Less Than Nothing (26 page)

“So you agree there’s no reason to be platonic?” I so want him to say yes.

“I didn’t say that. I just meant that all my friends have poor judgment and high hopes. But you don’t seem happy at all, and I don’t blame you. If I had a strapping young buck like Derek, there’d only be one thing on my agenda, and it wouldn’t be anything you could put on TV.”

I giggle. He’s so cut and dried. Reminds me a lot of Melody. I feel like I’m the only one on the planet who isn’t in the same movie – an X-rated one. No, I’m walking around in a bad seventies sitcom, and the joke’s on me.

The talk turns to tomorrow’s first show. Jeremy’s decided to lead with “Somewhere Over The Rainbow.” Derek and I have agreed that we’d stick to something that would showcase both our vocals equally, and will be doing a Beatles number we’ve come up with a novel arrangement for. It’s a favorite in our daily routine, and we’ve been using that feedback to evaluate what works and what doesn’t – a huge advantage the other acts don’t have.

By the time we finish lunch, which we split, I feel like I’ve known Jeremy forever, and I text Melody to tell her about my new friend. She doesn’t have any advice to offer about Derek other than what I expected: “You get naked and he’ll change his mind.”

Which, while possibly true, ignores that I’ve never been naked with anyone, much less changed their mind.

Derek and I finish up our day. We made less than yesterday, which is a little depressing, but it doesn’t seem to matter as much as it might if we weren’t going to be on the Radio City Music Hall stage tomorrow, on national television. We’ve both got that sensation of drifting along, passing time until we learn whether we’re going to make it through the first disqualification round. Now we’re not competing to see if we’re good enough to be in the show, we’re competing against each other, and the other contestants are likely to be equally good.

Derek’s muted over dinner, and I try to engage him. “You know what tomorrow night is?”

He takes a bite of his chicken and smiles. “The big show – how can I forget?”

“No, although that’s right, it
is
tomorrow, isn’t it?”

He looks at me, puzzled.

I smirk. “It’s our one-week anniversary living with Lucifer!”

He almost spits food all over the table, and laughs for the first time in days. I miss that, his easy sense of humor, always close to the surface.

“That’s right. And here I was, all wrapped up in that silly contest,” he says.

I shake my head. “I know.” I don’t say that in another couple of days it will be our three-week anniversary. “It’s all about you, isn’t it?”

“We should ask for better bunks. Fewer lice or something.”

“You think he’ll let me have a rat for a pet? I figure I can ride it through the tunnels for fun.”

Derek’s eyes dance in the restaurant lights. “Teach it to do tricks. Maybe there’s money in that.”

“Or to sing. If my partner steps on the third rail, I’m hosed.”

His face grows serious. “You really think the approval form will wash?”

I faked my mom’s signature on the form after agonizing over calling her for two days. I figure there’s no way they can check it, so nobody’ll be the wiser.

“Sure. Paul just needs to cover his ass. Now he can say with a straight face that I’ve provided everything I need, and he’ll move on to the next menu item. With fifty contestants, he’s got his hands full.” The show’s organized so that all fifty of us will perform this week, with the twenty-five lowest ranking to be disqualified during the two-hour debut program. The following two weeks will be brutal, with the amount of time available demanding that at least a quarter of the acts get cut off by the judges midway through their performance. Then the next two weeks, two-thirds of the contestants will be booted, leaving five or six finalists at the judges’ discretion, who will compete on the last night, two songs per act.

Derek studies me. “You nervous?”

“Nah. What’s there to be nervous about? Singing in front of thousands of people for the first time in my life with everything riding on it – no pressure or anything.”

“Seriously.”

“I’m fine, Derek. After Lucifer’s, this is nothing.”

I manage a few hours of sleep after a chaste peck on the cheek from Derek. The first thing I’m going to do if I make real money is burn my backpack and buy the most expensive pillow in the world – maybe with a chocolate dispenser and an Internet connection. If that isn’t a thing yet, I’ll have someone invent it.

The next day we arrive at the theater a little before three o’clock. Paul’s there with his clipboard and checks us off before handing us laminated passes. I give him the bogus form, and he passes it to an assistant, and then another man who could be his twin shows us to our dressing room. Eight contestants already there, none of whom we know. Jeremy arrives moments later and greets us like long-lost siblings, and I feel a little better.

A woman comes in and clears her throat, and the room falls silent.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be taking you five at a time to hair and makeup. It’s first come, first served. Who wants to go first?” she asks, and everyone’s hands shoot up. Jeremy and I exchange a glance, and I lower mine. Derek catches on and drops his, as does Jeremy, and soon the initial five are herded off while everyone else waits.

Jeremy shakes his head. “This is like getting on a plane. It’s so funny to watch everyone jockeying to be the first when it can’t take off until the last person’s on board.”

My phone vibrates. It’s Melody. She’s going to watch at home and record it.

Melody:
I’m sooo excited! U get new clothes or anything?

Me:
I’m wearing my least dirty jeans and my best Harley T-shirt.

Melody:
WTF. Don’t they give you outfits?

Me:
Not so far. Maybe in the semifinals. Dunno. My luck it’ll be a penguin suit.

Melody:
They pay you?

Me:
In experience.

Melody:
Can’t eat experience.

Me:
And exposure. Lotta exposure.

Melody:
Bogus.

A camera crew enters and films us, probably for filler between the acts. We’re on the schedule to spend five minutes talking to someone in a preshow interview, which will predictably be the same questions everyone always asks.

When the first group returns, some look completely different, others about the same, with the exception that everyone’s got a base of foundation on their faces. Another five, this time including Jeremy, march off, and Derek and I are alone. A few of the other contestants approach us and introduce themselves, but we aren’t talkative, preferring to noodle on our guitars rather than play the game of one-upmanship we hear going on around us, everyone discussing their managers, or the show they’re going to be appearing in, or their recording schedule.

