Between You and Me (11 page)

“No, right—”

“That shoot with LaChapelle was tight, though. Real tight. You did good.”

“Kelsey, tell him about the camel,” Andy prods.

“Oh, I don’t know if Terrance would—” she demurs.

“Oh, yes, it’s too good!” Michelle affirms. We are all, I realize, nodding. As if Kelsey’s a well and our movement will pump the story out of her.

“You’re gonna love this, T.” Andy beckons his cupped hand and in a second flat, Kelsey breaks into her reenactment, hopping up to straddle the chair and make it wobble on the marble for effect. And, despite having heard it to the point that I can recite it, even I’m laughing when she flops back down.

Terrence drops his head and cracks up into his turtleneck. “You should save that for Letterman,” he says as he stands, his spiced cologne lingering. He holds Kelsey by her shoulders, appraising her. “The shirt—”

“Thank you!” Michelle throws her hands out. “I’ve been saying it all day!”

“She’s working it. That flashy shit is turning. It’s starting to put age on her, you know what I mean?”

“Yes, oh, yes, absolutely, Terrance.” Michelle recovers.

He pulls Kelsey in for another hug.

“Logan lent it to me,” she shares quickly over his shoulder.

“Nice,” he offers me as he releases her. “Take it tonight.” He points at Kelsey.

“Can’t wait.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Kelsey is soon stationed in
the preshow reception, and I am push-weaving toward her through the packed room of dignitaries and their adolescent children and/or dates. Michelle sits these out after being asked one too many demeaning times if she was a fan and takes a cat nap on the bus while Andy positions himself in the hall to gauge the “satisfaction” of everyone as they depart.

I’m not at Kelsey’s side, because Terrance had been erroneously seated in the stage-right VIP box, which tonight has a slight obstruction from the smoke jets, which had to be brought forward three feet to—I don’t have space to care. He’s now seated in the stage-left VIP box with a scotch, which also dates back to—I don’t have space to care. “Sorry, excuse me, excuse me, excuse me . . . ”

“I have loved to sing since as far back as I can remember. I would just beg Momma to take me to the contests,” Kelsey answers for the—she sees me and flashes her hands twice by her thigh and then flicks one finger as if she’s brushing off an aggressive piece of lint—twenty-first time in the last hour.

“You vill teach my daughter.” A gentleman pushes forward what looks to be a painfully shy middle-schooler.

“That’s sweet,” Kelsey says, but I can tell she’s unclear.

“You teach her to sing. Go ahead, Gertrude, sing for Kelsey Vade.”

The girl stares down at her boots as if she’s willing the rug to swallow her.

“Oh, that’s okay, she doesn’t have to. You don’t have to.” Kelsey puts her hand on the girl’s.

“But you teach her.” The man says something fast and instructional in German to Gertrude but to no avail. She waits on that hungry rug.

“So, do y’all get much snow?” Kelsey asks the room.

“Ahhhh.” The girl ekes out a note, and her father puffs up.

“You make better.” He tosses his hands at Kelsey as if we are now getting somewhere.

“I’m so sorry.” I step in. “Miss Wade has to get ready now.” To a chorus of “awws” I steer her out of the room.

After a nod from Andy, we march the cinder-block hallway as Kelsey exchanges her untouched cocktail for a Red Bull. “How was that supposed to work?” she asks. “What did he see happening, do you think?”

“You handled it really well.”

She belches loudly and hands off the emptied can for a cold-cream-smeared towel. “Can you please get me my iPod with ‘Chemistry Lesson’ queued up?” she asks as we descend the stairwell to her dressing room.

“On it.”

“Frauleins.” Kelsey mugs from the doorway before plopping down and lifting her face to Binky’s air-brusher. “I want details from za tourist front.”

Michelle holds up earrings to replace one that went flying last night. “Do you approve of these?” she asks.

“Perfect!” Kelsey cheers.

“I wouldn’t want to put age on you,” she mutters, and Binky and I lock eyes in the mirror. There’s a knock. I toss Kelsey her iPod and crack the door to a middle-aged woman carrying a valise.

“I am Berta. The hotel sent me to do nails?”

“Fantastic. I’m Logan. I hope you’re up for doing this pit-crew style.” I pull it open to reveal Kelsey mid-makeover. Berta reddens as she tentatively steps inside to cover for our manicurist, Jen, who’s sweating off bad street sausage on the bus. “Guys, this is Berta. Berta, this is Binky, Dax, Michelle, and Kelsey.” They gesture hello with their tools.

