way, letting the woman enter. The woman sets the tray on a table and takes away the dome. Breakfast. T.S. tell her “Your work is very appreciated. Thank you,” as she puts a fifty-dollar bill in her hand, touching her arm with her other hand, forcing the woman to make eye contact with her. The moment is uncomfortable, but effective. T.S. smiles and laughs at something the Mexican Woman said as she leaves. T.S. sits down to eat her breakfast. Scrambled egg whites, a half piece of dry multigrain toast, cut diagonally, a thin slice of cantaloupe and a teacup of apple juice. She picks at the food with her fork, eating tiny bites like a bird.

T.S. sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. In the living room of the suite, a wall clock ticks softly. T.S. picks up her phone and calls J.

T.S. opens the door and a white man in his late sixties enters, carrying a toolbox. T.S.laughs and touches his arm as she thanks him for coming so quickly. He removes the clock and makes his way to the door. She puts a fifty-dollar bill in his hand and says “Your work is very appreciated. Thank you.” The man nods and leaves.

T.S. sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. Her hands rest in her lap. Her only movement is in her eyes, which occasionally dart from side to side. Her phone buzzes every thirty seconds or so. She ignores it.

T.S. sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. The alarm on her phone chimes. She picks it up and logs into the primary user profile. Fifteen missed calls. Nine voice-mails. Forty-five emails. She calls her producer. “I have two new songs I’ve been working on. I would like to play them for you. Yes. I’ll email them in twenty minutes.”

T.S. sits on the edge of the bed, staring at her phone. New messages pop-up as she finishes responding to and archiving the old ones.

T.S. sits on the edge of the bed, playing guitar. An iPad sits on its plastic stand on the end table. T.S. sings a song, most of the lyrics have been loosely penned, and the parts that she hasn’t worked out yet she hums. It is a sad song about a lovesick, heartbroken girl.

 T.S. sits on the edge of the bed. She plays and sings a second song, this one far more up beat than the previous. When the song is over, she presses the icon on her iPad that stops recording. She saves the file to the cloud and emails the link to her producer. She does not listen to the recording.

T.S. calls J. and tells her that she will be going shopping at an artisan dress shop in the Pearl District. She gives the address and what time she’ll be there. 10:45.

T.S. is dressed and walking to the elevator. She wears red high-wasted shorts, a black and white striped sailor shirt with a Peter Pan collar, black canvas shoes with red laces and she carries a parasol. As she walks down the hall, her people exit hotel rooms and join her. By the time they reach the elevator, she’s picked up five souls, including J.

T.S. enters the lobby. People stare at her as she makes her way to front door. A twelve-year-old girl smiles at her and waves. T.S. smiles back and approaches the girl, laughing about nothing in particular, but it makes the girl relax. They exchange words. T.S. asks J. to take a photo of the two of them with the girl’s phone. She tells the girl to work hard and not let anyone tell her what she has to be. It is one of the defining moments of that Twelve-year-old girl’s life.

T.S. sits in the back of the black SUV. P. removes and reapplies her make-up. Thick lash, subtle face. Red lip. T.S. stares at her phone. J. stares at her tablet.

T.S. steps out of the SUV into an inferno of flashbulbs and screaming. She smiles coyly and walks into the dress shop. The photographers do not follow her into the store. They have an arrangement. This is their time to take photos of T.S. J. called them all and told them where she would be and when. For the most part, they leave her alone. For the most part.

T.S. exits the dress shop, carrying packages. More photos. Now eager fans with cameras in their phones also want photos. T.S. signs autographs. T.S. is photographed signing autographs. T.S. speaks with every single person waiting outside of the dress shop. She smiles. She is funny and kind and self-deprecating. She makes eye contact. She touches arms. She touches hearts. They take from her. She takes from them. All are complicit.

T.S. sits in the back of the SUV looking at her phone. J. pulls up the hem of her skirt. A plastic IV tube runs down the inside of her thigh, taped to her skin with white medical tape. The end of the tube is capped with a plastic nozzle. J. twists the nozzle and catches the warm fluid the runs out in a paper cup held between her legs. She closes the nozzle and hands the cup to T.S. who drinks it without looking up from her phone.

T.S. sits in the back of the SUV, looking at her phone. She brushes her teeth. J. stares at her tablet. J. holds out the paper cup and T.S. spits her toothpaste into it. The spit is bright pink. T.S. rinses her mouth with bottled water. She swallows the water. She stares at her phone.

T.S. sits in a coffee shop, drinking tea with an actor/filmmaker friend who happens to be in town filming a movie. J.F. They are photographed together, multiple times.

TMZ, Perezhilton, Oh No They Didn’t, Just Jared, Radar and countless other gossip sites have posted the photos of T.S. drinking coffee with J.F. They speculate as to whether the two are dating. J.F. is rumored to be gay.

T.S. sits at a table in her road manager’s hotel room. She talks on the phone. Speaker phone. Her face and hands are very animated as she discusses her current interests. Her new album, the tour, her privacy, feminism, her heroes and her friendships with other pop singers. It’s a pre-recorded radio interview that will air the following morning, the day of the Seattle show. She has two more to do. They will be virtually identical.

T.S. lays face down on a padded table in herhotel room. She is naked. A large white woman with broad shoulders and masculinehands massages her back and shoulders. The backs of her legs. Her neck andscalp. T.S. flips over, places a folded towel over her eyes and the womanmassages her thighs and arms and hands and stomach. The large woman leaves andredhead with facial piercings and tattoos enters. T.S. smiles and greats her.They are familiar. The redhead begins the task of waxing her.