by Teddy Wayne
It shot up and all over my black track sweater in a splattery line, but I didn’t care, and each spurt was like a small electric shock that felt almost as good as the last one. I breathed heavy and leaned on the minibar for a minute like I’d just done an hour of cardio.
If I could do this each time I tried, I don’t know why I’d ever do anything else.
I screwed the mayo lid back on and closed up the minibar and ran my sweater under the faucet, in case a hotel employee saw it, before I tossed it in the garbage. I nearly forgot to clean myself off, which would’ve been dumb in case the mayo spoiled on me, too.
Some of the come was between my fingers. It was sticky but also slippery. I could make a baby now. I could find a groupie by myself and nine months later be someone’s father.
You had to be careful with that, though. Mi$ter $mith had two different women who said he’d gotten them pregnant, and he said it wasn’t true but they made him take medical tests, and it turned out they were his kids. All the glossy headlines were like MI$TER $MITH LO$E$ PATERNITY $UIT.
If I had a baby with Lisa Pinto, it’d be cute and talented, but I bet she wasn’t on her period yet. The only other girl I could think of was Dana. We’d end up having a chubby baby, but not cute-chubby, and I’d have to visit it every few months, and each time Dana would have some new local band she was going on about with her gimlet eye for spotting Cincinnati talent. I could sort of see why Mi$ter $mith pretended he wasn’t the father.
CHAPTER 18
Detroit (First Day)
A knock at my door woke me up, but it wasn’t Walter’s. Through the peephole I saw Rog pacing around. Before I could say anything to him when I opened up, Rog was like, “We have to go to the hospital immediately. Get changed.” He looked serious. I was afraid to ask why we were in such a rush, but I did.
“She’s fine,” he said. “Just get moving.”
He left so I could change, but I got my answer when I turned on E! A reporter said that an anonymous tipster had let the media know that Jane’s hospitalization hadn’t been from a peanut allergy, but allegedly from a cocaine overdose. I called Rog’s cell and told him about it.
“I know,” he said.
“It wasn’t that, right? It was alcohol, wasn’t it?”
He took a long time to answer, and the longer he took, the more sure I became that it wasn’t actually alcohol. “I don’t know. That’s why we have to talk to her at the hospital.”
He got Walter and we headed over there again. “This is the last time I’m going to a hospital for a long time unless I get sick myself,” I told Walter.
“I’m with you, brother,” he said. Rog wasn’t talking, though. He was emailing like he’d had eight cups of coffee.
The hospital rep met us again but we knew the way. Walter waited outside and me and Rog went into Jane’s room. She looked a little stronger and had her phone out and was typing on it when we came in.
“Jane—” Rog started, but she put up her finger and he shut up.
She finished and said, “So, we have another little problem on our hands from America’s worst mother.” I knew she was joking, but when she called herself that, it made me think for a second that the media was right. It’s like when backup singers apologize for being flat that day. After that, they sound way worse to you, even if they’re not.
“We need to tackle this head-on,” Rog said. “A press conference.”
“First of all, the doctors are making me stay here another night,” she said. “So that’s out for today.”
“How are you going to be at my show tonight?” I asked.
“I’m not. I’ll have to miss it.”
I knew the whole point of being there was to talk about the cocaine overdose, but her missing the concert felt like the bigger crisis to me. If I brought it up now, though, they’d tell me it wasn’t.
“Second of all, there is no we anymore, Rog,” Jane said.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“It was an anonymous tip from someone on tour.”
He looked at her and at me and back at her. “I don’t follow.”
“Rog, don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about, Janie.”
She took a deep breath in through her nostrils. I couldn’t tell if it was because she was upset or she had a hard time breathing. “I’m going to let you go. You’ll be paid the full amount of the tour.”
His mouth was open, and then he smiled. “You’re joking, right? You’re setting me up? Is this like a hidden-camera show?” She shook her head. His face and voice turned desperate. “Janie, this is insane. I didn’t say a word. Why would I do that?”
“You tell me. Maybe to make me more dependent on you.”
“Dependent!” Rog said. “What does that even—look, I did everything I could to keep this under control. Everyone knows you sometimes do—”
She shot him a mean stare and he looked at me and realized he’d messed up. He got quieter. “I’m not the one who did this. And for you to throw two years out the window because of . . . I don’t even know what, is—”
“I have it on good authority that you’re behind the leak,” Jane said. “I value your previous work with us. Save your receipts for getting to the airport and your flight home and the label will reimburse you.”
He smiled again, but it wasn’t the smile he had when he thought he was on a reality show. “This is an excuse to get rid of me.”
“Please leave now before we both say things we’ll regret.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Rog said, “but there’s a hell of a lot I could have said. And I never have.”
“You say whatever you want. No one will believe you, and I’ll make sure you never get work again. Or I can give you a nice recommendation and say we amicably parted ways. Which way do you want to go?”
Rog bit his lower lip and waited for what felt like an hour. “This is a fucked-up way to treat a friend.” He turned to me. “Hope you get along with my replacement.” He slammed the door. Jane stared at it for a few seconds.