“Hey, Berta!” Kelsey says to the ceiling as Binky lines her eyes. “Welcome to the chaos.”

Michelle pulls me aside while Berta fumbles open her case. “She signed the NDA, right?” Michelle whispers. “I don’t want Andy going through the roof again.”

“Yep.” All twelve pages. Same as me. The only thing more thorough is a lobotomy. Kelsey watches as Berta wipes her shaking palms on her lap.

Kelsey interrupts Dax’s description of schnitzel. “Did Logan tell you guys about this Italian chick this morning? Oh, my God, I have to show you. Berta, I did all these silly interviews today with these crazy reporters.” Michelle turns to leave. “Momma, I can’t tell this story without you!” Kelsey squeezes Berta’s hands as if she was waiting all day to share this story just with her. She hops up and, with a bud feeding her “Chemistry Lesson” in one ear, does a perfect pantomime of the journalist, swinging the ensnarled round brush from her hair to use as a microphone and pulling Michelle disarmingly into the act, an arm around her waist, a kiss on her cheek at the punchline. Kelsey eases her hand back into Berta’s now steady one. Michelle stays put, and Kelsey resumes volleying jokes back and forth, determinedly turning the dull grind into a good time for all present.

Soon we’re traversing the tunnels as Kelsey runs scales against the overhead roar generated by tens of thousands of people finding their seats. Michelle hurries behind with the freshly steamed tutu. Kelsey interrupts her vocal warm-up to chirp “Hey” to each passing crew member, all while tilting her head and swishing her hands as she mentally reruns the “Chemistry” choreography.

To my daily relief, we arrive not in some sub-basement steam room but under the stage, where the dancers are doing their final stretches. As she approaches them, Franz Schekele gets out of the pink Barbie Corvette she’ll drive on for the finale. His cameraman turns on the lights. Kelsey instinctively recoils.

“Yeah, Kel,” Andy says, coming from behind them. “These guys are gonna shoot backstage tonight, quick changes, that kinda thing.”

“Why?” she asks quietly, her back to the lights.

“You heard Terrance today. More’s more. I’m thinking he could syndicate the footage across all our markets. Just do your normal stuff—pretend they’re not there.”

She nods with a stiff smile, Pita reaches out a hand and Michelle, Andy, and I join the prayer circle.

We look to Kelsey as adrenaline makes a complete circuit through
our joined palms. “Dear God.” She drops her head to speak to the empty space given shape by our toes. “We thank you for this opportunity to use the gifts you have blessed us with. Please give us your grace to do an awesome show and to perform safely. And, most of all, to bring it to the kind folks of Vienna. Amen!”

“Amen!” Everyone claps and breaks apart, expressions set with precurtain focus.

“So, Logan.” I’m surprised to hear Franz address me as I trail Kelsey to the rigging, her Swarovski fishnets teasing the light spilling down from the stage. “Zis mohning I did not realize you ah Kelsey’s cousin.”

“Yep,” I reply.

Kelsey takes off her K necklace for Michelle to hold. “Best friends since they were babies,” Michelle prompts me, but I’m uncomfortable with trying to package memories into soundbites. “Logan helped Kel learn to walk—it was the cutest thing,” Michelle adds before giving her daughter’s reflexively proffered forehead a kiss. Kelsey lifts her foot onto the first rung.

Franz checks his notecard. “But zis is yoh first touah.” He addresses me again. “You didn’t vant to come befoah?”

Michelle’s hand tugs Kelsey’s heel just as it lifts above our heads. Kelsey scampers back down. “Honey, show them that nutty Italian lady.”

Kelsey looks up at the three-story ladder she has to climb.

“She only has a few minutes before lights,” I remind them. I hear Andy clear his throat.

Everyone looks to me, and with a sharp exhale I face the camera. “She’s always been more like a sister to me, really. Like Michelle said, we were pretty inseparable, first cousins, just a few blocks apart.”

“Vat vas Kelsey like when she was little?”

I look over his shoulder to Andy. I have no idea what to say, what this part of her story is other than her love of ice-skating and nonexistent trees. I decide the safest option is just to tell the truth. “Small, shy. I always had to keep an eye out for her at school.”

“That’s sweet,” Michelle says.

And home,
I want to add.

“Vat vas it like when you first heard Kelsey on ze radio? Veh weh you?”

On my way to NYU Freshman English.

