The cool air of the arena surrounds me as we finally make our way to the floor in front of the stage. Finding our way backstage was a nightmare due to the number of people running around trying to get everything set up.

I instantly regret not wearing a light jacket in here, but how was I supposed to think to bring a jacket when it's currently the start of summer in L.A.? Plus, I'm used to having to work outside in the heat all summer with my brother's band on tour and in stuffy clubs. Again, maybe this won't be so bad.

The normally obnoxious rolling sound of the wheels gliding on the bottom of my suitcase is hardly audible due to all of the noise from the construction going on. I look up at the stage and it's already massive without even being completely set up. They're still loading in all of the light up screens and the remainder of the runway they must have just started on.

"So, what do you think?" a voice yells from behind me and my dad.

We both turn around to see Bob walking towards us with his hands out to the sides, gesturing to everything going on around us. He's been my dad's good friend since I was little. They've worked on a few tours together and still keep in touch. He's the one who referred me to Alex's manager, Chris.

"Bob, how've you been, man?" my dad asks, smiling at the bald, beer bellied man wearing a black polo and cargo shorts with black tennis shoes.

"Good, man. It's nice to see you, Jeff," he says, briefly hugging my dad and giving him a clap on the back. "Hey there, little lady. Well, I guess you're not so little anymore," he says, turning to me, opening his arms for a hug to which I comply.

"Hey, Bob." I laugh, because that's what he always says. It's only been two or three years since I last saw him, so I don't think I've changed that much, or even grown. He on the other hand has changed a bit. His once graying beard and mustache is almost completely white now.

Bob's a really nice guy. He's always been really laid back and friendly to everyone. He's just one of those people everyone seems to like and get along with. He doesn't talk too much or too little, cracks a few jokes once in a while, and is a simple man.

"Thank you so much for doing this," I say as we pull apart from our hug.

"Oh it's no problem at all, Joslyn. I just overheard Chris talking about needing a new assistant one day and I ended up mentioning you. I know how hard you've worked over the years and how bad you want to be like your old man one day. He won't shut up about it whenever we talk on the phone," he says, jokingly punching my dad in the shoulder.

I laugh. "Yeah, well, this is a great start. Too good of a start," I admit.

"This isn't really a start, Joss. Do you know how long you've been putting up with Joe and the rest of the hooligans?" my dad jokes.

"Yeah, I guess this won't be too much of a change from what I normally do," I say, trying to ease my mind a bit.

"Watch it! Coming through!" someone yells as another set of equipment is being loaded in by a number of crew members. We all cautiously move out of the way, not wanting to be plowed over.

"How about we get out of their way and go find Chris?" Bob suggests.

"Sounds like a plan," my dad says, already grabbing my luggage, ready to go find this man. I on the other hand am not so eager just yet.

Ear-piercing screams travel through the air as I exit the black SUV at the back of the arena. I give a subtle wave and smile to the girls lining the barricades, making their screams almost deafening. I quickly shut the door on my side of the vehicle and hear the passenger side door shut soon after.

I briskly walk towards the back entrance of the arena, meeting my mother in stride as soon as we get to the hood of the car. She shoves a finger into her left ear and clenches her cell phone to the other, trying to block out the screams and focus on her phone call. She lets out a huff and clicks her heels harder on the pavement to get inside faster. I take my time though, glancing up to quickly admire the large banner on the side of the arena that's been hung to promote the first show of my world tour that will kick off here in just three days.

It doesn't get old, but then again, it does. I'm still a little shocked every time I see my face on a billboard, magazine, or anything, really. The life I live and get to experience is amazing, and I don't think I'd trade it for the world, but it does have its downfalls.

"Alex!" my mother calls, urging me to pick up the pace to make the screaming stop.

I pick up my feet and shove my hands into my pockets, meeting her at the back entrance.

"No... No! Robert, that's not wha- ugh!" she says, ducking into a room that has a sign with my name on the door, presumably my dressing room.

I shake my head and make my way through the backstage halls. I'll let her be. I've heard enough of whatever conversation she's having all the way here from the hotel. I don't need or want to hear any more of it. It's probably some deal she's trying to work out for herself.

I love my mom, I do, but she's always acted more like a manager than a mother. Now that I'm older, she's backing off a little, trying to make a name for herself instead. She's trying to get any brand deal she can get, but mainly she's trying to publish a book on how to parent a popstar or the life of a mother of a popstar. Something like that. I wonder how that will go since sometimes I honestly feel like she didn't raise me at all.

As I make my way backstage, I notice some familiar faces. I smile and nod in acknowledgement at some of my band members standing around in a circle talking amongst themselves. I do the same to the dancers who are huddled around each other further down the hallway. Everyone seems to smile back, but they don't stop to say hello or talk.

That's one thing I really hate about tour. No matter how much no one wants to admit it, there are cliques. Sure, everyone's nice to me to my face but it's almost as if they're scared of me in some way too. I've never given them a reason to be, but I guess that's just the stigma that comes along with being a popstar. Everyone thinks you're an entitled brat that can throw a tantrum and fire anyone at any second. Never have I come close to that though.

I make my way to the floor of the arena to see the stage. It's nearly complete, needing the end of the runway to be built and more screens. These stages and the production just keep getting bigger and bigger with every tour. I really have no clue how I'm going to top the next tour after this one.

I go to the edge of the floor to get out of the workers way and pop into one of the openings along the edge. Walking up a few steps, I sit in one of the thousands of seats and plop down, propping my feet up on top of the row of seats in front of me. A sigh escapes my lips as I clasp my hands behind my head, resting them there.

"How did I get here?" I mumble to myself, watching in awe as all of the people hustle around to get everything complete.

I've been working my ass off since I was nine years old. At that age I knew I wanted to be something bigger than myself. I begged my mom to let me audition for anything and everything I could.

Growing up in New York, there were more opportunities than most places, and once I bugged my mother enough she let me go to a talent agency where I was booked. I ended up getting small commercials, modeling shoots, but ended up mainly doing theater work.

By the time I was thirteen, I fell in love with music and wanted to create my own. I had my agent take me to every record label they could find until one decided to take me in.

After the release of my first single at fourteen, I basically became an overnight sensation. My music went straight to the top of the charts, and pretty soon I had loads of teenage girls running after me and screaming my name. Since then, I've released four number one albums and have been on a world tour for each of them. Now at twenty years old, I'm about to go on my fourth world tour for my fourth album.

My phone ringing and vibrating in my pocket pulls me from my thoughts. I remove my hands from the back of my head and fish my phone out of my pocket. I can't help but audibly groan as the word Mom flashes across the screen.

I sigh as I pull myself up from the seat, already knowing she's going to want me to come to my dressing room.

"Yeah," I answer, pulling my phone up to my ear, walking towards the backstage area.

"Alex, I need you to come to your dressing room. I have a publisher here that wants to talk to the both of us."

"On my way," I mumble, hanging up the phone.