“You and me, kid,” she said. “Just the two of us.”
“I don’t think Rog did it,” I said. “I heard him talking on the phone in the bathroom and it sounded like he was the one who came up with the peanut story.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. I have trusted sources.”
“More trusted than Rog?”
“These things are more complicated than you think. Rog and I have had conflicts you don’t know about. I’m sure you and Michael used to have fights that I didn’t know about. Can you try to understand that?”
No, I can’t understand it. This is worse than what you did with the Latchkeys, and even worse than what you tried to do with Walter. Rog was your best friend for two years, and even if he wasn’t the most in-demand voice and dance coach anymore, he worked hard and groomed me. You don’t fire your friends because someone told you they messed up, especially if they say they didn’t. And I didn’t fire Michael as my best friend. You moved me away from him. Plus you didn’t tell me he wanted to visit.
And maybe it’s what you did with Al. You fired him as your husband and as my father and didn’t tell me he wanted to see me again.
“I understand,” I said.
I didn’t ask her how often she did cocaine, or what she was going to say to the public. The tabloids really go for your throat if you get caught doing cocaine, but she was good at spinning, and they’d shield me from the media until we got to New York, and by then it would blow over. She’d be fine. Rog would be fine, eventually. I’d get a new voice and dance coach when I went back to L.A. who’d be fine. My image would be fine. Jane knew what she was doing.
“I’m going to meet you in Detroit tomorrow, baby. Okay?”
“Fine.”
“Don’t worry about any of this. Just focus on tonight’s show.” I nodded, and she told me to go back to the hotel with Walter because she n
eeded to rest and deal with the label.
In the car, Walter said, “So, she fired Rog?”
“Yeah.”
He whistled. “Damn. I didn’t like the queer much myself, but he doesn’t deserve that.”
The ride to Detroit was weird with no Jane, no Rog, no Nadine, only me and Walter on a huge bus by ourselves with Kenny the driver. Three fans in the football stadium. Walter should’ve had the day off yesterday, so I let him sleep and I tried to think about my history essay, but I kept coming back to how Jane wouldn’t be at my concert tonight, and Rog wouldn’t be there to warm me up even though I could do it on my own, and the only person I’d have was Walter, who was the best in some ways, but he couldn’t make up for everyone else.
If my father was around it’d be different. Having someone related to you nearby when you were with strangers would be cool. He’d probably comanage me with Jane, or do something else behind the scenes. I wouldn’t have to worry about Jane going out late at night or doing cocaine, and she definitely wouldn’t be with Bill. He wouldn’t let her fire people who’d worked hard for us.
If Walter had a smartphone I could’ve checked my email to see if he’d written again, but he’s not into gadgets, sort of like Nadine, and he says having one would make him less alert to protect me.
Kenny dropped me and Walter off at the hotel, where I napped and ate lunch, and the car service took us to the venue for sound check. The audio was junk, and usually Jane or Rog takes care of it and yells at whoever to fix it, but I didn’t know who was really in charge, and Walter definitely didn’t know what to do. I could’ve asked Bill, but I didn’t want to talk to him. And he could’ve been behind the leak. Maybe Bill wanted to get out of his relationship with Jane and this was a way. She should’ve fired him, not Rog. Rog wouldn’t do something like that.
I played Zenon in my room preshow and ate three slices of pepperoni pizza, which was dumb and totally off-limits if Jane or Rog was around. It would make me too full and the dairy would destroy my voice, plus the pepperoni might make me burp. I vomited, partly from overeating and partly I made myself.
This was already going to be a subpar concert because of the audio system and the pizza and everything else going on with Jane and Rog. I got jittery about my performance, then I got angry that I was the only one who got nervous before concerts, and I was the only one who looked bad if the concert was subpar, and everyone else could relax backstage even if they were part of the reason it didn’t go good, and no one was reviewing them in the L.A. Times or making fun of them in The New Yorker.
So screw them. If this is what they were giving me, I wasn’t just going to do a bad job. I was going to make it my worst show ever.
I started feeling a little bad about my plan and was afraid to go through with it, but once I got ready, with no one except Bill prepping me backstage, I knew I wanted to go all out. I began with “Guys vs. Girls” like I always did on this tour, but I didn’t want to mess up too bad at the beginning. I sang a little flat, enough so that what Rog calls the lay listener could pick up that something was off. Or what Rog called the lay listener. Not that he’d departed the realm or anything, but in a way, he did. When someone is out of your life and you’ll never see or talk to them again, it’s sort of like they’re dead.
On “RSVP (To My Heart),” I flattened it out more, and I moved slower than my dancers so it looked all out of rhythm and it might make them go off pace. I basically spoke the words to “This Bird Will Always Bee There for You” and didn’t even move. By then the crowd could probably tell I was tanking it, even the seven-year-olds. On “You Hurt Me,” I made it seem like I forgot the words and stopped singing halfway through, and came in late on purpose to the third verse.
