by Sarah Gagnon
DATE
WITH A
ROCKSTAR
SARAH GAGNON
Copyright © 2015 by Sarah Gagnon
Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized.
Spencer Hill Contemporary / Spencer Hill Press
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Contact: Spencer Hill Press, 27 West 20th Street, Suite 1102, New York, NY 10011
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First Edition: June 2015
Sarah Gagnon
Date With a Rockstar/ by Sarah Gagnon - 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Girl enters reality TV show dating contest with a rockstar so she can win the prize money to cure her illness and ends up falling for him.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this fiction: Boston University, Chase, Jaguar, Macy’s, Sheridan Luxury
Cover Design: Christa Holland
Interior layout: Jenny Perinovic
ISBN 978-1939392589 (paperback)
Printed in the United States of America
TO LETTA AND VIOLET
FOR MAKING ME WANT TO BE MORE.
ONE
JEREMY BANE is the most attractive guy on the planet. I once watched a documentary about his face. They had these charts mapping the symmetry of each of his features. According to the show, his lips are perfectly colored and proportioned to the size of his head. His strong jaw is masculine without being intimidating. His warm brown eyes seduce and comfort. There was even a medical explanation for why girls love him, but for me, it’s all about his music. The eerie, haunting tones of his songs have been downloaded by billions.
But I’m not one of those lust-struck minions. I have another reason for being in this line. Two words: Prize. Money.
“What size shoe does he wear?” a girl behind me asks loudly, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Eleven,” a voice answers. She sounds shocked that the girl didn’t already know.
Rain slides down my back. Jeremy Bane trivia is fun and all, but after three days of suffering in line, I just want silence. I’m so wet, the skin around my nails is beginning to peel. I lightly touch my tongue to my lips. The rain tastes metallic. Does pollution have a flavor?
I’m one of thousands in this line, which extends along the side of the building to the corner, wraps around the side and disappears. It’s hard to imagine so many girls in one place—all of those families choosing their one allocated child to be female. With the child limits, Mom thought they might bring back welfare or free medical services, but the population boom that started in 2034 shows no sign of slowing twenty years later, and no government is that wealthy.
“No, I’m not going to give him your picture. I’m the one waiting.” The girl in front of me clicks off her phone and presses her forehead against the cement wall.
I know her name is Susan because she keeps her phone volume on max and makes calls every hour. In front of her a plump, pink-complexioned girl huddles under an umbrella. I don’t know her name, but I almost wish she’d pass out so I could snatch her damn umbrella. Asking one of them to hold my place in line while I go back home to get dry clothes is unthinkable. The other girls would rip me apart if I tried to get back in line. This is a competition. No one’s my friend. Still, I feel a sense of familiarity with the people closest to me. I know the noises they make in their sleep and for the past few days, I’ve tolerated all their impatient fidgeting. All for a chance. Not a guarantee, just a chance.
My wet jeans chafe my waist, driving me crazy. I want to be dry. I close my eyes and slip into a daydream of basking on a warm, dry beach. Jeremy sits up and nudges my shoulder, quirking his lip in his famous smile. I try to feel the heat of the day, the heat of his smile. Instead, the rain intensifies, ruining my fantasy.
Okay, maybe part of me is one of those lust-sick minions. Jeremy Bane is beautiful, but I need money a hell of a lot more than a date. Until I’m disease free, nothing else matters.
TWO
A WHISTLE BLOWS. I jump to my feet, stagger with stiffness, and stand out from the wall, trying to catch a glimpse of what’s going on. The studio door opens and a bald man steps out. Rain slides off his scalp as he adjusts the neck of his sports jacket. He’s big all over. His shoes sink through the puddles as he moves farther away, glancing up and down the line. He shakes his head like we all disgust him.
Switching on the mic near his chin, he begins, “Listen up, girls. This is how we’re going to proceed.”
I lean forward, trying to hear, but everyone else does the same. All of us are straining against the invisible tether lashing us to the line.
“I’m going to hand out numbers in groups of two hundred and fifty. The first group will begin auditioning now. The second will come back tomorrow at seven a.m., and so on. Think you can handle that?” He stops and wipes the rain off his face with a rough hand. “When the top ten are selected, an announcement will be made on the general air waves, so don’t be chatting on your phones or you’ll miss it.”
I glance down at my black T-shirt. I’m dirty and I’m in the first group. Others will have the chance to clean up and go home for the night, but I’ll be ushered in. A day early. The strands of hair plastered to my neck flow like an oil slick.
“Pay attention, girls.”
The other girls stop their nervous giggling.
“I’m only giving out a thousand numbers.” Two reporters pop out of the back of one of the news vans. Channels seventy-five and thirteen have been camped out with us, gathering footage of the line. A guy in jeans balances a mini-cam on his knee, trying to keep the frame perfectly still for broadcast. I keep my head down. Right now nothing about me is TV worthy.
