Big Time
Tom Ryan
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2014 Tom Ryan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and
retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in
writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Ryan, Tom, 1977-
Big time / Tom Ryan.
(Orca limelights)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN
978-1-4598-0461-6 (pbk.).--
ISBN
978-1-4598-0759-4 (bound).--
ISBN
978-1-4598-0462-3 (pdf).--
ISBN
978-1-4598-0463-0 (epub)
I. Title. II. Series: Orca limelights
PS
8635.
Y
359
B
53 2014Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â j
C
813'.6Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â
C
2013-906635-7
C
2013-906636-5
First published in the United States, 2014
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013951367
Summary:
Gerri dreams of making it big as a singer on her favorite
reality show, Big Time, but she hasn't counted on being kicked
off early in the competition.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for
its publishing programs provided by the following agencies:
the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the
Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia
through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photography by Getty Images
In Canada:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 5626, Station B
Victoria, BC Canada
V8R 6S4
In the United States:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 468
Custer, WA USA
98240-0468
17 16 15 14 â¢Â 4 3 2 1
For Jenâmy first best friend.
Contents
This is going to be awful,” my mom says for the millionth time.
“I wish you'd just go home,” I tell her. “I'll be fine by myself.”
“We've been through this, Gerri. Sixteen is too young to hang around with a bunch of strangers overnight.”
“Mom, there's nobody here but music nerds,” I say, turning to glance at the line that's rapidly growing behind us. We've been standing outside the university building for less than an hour, but even though it's early in the evening and auditions don't start until the morning, there must be at least a few hundred people here already.
“You're young,” she says. “You don't realize how much danger lurks around every corner.”
“Give me a break,” I say. I can tell from looking around the crowd that I'm not the only one with parental supervision, but that doesn't make it any less annoying.
“I need to take a walk,” she says. “I'm going to get a coffee. You want anything?”
“A toasted coconut donut and a green tea.” I've heard that green tea is what Adele drinks before every performance. That and whiskey, which I'm obviously not old enough to drink.
Mom kisses me on the forehead and begins cutting through the snaking line, finally emerging on the other side of the crowd and giving me a quick wave before crossing to the coffee shop on the other side of the street.
“Your mom's a little stressed out, hey?” the girl in front of me says out of the blue.
“You could say that.” I laugh. “She just hates the whole idea of me getting judged for something like singing.”
“But let me guess,” she says. “There was no way you were going to let her keep you from auditioning. Am I right?”
“Totally,” I say. “I only turned sixteen a few months ago, so this is my first chance to try out.
Big Time
's my favorite show ever.”
“So what do you think so far?” she asks.
“What do I think about what?”
“You know”âshe gestures at the people all around usâ“all this. The freak show.”
“I think it's pretty cool.”
As if on cue, a group of dudes nearby start harmonizing “Sweet Caroline” in vibrating falsettos.
“Cool, eh?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. We both laugh.
“Well, maybe not cool, but definitely interesting.”
“I'll give you that.” She holds out her hand. “I'm Poppy.”
“Gerri,” I tell her, reaching out to shake.
Poppy looks to be a few years older than meâprobably close to the cutoff age, which is twenty-two. She's got beautiful glossy ringlets, and her skin is equally gorgeous, luminous and smooth, the color of the oak desk in my father's office. She's wearing green eye shadow and an ankle-length off-white dress with bright flowers embroidered all over it. I start to worry that maybe I'm underdressed. I'm in my favorite blue sundress with my hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. I look okay, but not nearly as put together as Poppy.
“I love your dress,” I tell her.
“Thanks,” she says. “Maybe it's overkill, but I want to look good for the judges.”
“What kind of stuff do you sing?”
“Oh, this and that. Motown, soul, a little jazz, some Janis Joplin, a bit of opera.”
“This and that is right!” I laugh. “Opera?”
“The opera's mainly with my vocal teacher,” she says. “I've been taking lessons since I was a little kid. Mostly I sing in church with my mom and my aunt. What about you?”
I'm a little embarrassed to talk about it, although I know I'm going to have to suck it up if I truly want to perform in front of people.