“Um, let me think. We were in L.A., and we were shopping.” Avoiding Kelsey’s eyes, I try to verbalize a moment I’ve frequently imagined. “We were in the Gap, and ‘Make Me Yours’ came on . . . and we screamed.” I can see it so clearly. “No one in the store knew who Kelsey was, and we pointed and said,
that’s her!
Michelle took us straight for hot fudge sundaes. It all started to change pretty fast after that.”

A techie extends his arm to draw our attention to the lowering lights. The preshow music starts to fall away, leaving a low, throbbing base.

“Zat’s goot.” The camera darkens and drops.

“Well, go on. Get up there!” Michelle exhorts.

I start to walk away, but Andy steps in my path. “You coulda said you’d started college—never lie.”

My phone buzzes.

“Logan Wade,” I answer, eager to get away.

“Logan! I found Logan!” my mother calls to my father as I chastise myself for not checking the caller ID.

“Mom, hi. I’m so sorry I worried you.” I watch Andy hustle down the hall with Michelle.

“Worried sick.”

“I was just waiting to tell you—I’m in Europe.”

“Europe?” she says.

“I have a new job. There’s a lot of traveling involved.”

“Doing what?”

Andy’s words spin me. “I’m Kelsey’s assistant.”

There’s a pause. “Kelsey,
your cousin
?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“Mom?”

“Why? Why would you do that?”

“It’s a great opportunity.”

“I don’t understand—”

“I’m helping run the tour, and it’s amazing—can’t you just be happy for me?” I ask. “Please?”

“No, I can’t.”

“I could have just lied to you, Mom—is that what you want?”

“You’re a test.” Her voice shakes, “God sent you to test me.” She slams the phone down as the floor starts to vibrate.

I murmur apologies as I inch along the aisle of the VIP box and take the chair Andy insisted I have beside Terrance, who sits with his fingers tented in front of his face, waiting to be wowed. “Andy and Michelle coming, Cousin Logan?” he asks.

“Momentarily.”

“They’re good people. They’re on it.”

“Yes, they’re great managers.”

“They’re not her managers.”

“Oh, I thought, they’re so—”

“Not formally, no percentage. But they run the show.”

“Right, yes, no, that’s what I meant, they run the show.”

The usher retracts his flashlight just as the bass slows to a booming pulse and the stadium goes black. My stomach makes that familiar, slithery U-turn as my mother’s cutting words reverberate. People in the seats below start to clap and then to scream as—pulse—the lights come on in the living room of the three-story dollhouse set. Duane, dressed like a Ken, stiffly reads a paper, while one of the other dancers woodenly moves a vacuum. Pulse. The kitchen lights up, and Pita mimes carving a turkey while his Barbie sets the table. Pulse. A kids’ room on the floor above them lights up, and a dancer reads a large storybook to two others in their twin beds. Pulse. The master bedroom beside it lights up, and a Ken and Barbie exchange a prim good-night kiss and reach for their bedside lamps. Pulse. All of the dancers look up. The audience is standing, screaming, stomping. Pulse. The house is backlit, and a bare bulb turns on in the attic. Kelsey, the rebel doll, stands defiantly at its center. The crowd around me erupts to full throttle. She hits her first note, somehow staring penetratingly out into the eyes of every one of us. Holding our gaze, she struts down the stairs through each floor, gathering the other “dolls,” who tear off their ties and aprons to dance behind her. Charisma electrifies her face, blown up on the Jumbotrons. Her eyes demand the singular attention of the twenty-eight thousand people singing right along with her.

Reaching the stage floor, she kicks off into the first gymnastic sequence. Michelle squeals, and my attention is momentarily pulled from the stage as Andy gives her neck a quick kiss. I realize that she’s changed back into the navy sweater she wore this morning. “I feel so much better!” she says to me.

“Oh, good.”

“I left my nude bra in the bathroom in Bratislava, and I’m sure the lights were going right through that knit to my white one, uch.” She shakes her head.

“Is that why you didn’t want to wear it?” I ask. “I wish you’d just told us—”

“Oh, no.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I didn’t want to bother y’all.” She turns back to enjoy the show. I stare at her for a moment, seeing my mother, allowing myself in the dark, surrounded by thousands of people stomping in euphoria, to feel the wound, but mostly the confusion.

Kelsey’s rendition of “Chemistry Lesson” brings Terrance to his feet, pumping his arm in the air. “That.” He leans in. “
That
is the real deal.” Kelsey swivels her hips as the lift carries her out over the floor seats and her posse gyrates on its poles for the final number. “She took it,” he says forcefully. “Two hours—straight. She took it.”