The reporters scramble around, pointing out what to film. I guess no one tipped them off about the auditions beginning a day early. A girl runs past the news crew and darts into the line right in front of me. The camera swings toward me, following her run. I freeze. The girl can’t be more than fourteen. She bounces up and down on her toes, then goes still. I have to say something. Susan spins on the girl.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She pushes her and the girl stumbles into me. I catch her gently by the elbow. I don’t want to be seen fighting. Susan curls back her lips in a snarl. “No. Line. Cutters.” She punches the girl in the stomach and she collapses onto my feet. Susan turns away.
I reach down to help the girl up. “You can’t cut like this.” I try to step away.
Her hand clings to mine, nails scratching into my skin. “Please. I need to see Jeremy. Let me stay. Just pretend I’ve been here all along.” She stares up at me, begging.
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “I’ve been waiting too long. All of these girls have been.” Then I point out the camera to her. “They have you on film, anyway, and besides, you’re too young.” I wrench my arm out of her grip. She sniffles and then starts a wailing cry. Susan keeps staring ahead as though nothing is happening. A team of bodyguards emerge from the door and follow the pointing. I press against the wall while they scoop her up and carry her off.
“Enough,” the man in charge announces. The line quiets. With security right in our faces, it’s all becoming so real.
“As I was saying. The numbers will be handed out in groups of two hundred and fifty. After that, the rest of you need to get out of here. No ha
nging around trying to get a glimpse of the winners.”
A young guy in a suit steps out of the doorway with a clipboard. I focus on his serious face rather than his words. “…first names.”
Ah, crap. I missed something. “What did he say?” I ask Susan. She squints her eyes at me like I’m too stupid to be any competition. She doesn’t answer. At the front of the line, the first girl slips into the open door. She smiles back at us and gives a half-wave. “She’s been here for two weeks,” whispers through the line.
Jeremy Bane makes girls psychotic, and even some guys, too. In a recent interview he told the reporter that, though he has no current girlfriend, he is definitely hetero. Which accounts for why the equally infatuated guys who tried to enter the line had been promptly removed. With so many girls to choose from, I need to stand out. Jeremy controls who receives the prize money, and I need him to pick me.
Twenty minutes pass before the guy with the clipboard reaches me. “Proof of identity,” he mumbles. I hand him my ID card. “Do you speak English?”
“Yes, sir.” Are they cutting the non-English speaking girls before the auditions?
He makes a quick mark on the paper. “Name?”
“Monet O’Neal,” I respond, even though he can see it printed on my card.
He grunts in response and stares sharply at me before handing me a number. Probably making sure I’m a girl. He moves to the next girl in line. I slump back against the wall, cradling the number forty-two in my hand.
I take a comb out of my pack and work the snarls out of my long, brown hair. My cheeks are clammy and numb. Susan takes out a box of make-up and leans down to protect it from the rain. I try to see myself in her mirror, but she angles it away. A general melancholy over ruined appearances replaces the excitement of the line moving. I must look like shit. I’m shivering and I haven’t slept much. What kind of impression will this first two hundred and fifty make? Maybe since we look so horrible, Jeremy will feel sorry for one of us. I need to balance between sympathetic and attractive. Gross, but not too gross. I let my breath out, mildly comforted by the logic.
Each time the line moves, I’m hit with a new rush of adrenaline and doubt. I’ve never tried to do anything so public. Hiding at home, keeping my disease a secret was the easy part. Now I have the chance to fail…or win. A large group gets ushered in together and then the line stalls. After that it takes a few minutes before each individual girl is let in. I clench my toes inside my sneakers.
The man handing out numbers disappears around the side of the building. There can’t be many left. I hear screaming in the distance and then more security runs past. A group of girls circle back around the building and walk past us. Their hands are clenched and their faces are streaked with mascara tears.
“You don’t deserve Jeremy. None of you do!” one of them yells. Another kicks a rock at us. I grip my number in my fist. If there’s a fight, I’m never letting go. I might be quiet, but I’m not weak. I need this chance to change my life. The news crew walks closer to the girls and they switch from taunting to waving at the viewers at home. Security comes back and ushers them away.
An empty sickness fills me. Susan is at the front of the line. A pair of bodyguards step out, call her name and number, then she’s gone. I stare at the closed door in front of me—a plain steel door with no handle on the outside. I’m wearing black ballet flats, sage jeans, and a T-shirt. This is the most attractive outfit I own. Nothing high-tech and figure enhancing for me. Three days ago, I looked cute. Now I’m drenched and dirty.
“Forty-two, Monet,” clipboard guy calls out. He doesn’t bother to glance up from his list.
I step through the door.
THREE
THE DOOR SLAMS shut behind me, closing out the rain and the chatter of the line. The big guys lead me down the hallway. Florescent lights flicker overhead and my feet squelch on the tile floor. The closer I get, the more I focus on my reasons and goals. I recite the flyer from the health clinic in my head. The words have been seared into my mind for two years.
Fluxem is a disease spread through saliva. The symptoms range from skin lesions, to red banding around the center of the body. As the disease progresses, a strong iodine smell may accompany the marks. Twenty-five percent of the world population reports symptoms of infection with the highest concentration being in poor communities.