“I've never taken lessons or anything like that,” I admit. “My granddad's a really good guitar player, and I guess I kind of started singing along with him, but that's about it. I mostly sing country music. Not a lot of new country. Older stuff.”
I can feel my face turning red. A lot of people don't like country music. Definitely not people like Poppy, who obviously has cooler taste than me. To my surprise, though, she's nodding.
“Patsy Cline and Marla Belle Munro? Stuff like that?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Marla Belle's my favorite. You like that stuff?”
“Oh yeah,” she says, surprising me. “I've got mad respect for the old-timers. They knew how to sing a song for real. No computers backing you up, just a microphone and a big old recording machine.”
“That's what my granddad always says,” I tell her. “They call the oldies goodies for a reason.”
“What's your last name?” she asks. “You need a good last name to sing country music.”
“Jones,” I tell her.
“Gerri Jones.” She grins. “That'll work just fine.”
Mom arrives in a big flurry, shoving her way through the lineup and handing me a donut and a cup of tea.
“Thanks. Mom, this is Poppy.”
They shake. “I don't think I'll ever understand the appeal of this,” says Mom. “Standing in a lineup for twelve hours. Sleeping on concrete.”
“Mom!” I say. “I told you a million times, just go home. I'll be fine!”
“You wish,” says Mom.
“If you want to go home,” says Poppy to my mom, “I don't mind keeping an eye on her.
We can watch out for each other.”
I turn to look at her, surprised. She looks like she means it.
Mom lifts an eyebrow. “No, I should probably stick around.” I can tell she's tempted though.
“I really don't mind,” says Poppy. “I'm twenty. Safe and responsible. Took care of my little sister all through school.”
Mom makes a big show of thinking it over, although I can tell she's already made up her mind. She's been complaining about having to sleep outside ever since she agreed to come to the audition with me.
“Well,” she says finally, “if you're sure.”
“I'm totally sure,” says Poppy. I shoot her a quick smile.
“Okay, well then, I think I'll go home and have a nice warm bath, watch some
TV
and get myself ready for bed,” says Mom. “Sure you don't want to come with me?”
“Mom! Come on!”
“Okay, fine.” She pulls some money out of her purse. “Don't let yourself get hungry, and make sure you buy Poppy something to eat too. You'll text and keep me on top of things?”
“Yes, Mom, I'll text you,” I say, wishing she'd hurry up and leave. She got an iPhone for Christmas and is very proud of her texting abilities.
“Thanks a million,” I say to Poppy after Mom has left.
She laughs. “No problem at all. I think she would have made you all kinds of nervous if she'd stuck around.”
“No kidding.”
It starts to get cold as soon as the sun goes behind the building, and by the time it's dark out, I'm really happy that I brought my sleeping bag. I unzip it and pull it tightly around me like a blanket. Now that the reality has sunk in that we're here for the long haul, people are starting to talk to one another. A group of sisters behind us are really funny. They admit outright that they aren't good singersâthey just hope to get on
TV
. I notice a really cute guy sitting by himself a few people in front of Poppy. He has dark curly hair pushed down under a ballcap, and he's holding a guitar that he strums constantly, although you can barely hear it.
The atmosphere is fun and energized, and at some point people start singing. It doesn't take long for the music to move around, like the wave at a hockey game. The harmonies sound great. When one song finishes, another one starts up somewhere else. I'm too shy to sing really loud, although people on all sides of me are starting to get into it, so I sing quietly along to the lyrics I know.
Poppy smiles at me. “You've got a really nice voice,” she says. “I bet you'll do great tomorrow.” She's just been humming along to the music, not singing at all, so I don't really know what she sounds like. Then, at a lull in the music, she surprises me when she opens her mouth as if it's no big thing and starts to sing.
Ooo-ooh I bet you wonder how I knew
'Bout your plans to make me blueâ¦
She has an incredible voice, big and rich and resonant. I see people in the crowd watching her, as impressed as I am. By the time she makes it to the chorus, it seems as if everyone's singing along.
Eventually, things get a little bit quieter and people begin to settle in for the night. I text my mom to say that things are going well and I'm going to sleep, then curl up and try to make myself comfortable. The last thing I hear before I doze off is the soft, gentle sound of the cute guy's guitar, serenading me to sleep.
