The venue was packed when we arrived, even though we were an hour and a half early. Nia somehow got her flask through the security check, and we joined the other thousands of excited Beyoncé stans in the stadium. As expected, the level of Black Girl Magic was through the roof; everyone was showing up and showing out just in case the Queen decided to bestow them with a glance. We ogled the prices of concessions, then went to scope out our seats. They weren’t great, but that was okay; the massive screens currently projecting an ad for a local radio station would give us enough of a view. Nicki Minaj was blasting over the loudspeakers.
“I need to pee,” Michelle announced, two minutes into “Super Bass.” I turned to Nia, who was busy rapping along with Markus, and offered Michelle my hand. We made our way, wobbling on high heels, down the stairs. A petite girl in a gold sequined dress stepped out in front of us, her steps certain in her spiked stilettos. Her long black hair swished and shone as she walked, and I marveled at just how pretty everyone in attendance was. The girl seemed to have the same idea as us; we trailed her through the extra fly crowd until we reached the bathroom. It wasn’t too hard to find; about thirty other ladies had had the same idea as us and were lined up outside. Michelle grit her teeth as we sidled up to the back of the line.
“I’m gonna piss myself,” she declared. “What if I use the men’s? There’s like, no guys here anyway, right?”
I looped my arm through Michelle’s just in case she decided to turn that idea into action.
“Girl, of course there are guys. We brought a guy.”
“Where’s the support, Angie?” To my horror, she tapped the girl in the sequined dress on the shoulder. “Hey. You. My friend’s a wuss. Wanna sneak into the men’s with me?”
The girl giggled, a tinny, happy sound. She had large, round eyes, with brows that turned up like a Precious Moments doll.
“I don’t know if I can use a urinal,” she said hesitantly.
“I’m sure we can figure it out,” Michelle said. She widened her stance and dropped into a squat. “Maybe we can back it up over it like this?”
“You realize men’s rooms have stalls, right?” I interjected. “Besides, the line’s moving. You’ll make it.”
Michelle did make it. No one pees faster than a bunch of girls terrified that they’re going to miss “their song” at a Bey concert. The line at the mirrors was another beast entirely, though; whatever time our fellow concertgoers had saved Valsalva-ing* the pee out of them was immediately squandered on making sure that their falsies were hanging on just in case their faces made it on the jumbotron. I squeezed past a row of girls reapplying their lipsticks to get to a sink. The girl from the line squeezed through beside me. She smiled. It was the same smile lone travelers had given me in hostels in Europe, inviting and shy and a little bit brave.
“I like your cat eye,” she said. “I can never get mine to look that clean. Plus, it’s hard to get eyeliner that’s black enough.”
“Drugstore, eight bucks,” I said, smiling back. Aside from cherry-red lipstick and foundation, she wasn’t wearing much in the way of makeup. “I have it with me, if you want me to do yours?”
She smiled brilliantly, revealing the tiniest, most charming gap between her two front teeth.
“Could you?”
We dried our hands. I located Michelle, who had found a sink on the far side, and gestured to her to join us. We made our way to the back wall, and I took the girl’s chin in my hand and tilted her head up.
“What’s your name?” I asked, uncapping my liner.
“Camila,” she said. “Yours?”
“Angie,” I said, then pointed to Michelle, who had an arm wound tightly around my waist. “The octopus is Michelle.”
“Nice to meet you, Camila,” Michelle said, squeezing tighter.
“Okay, now stay still. This eyeliner isn’t super forgiving, so if I jack your face up I’m making a run for it, okay?”
Camila laughed, then schooled her face into neutrality.
“Okay, okay. I’m trusting you!”
She was right to trust me; I’d been doing the same cat eye on my own face for the last three years. Camila maneuvered her way to the mirror to examine my handiwork, then giggled, pleased.
“Looks like I won’t have to beat you up,” she said. She looped an arm through the arm that Michelle had not already claimed. I would have found her easy touch presumptuous in any other situation, but Camila was like a puppy in the rain, lost, adorable, and searching for the first person who would offer her shelter. Who was I to turn her away? “I think you guys are sitting close to me. I’m in section 324. Do you think they’ll care if we sit together?”