Luckily or unluckily, the disease is completely curable for the bargain price of twenty thousand dollars—about the same as two months’ rent in the nice part of town. Way too much frigging money for me and Mom. A private company developed the cure and they set the price. The government won’t stand up to them, no matter how many Internet petitions I sign. The messed up part is that, in ten percent of Fluxem cases, complications occur and can lead to death. People are dying. Maybe even me, and still they won’t give it away. And there’s no way with Mom’s credit rating that anyone will loan us money, especially not for medical reasons because there’d be nothing to repossess.
When Fluxem first showed up in the populous thirty years ago, there were all these charities devoted to finding the cure and helping people. We watched the old videos in class. Everyone focused on the terrible new disease. Then five years later some big company found a cure, and just like that everyone stopped talking about it. The cure was found, so the rich people were safe. Never mind that most of the world can’t afford it. Every few years it pops up on the political agenda of someone who’s running for office, but so far nothing has changed. Too many people, not enough resources.
There’s even a vaccine, but obviously that would be too late for me.
I’m a carrier, and I don’t have 20K. But the producers of the show do. They’re offering thirty thousand to the winner of the competition, and a “chance at love!”—whatever that means. I used the tax calculator on the government website and based on my earnings and the winnings, I’ll get to keep about 19K. Almost exactly the amount I need. The money’s a big enough sum that most of the eligible population in Boston is probably in line, and who knows how many others flew in. Based on all the company logos on the advertisements, the producers have tons of corporate sponsors. It would be fitting if one of the drug companies paid for the prize money that would allow me to get the cure.
I suck my lips in, embarrassed to be contagious. I don’t have outward signs yet, but I know that could change. Just like I knew every day of high school that if just one of my classmates found out, everyone in the school would know within seconds. The government might not provide medical treatment, but they’ll sure buy TVs and computers for the populous if they think it will buy them votes. Most of the kids with money make smear videos for fun. As soon as they catch a student at their worst, the footage is repeated, then music and cruel titles are added. Wham, immortalized in the worst way. I just want to be left alone. I don’t want anyone to have a reason to focus on me. And I’m a frigging idiot for auditioning for a TV show, but I really need the money. The alternative is years of saving for me and Mom. If there’s even the slightest chance that Jeremy might pick me, then I have to try.
“In here.” One of the big guys opens the door and I step into a waiting room. The chairs are full of girls. I turn in a slow circle, not sure what I’m supposed to do next.
“You sign in at the front window,” the girl sitting closest to the door instructs.
“Thanks.” I nod at her, surprised anyone would bother to help me.
“I’m Cheyenne,” she says.
“Monet.” I think about shaking her hand, but don’t. “Good luck.”
She smiles at me before I walk away. Her smile is better than mine—all glistening white teeth and radiating goodwill. I automatically like her and Jeremy probably will, too. I sigh as I sign my name on the clipboard at the front. I wish I’d taken drama classes and could play the part of someone more confident. I’ve seen pictures and interviews with Jeremy’s ex-girlfriends, but I have no hope of pulling off that act. I’m going to be me. I set the pen back o
n the clipboard and pull my black T-shirt away from my body, trying to air dry it. Exhaust soot covers my butt from where I sat on the ground. Another black smear runs the length of one arm from where I fell asleep. Nice.
A shrill voice yells my name. She pronounces it wrong, emphasizing the “et,” and I cringe. A packet of papers waits for me on the counter.
“Read these over and sign the bottom of each form.”
I shuffle the papers around, trying to make sense of them. “What are they?”
“Legal releases.”
“Oh, right. Okay.” I take the stack and a pen from the dish. I find a seat near Cheyenne, but I don’t want to break the quiet in the room by saying anything to her. The papers are weird. The overly formal language distorts the sentences. I think the studio execs are asking me and my family not to sue them for any reason, and for anything I say and do to be recorded. Well, it’s reality TV; I can’t expect them to do anything other than exploit every second.
Cheyenne leans in close to me. “I heard one of the girls who already went home say that she thought Jeremy is in the building. Like maybe watching the auditions through a secret window.”
“Oh.” Jumpy electricity flows through my legs. “Oh,” I say again like an idiot. I could find him now. I sign my name to the bottom of the first page and then on each subsequent page without bothering to read anymore. People flow in and out of the room. New girls are ushered in, and the girls who’ve gone in for their auditions walk back out after fifteen minutes. Has anyone been chosen yet?
The door to the left of the window opens. “Number forty-two,” a woman calls. The anonymous number reminds me of the health clinic again. Mom had insisted I go in and get checked out after Webber and her crew jumped me after school. My jaw was so swollen that Mom was furious enough to press charges. Then we found out one of them had infected me. Maybe my attacker didn’t know she was contagious, or maybe she thought it’d be funny to cost me 20K. I convinced Mom not to make it public, but ever since she’s been working her ass off to pay for the cure.
