After Lei Meow Meow’s fourth song, the piano club took over for an interlude.

The pianist was a senior — at first glance she looked like a straight-haired literature type, wearing glasses similar to Old Yan’s, but when she played you’d never guess. She launched into a powerful solo that felt like a graceful seagull in flight through the stormy seas. You can’t judge a book by its cover.

By the fourth song, Meow Meow was dead on her feet. She staggered offstage and collapsed onto a table, exhausted, while Sis Xi hovered nearby with the costume.

“Sis, put the outfit on first, then you can rest, the piano set will run for quite long.”

I naturally moved in to massage her shoulders and asked, “Are you sure you can still dance the last song in that state?”

She howled with pride while sprawled on the table, “Of course — who do you take me for?!”

Then she grabbed the costume from Sis Xi and, wobbling like someone drunk, slipped behind the dressing curtain. Sis Xi sighed and followed her in.

Oh — helping change clothes, huh?
They were already close enough to lay everything bare with each other. There’s no way Meow Meow would let Sis Xi turn back if that mattered.

“Being an idol isn’t easy, huh? Meow Meow’s singing really burns energy,” Qiaojue said. She and Haitang had already changed into their outfits before Meow Meow’s fourth song; us six backup dancers sat together and the backstage looked more like a girls-only delinquent meet-up than a rehearsal room.

“But is this costume okay for a livestreamed school concert?” Xiao Lei fretted. Rinka scoffed, “Only worrying about this now? Don’t sweat it — JKs are justice!” and thumped her chest for good measure. (Don’t hit it so hard, it’s already flat!)

When the piano stopped, that was our cue. The backing track cut out indicating that it’s time to go on. My heart raced; I couldn't calm myself even by taking deep breaths.

Haitang noticed and held my shoulder. “Commander, don’t panic. The more you worry, the more you mess up. Treat it like practice — you’ve been doing fine.”

“Even if you say that, I’ll still be nervous!” I protested. Thinking of hundreds of eyes on me made my nerves feel like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.

“Honestly, you’re too timid. With what you have, you should be way more confident. Look at Xiao Lei — even she’s not scared. What are you afraid of?” Haitang pressed.

“That’s just cluelessness, not bravery!” I shot back.

“Then treat the audience like pumpkins.”

“Pumpkins?”

Offstage they started moving the heavy piano to clear the room for us. Sis Yuanyue called from beside the curtain, “Girls, do your best! Big sis is treating dinner tonight!” She still insisted on calling herself “sister” even in her forties — always milking a little advantage, even with her own daughter. She looked young and confident, though.

Meow Meow, about to sing and dance, didn’t want to waste energy arguing with her mom. She strode onstage like she’d been recharged; fatigue vanished and she was lively again. I was last in the lineup and Sis Yuanyue patted my head. “Xiao Lingmeng, you’re too tense. Relax — it’s only one song—ah, sorry, phone call. Go do your best!” Then she hurried off to take the call.

We took our places by the rehearsal positions: the six dancers in three pairs. Qiaojue and Haitang, Sis Xi and Rinka, and Xiao Lei got lumped in with me because no one else wanted to partner with her. Lucky me? Lucky her? I wasn’t sure.

Standing onstage hit me with a new wave of pressure: spotlights from above, the camera arm, the audience’s expectant cheers. I felt like a rookie facing battle. Meow Meow, by contrast, was a veteran — idols really do have huge hearts.

The crowd was surprised to see backup dancers. Their eyes had been on Meow Meow alone until now, so us appearing for the finale drew more stares. And our outfits were a little out of the ordinary, too.

Time to introduce the costumes: my idea, Scarlet-chan designed them, Tony Yang did the final tweaks.

The look mixed tokkōfuku and sailor uniform elements — a gray-black set with a delinquent edge. The sleeves were loose and long, hanging past the hands so only faint fingers showed. The back split into two long panels from the thigh down to the calf, made with springy fabric that would whip around when we spun — a great visual. To keep the front from covering the pleated skirt, the bodice was cut short like a sailor top, so the occasional flash of bare midriff shows when we dance. We’d thought about directly making it a crop top, but Qian-jie strongly vetoed it. (Everyone else had voted yes.)

The collar stood up like a tokkō jacket, exaggerated to block the cheeks on either side of the face — that was deliberately designed for some practical purpose.

Maybe it was my imagination, but it felt like everyone was staring at me. If the crowd were lechers it’d be normal, but the audience was all girls… I guess the attraction of oppais transcends genders — breasts as a symbol of motherhood has its own pull.

The girl band’s instrumental kicked in. Meow Meow’s low, cutting voice came in like a roaring twelve-cylinder engine. Even though I was still tense inside, my body obeyed and moved.

The intro to Restart is heavy, so the early choreography is slow and each step matches the drum — very weighty. This part represents Meow Meow’s past; Miss Takagi’s moves were styled to look “bad” — think hip-hop swagger with lots of posey, showy motions and meaningless cool gestures.

Also as the vocalist, Meow Meow kept her moves steady so she wouldn’t lose breath. If you covered your ears and watched, it’d look like the big boss and her little gang strolling the streets collecting protection money.

Then the beat started to speed up and the song’s mood grew restless. Meow Meow’s pitch climbed and the heavy, sluggish feeling melted away.

Xiao Lei suddenly clenched her fist and swung it toward me. I leaned back, but she grabbed my arm and used her foot as a pivot to spin half a turn, popping back upright. That move was one of the partnered parts — lots of turns and twists, a bit like ballroom variations, except we weren’t wearing tails and gowns; we were whipping those long back panels instead.

Then — suddenly — everything cut out.

The accompaniment stopped. The singing died. The “puppets” on stage went limp and collapsed as if their power had been drained. The stage lights dimmed a notch.

You could hear a murmur in the audience — people surprised by the abrupt change. Exactly the effect we wanted. A few quiet seconds of silence.

Meow Meow was the first to rise. She grabbed the collar of her outfit, yanked it up, and flung it into the air. Lights flared back on.

Her lighter, girl-voice surged like dawn breaking through darkness, lighting up the room. When the music returned it swept away the earlier gloom and tension, the rhythm turned bright and upbeat.