Each sweaty body became indistinguishable from one another in the heart of the Middle East Nightclub. Girls were shoving each other, pulling on frizzy hair, and stepping on feet, but I couldn’t complain. I had been waiting three months for this moment.
This crowd had traveled directly from the doors of American Apparel to their spot in line around the block from Middle East. Every pair of Doc Martens was shiny and new, purchased for this exact occasion. Damn, I hadn’t even thought of that. I haven’t tried to dress like a performer since I saw "The Cheetah Girls" as a fourth grader. Every once in a while, someone would walk by sporting a sad attempt at a blue hair dye-job.
“Halsey,” my friends and I would laugh, as if she was trying to impersonate the musician, “is that you?”
Finally, it was 6 p.m. and the wait for the purple metal doors to welcome us in was over. Girls stepped on each other’s heels, scuffing the shiny new leather. We swarmed and shoved like ants in a line, because apparently, we needed to be closest to the stage in order for this experience to be worth it.
A couple of indie bands took the stage: some cute, brunette hipsters who sang through bruised vocal chords and pretended they knew how to play the guitar. They passed around a bottle of Jack Daniels, which must have been the first bottle of Jack these girls in the audience had ever seen. I suddenly felt old.
After two hours, the lights dimmed, and Halsey ran out on stage. She was wearing a white crop-top and cargo pants, complete with a Red Sox baseball cap. The Tumblr-obsessed crowd members ran forward as if they were starting a pit at a heavy metal concert. Phones were dropped and flower crowns were thrown, all because a 20-year-old, blue-haired, indie-alternative goddess graced the stage with her presence.
There were rumors that after her shows, Halsey would come outside and greet fans. We walked out into the cold, Boston air and joined a cluster of fans around her tour bus. Minutes passed, and we were approaching the one-hour mark as a Middle East security worker approached our group of 200 on the sidewalk.
“Guys, no one is coming out, they’re all going home. Now get out of here before the police come!”
Surprisingly, about half of the crowd dispersed. Idiots. We were literally standing between the door and her bus. Of course she had to come out. In the meantime, my friends and I struck up conversation with the group of semi-annoying girls in front of us. It was all fun and games until we found out they were only fifteen years old, and then I felt old again.
Ten minutes later, Halsey’s manager walked outside and began speaking to us as it started to rain.
“Ashley,” he began, calling her by her real name, “will be coming out momentarily. There is way too many of you, so be prepared that she won’t get to see you all. She can take a picture with you, but that’s it.” We nodded.
Halsey exited the side of the brick club, and we could have heard a pin drop. Her manager escorted her to our side of the road, where she began taking quick selfies with the crowd. I am not missing this opportunity. I pushed my way to the front of the sidewalk and locked eyes with her manager.
“You’re next, be ready.”
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. He directed Halsey over to me, where I already had my phone on selfie mode.
“My friends and I came all the way from Vermont to see you!” I told her. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
We took a quick picture and she grabbed my arm.
“Thank you so much for being here!” The rain was falling heavier and she was still holding my arm even though her manager had yelled “next!” at least three times. I wiped the raindrops from my cheek with the back of my hand. It may have been saltwater instead. She rubbed my arm up and down a couple of times before finally obeying her manager’s orders and letting go. He pushed me out of the way to make room for other fans and I forced my way to the other end of the sidewalk to meet the rest of my friends.
We were still the oldest ones there, but I didn’t care anymore.
The opportunity to tell someone how much they inspire me was worth more than anything— more than my purple tie-dye dress, that brunette’s Doc Martens, and the $50 bus ride from Burlington to Boston.