Jeremy returns, and it’s our turn. The hairdresser I get wants to try all kinds of things with gel and twists and whatnot, none of which I’m into, and in the end I settle for a quick wash and dry with some trimming of my split ends. My dye is growing out, so she touches it up, and then it’s the makeup guy’s turn. He takes no more than ten minutes, and when I see my reflection, a stranger looks back – it’s been that long since I had on any kind of makeup. He’s gone heavy on the mascara, a goth thing, and I’m like, whatever.

Derek lets his hairstylist talk him into gelling his hair back, and when I get a look at him, I’m speechless. If he normally looks like sex walking, now he could easily be the main attraction at an awards banquet, he’s that stunning. His skin is tanned from being outdoors all day, and it now frames his green eyes perfectly, the gel job heightening the impact of his cheekbones and chiseled jawline.

He turns to me and smiles as his eyes widen. “Wow. You look great!”

I consider his profile and smile sadly. “Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“No, really, you do. I’ve…I’ve never seen you with makeup.”

“If I had a camera, I’d take a picture.” What I don’t say is that I look like a bag lady compared to his movie-star looks. Now, with his worn biker jacket, tight jeans, and black T-shirt, he reminds me of one of those famous actors from the fifties, whose name escapes me.

We return to the dressing room, and Jeremy’s mouth drops open when he sees Derek. “Oh my Lord above, you can take me home right now, do you hear? Because I’ve seen everything worth seeing, amen!” I can’t help but laugh, and he looks me over. “If I was into chicks, I’d give you a run around the block, too.”

I blush because I know he’s just trying to make me feel better. I’m not a fashion model, and physically, Derek’s in a league all his own. At least that’s how it seems to me.

Jeremy squints at Derek and snaps his fingers. “James Dean. It’s James Dean reincarnated.”

Our interview is exactly what I expect, and I let Derek do most of the talking. I offer a nod or a “yup” where appropriate, but other than that, he’s doing great, and there’s no point in me sticking my foot in my mouth on camera.

The contestants draw numbers to decide the performance order, and we’re in the middle of the pack, number twenty-eight. Jeremy gets forty-two, which he’s thrilled with – nobody wants dreaded number fifty, or number one. The judges and the crowd will be tired by the final act, and be harder on the first performer than they might be on the rest – at least that’s his take.

Whether it’s true, I have no idea.

A monitor is set up near the door, and we watch as the show starts. The judges are introduced, and then the first contestant takes the stage – a Jamaican man with dreadlocks galore who takes a stab at a Michael Jackson song with disastrous results. He’s shut down by the abrasive sound of the buzzer, and the next contestant is called. This time it’s a girl not much older than me, trying her luck with a Celine Dion song, and she does better.

Eventually the novelty of watching the battle wears thin, and we tune our guitars. Our warm-up consists of singing some of the songs we do on the street, and judging by the approving nods from some of the other contestants, we’re sounding pretty good.

Jeremy comes over and gives me a high five. “If I wasn’t singing tonight, I’d put money on you two.” He turns to the monitor, where a woman’s giving the obligatory twenty-second high note sustained at the end of the song, the musical equivalent of the sax player who sustains a note for a minute, which requires little but breath control but is an audience favorite.

The crowd goes wild at the end of her song, but the judges aren’t as impressed, judging by the scores. Number twenty takes the spotlight and quickly gets booted, and then we’re being ushered to the side of the stage, carrying our guitars. Paul’s there, and when he sees me, he moves closer.

“I’ve got a couple of stools for you, in case you didn’t get a strap yet,” he says, and Derek grins. My nerves are jumping under my skin, but Derek looks like he’s ready to take a nap. At that moment I kind of hate him, even if the effect he’s having on me is anything but hate.

Then it’s time for the act before us, a three-hundred-pound Samoan woman who performs a soulful rendition of a Gloria Gaynor song, which goes over well. The scores are solid, and then Paul’s telling one of the stagehands to carry our stools out. Ten seconds later he gives us the signal. “You’re on.”

I’m surprised by how I can feel the air crackling in the large theater, the audience’s energy palpable. We take our stools, and the announcer introduces us. A few whistles and some polite applause float to the stage, and after a winning smile at the audience, Derek strums the first notes of the song, and we begin.

Our rendition only lasts two and a quarter minutes, but by the time we’re done, the audience is standing, cheering. The last chord dies, and I glance at Derek, who gives me a small nod. The stagehands take the stools away while we stand and wait for the judges’ scores, and when they come in, they’re the highest of the show – two tens, and a nine from Martin, who’s got a reputation as a complete asshat.

We troop offstage and are replaced by the next performer, who gets axed a minute in. I want to watch Jeremy, but we’re pulled aside by the backstage interviewer to describe what it was like to get the best scores of the show so far.

I let Derek do most of the talking again, but the interviewer wants me to be more involved, and keeps directing the questions to me. The toughest are about my family. “Your mother must be so proud.” I tell her my mom’s sick, and don’t elaborate, but she keeps fishing. Finally, to get her off my back, I tell her how happy I am the crowd liked us, and how sweet it is that we’re going to make it to the next round, blah, blah, blah.

When we’re done I’m emotionally gutted – I’m fairly shy about talking. Ask me to sing, and ever since I was a small child I’d wail away, but if I had to find my words, I clammed up.

Old habits die hard.

Next are the photographs, and we’re done just in time to see Jeremy stop the show with his number, which scores through the roof. I’m swelling inside I’m so happy for him, but a part of me realizes he’s a competitor and I should be wishing for him to tank. I just don’t have that killer streak in me, though. If I’m going to win something, I don’t want it to be because others had a run of bad luck.