Eventually the boos began. I’d never been booed at a concert before, only a couple times at other events where there are haters, because if someone pays seventy-five dollars or whatever to see me, they probably love me, especially girls. And once there were a few boos, from the older girls and their parents, more came in. If I’d been giving a concert to ten people and one booed me, no one else would follow. When you get people in a big crowd, they’re sheep, like Internet commenters.
I waved my hands like, Bring it on, and the boos got louder until it seemed like the whole audience was yelling, and even though it was what I’d wanted, once I actually heard it, it was the worst feeling in the world. I couldn’t tell what was worse: no one paying attention to you, or everyone hating you. I felt ambivalent about it. I didn’t even know if I could recover now or if I should just give up and end the show, and so what if it meant we had to issue refunds.
I looked at my dancers and singers and instrumentalists, who were all staring at me like, You’re screwing us, too. When I turned back, I saw a person in a wheelchair on the wings of the stage, hidden from the crowd.
Jane.
Walter was standing behind her, and she was still looking pale and weak, but she was there. She looked confused, I guess because of the audience reaction, but gave me a little wave.
Something switched inside me. I didn’t want to hear the boos. One more second of it and I might die. All the bodies in the darkness around me were people who only wanted me to sing good, and I’d make their night. Their month. I wanted to hear their applause again, more than anything.
I faced the crowd. “I’m sorry, everyone,” I said. “My voice was off before, but it feels better. I’m gonna sing an a cappella number to make it up to you.” The band wasn’t expecting this, but I motioned for them to let me go, and I sang
I want you here, I need you here
Baby, babe, you always grieve me
I want you here, I need you here
Baby, please don’t ever leave me
It blew out of the water all the a cappella renditions I’d ever done. Even better, I drew the crowd into a sing-along by the third verse. And I knew I’d won them back, and that now they loved me more than they ever had before because for a while I made it seem like I didn’t care if they loved me or not, and that they could just as easily turn on me again but it didn’t matter to me. They worshiped me. Fans are like babies that way. You don’t give them their milk, and they cry their eyes out, then you give it to them and they suck it down and shut up and forget they were ever upset.
The rest of the concert was A-plus work, and I went out for a second encore and did an a cappella version of “Guys vs. Girls,” which I rarely do, but I couldn’t do anything wrong that night. Jane was waiting for me in her wheelchair when I came backstage.
“You were great,” she said.
I didn’t smile or anything. I just stayed in the Jonny Zone. “I know.”
“Sorry I got here late.”
“I thought you weren’t coming at all.”
“I bargained to get out early, and took a cab all the way here. I couldn’t stand the idea of missing one of your shows.”
I shrugged.
“You want to clean up and we’ll go to the hotel?” she asked.
I nodded and walked past her, but when I was right behind her I smelled her perfume, and I know it’s Chanel No. 5 but to me it smells like Jane, and I couldn’t help it, so I hugged her from behind around her shoulders and neck for a second, and she seemed a little surprised but put her hand on my arm, and then I let go and went to my room.
CHAPTER 19
Detroit (Second Day)
Jane had basically made a full recovery by the morning and didn’t need the wheelchair anymore. She was supposed to take it easy the next few days, which I think even she was going to stick to. The original plan was for me and her and Walter to fly to New York ahead of the others, who’d take the bus and would have a day off, so I could do press and prep for my miniconcert with Tyler Beats. But I didn’t know how much publicity they’d want now with everything that had just happened.
Me and Jane took our own car to the airport, and Walter rode in a taxi ahead of us. He’s too big for all three of us to fit into the backseat sometimes, an
d Jane’s luggage fills up the trunk. A few minutes into the ride, I said, “I’ve been thinking more about school.”
She put down her phone. “What about it?”
“Like, maybe going to it.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know. It seems like it’s something a regular kid should be doing.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “I can understand that.”
Boxy warehouses passed by us along the highway. Most cities were ugly on the way to the airport. It’s like they didn’t give a shit anymore since they knew you were leaving anyway. “The thing is, you know, you’re not exactly a regular kid.”
“I know.”
“Other people go to school because they have to. You don’t have to.”
“But what if I want to?”
“No one’s stopping you, if it’s something you want to do. It’ll be a tough adjustment, but Nadine can tutor you after school. And we could refer Walter somewhere else.”
“Refer Walter somewhere else?”
“He wouldn’t be your bodyguard anymore. The school wouldn’t let you bring a bodyguard. The point is that you’re supposed to be a regular student. None of the other celebrity kids are allowed to have one.”
I hadn’t thought about that. I might not even be the most famous student there.
“What about after school?”
“That wouldn’t work. He wouldn’t be able to live on a part-time salary, and if we’re not working, I can’t justify spending a full salary on someone who works only a few hours a day. I’m sure we could find someone else willing to do it, though.”
“But when I go back on tour, he’d work for us again?”
“I imagine he’d be someone else’s bodyguard by then. And we’d have whoever we end up with.”
