“Hell yes,” she says. “Let’s go in the back.”

Cinnamon grabs my hand. Onyx follows. I am excited; I’ve never been backstage before. It’s smaller than I’d expected, and it’s messy. Lace bras thrown over stools and discarded heels. Loose mascara wands and lines of white powder. Christmas lights strung over each of the three mirrors.

Cinnamon plops down on a bucket in the corner and hits the pen. Onyx sits next to her on top of a hard suitcase. I sit beside her on the floor.

A man peeks through the door and announces, “Onyx, you’re up next.”

“‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ or ‘Come as You Are’?” she asks us.

“‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ is your best,” I say. “So maybe save that for later, when there are more people.”

Cinnamon and Onyx laugh.

“You’re so cute,” Onyx says. “Some girl is DJing starting at seven or so, so we don’t get to pick our music after that.”

“Who’s DJing again?” Cinnamon asks.

“That annoying girl, Vagablonde.”

“Oh god,” I say. She is the suspected Leo who always appears on Beau’s Instagram late at night, only to be deleted in the morning.

“You know her?” Cinnamon asks.

“I think she’s friends with Beau,” I say.

A disembodied voice yells, “Onyx, you’re up!”

“Hold that thought,” she says.

Onyx walks over to an iPad attached to a speaker and fiddles with it. “Smells Like Teen Spirit” comes on, faintly. It gets louder as she opens the door to the stage, then fades as she closes it. A dancer I don’t recognize comes in as she goes out. She stomps over to the mirror area. She is wearing Technicolor lingerie at odds with her ornery expression.

“Wait,” Cinnamon says, ignoring the angry dancer. “This is great.”

“What is great?” I ask.

“Beau’s friend is DJing!” She hits the vape pen again. “This means he’ll probably be here. And I can help you seduce him.”

Butterflies flap around in my stomach. I refuse to believe I blew it yesterday. I probably just looked enigmatic, like Cinnamon said. The Mirror Box girls call me Ice. I’m basically one of them.

“That’s a good idea,” I say. “Should I go home and change? I guess we have a few hours.”

“No, no,” Cinnamon says. “Don’t change. You look cool as fuck. Most girls try so hard it’s embarrassing. Effort is out. Fashion is out. Materialism is out.”

“You’re right,” I say. The Precious Starlets could afford Prada, but they shop exclusively at Brandy Melville, a cheap store for teens.

“Just stay here and hang with me. I’ll gas you up and get us a nice little buzz on.” She jumps up and walks over to a duffel bag on the ledge with the mirrors. “I think they got us molly tonight.”